Sunday morning; things were happening in our house. Overstimulation from being greeted with animation and love from my parents, reaching the living room as if it were the finish line to a marathon we just ran, the phone being injected into my face half asleep to say hello to one of the many aunts who I’ve never seen or heard of. Fruit being throw at me from all angles. Existential questions would command answers from me by my culinary muse of a mother – “light or heavy on your tea?” “Barbari or pita?” “Sugar or cinnamon for your halim?” “- Bulgarian feta?” That last one was never a question. Persian love Bulgarian feta. There is no acceptable feta to be consumed but Bulgarian feta (sorry Greece). I doubt if in fact Bulgarians consume it as much as we do at this point. But Sunday mornings we’re not about my dad’s loud addresses to our family back home, or to breath taking sounds of Farsi being hummed over santoors and drums. Or even Bulgarians and their feta for that matter. I mean, it was, but Sunday mornings were more importantly about thinly sliced onions crackling in butter and fat, slivers of garlic perfuming the home, tomato paste frying and crackling in the pan, romas being chopped and simmered into a stew-like paste with turmeric, advieh and saffron. Sunday mornings we for the melodic tones of the wooden spoon, dragging against the bottom of the pot, as eggs whisked and coated themselves into a body of fragrant tomato paste, and slowly cooked into the soft, sultry scramble of your dreams. Sunday mornings were for “Persian Omelette” or as called throughout many parts of Iran, “tokhme gojeh” or “tomatoes and eggs”

I’d argue that one of the most enlightening ways to understand another human being, maybe an entire culture even, is to learn how they cook their eggs. The process of cooking an egg is instinctive and intuitive. We cannot even acknowledge breakfast without considering the chicken as one of our dearest allies. The “Persian Omelette” is a bright yellow and red soft-scramble, with piercing aromas of tomato and turmeric, and heavy undertones of sour and sweetness that run through the eggs. The synergy of fresh tomatoes and tomato paste lend a bright acidity that is tamed through the fragrances of cinnamon, saffron, cardamon and the many other spices that are ground together to make advieh.

Photo By Nico Schinco

There is an idiom in Farsi that says “every hand has it’s own flavor”. The true test of culinary capability in the Persian culture comes downs to eggs. I swear my mom makes all of her eggs as if she’s worked in a Michelin star kitchen her whole life. Even the basic scramble or fried egg she made growing up was god dam perfect. I never came to realize it until now. We ate well. So well in fact. You could not even begin to imagine the consistency in which my mother cooked, and what deep, unfaltering passion she exhumes in the kitchen. As I say this in the most flattering way possible, the kitchen is the only place in my mother’s life where she is a kid through and through. Driven by curiosity and intrigue. Focused and dialed in, almost to the degree of stubbornness. Truly unhinged and free. She turned motherhood into an art. And when she rendered the teasing aromas of her signature eggs, a prelude to greatest moment known to mornings, the willingness to get out of bed became and inspiration for a rise, a call to action of sorts. I was prepared to talk to every stranger on the other side of the phone if my sacrifice in sleep and temperament ended with something made by her two, holy and perfect hands. I now put together a Persian breakfast now and then on my own at home in Los Angeles or New York, as both distance and covid has made it hard to see my family back in Vancouver. I sit neck high in nostalgia and melancholy. I took those mornings more for granted than anything, projectile fruit and all. My kitchen is never complete, never whole truly, without the companionship of my mother. She is so deeply loved. She is so dearly missed.

A Few Golden Pieces Of Advice…

– Slow & steady because I said so. I’d argue that eggs can be used with almost every ingredient on the planet but impatience. Take the time to scramble your eggs slow. Move it on and off the heat as needed. The greatest culinary sin known to man is to poorly cook eggs. Cook with patience, or don’t cook at all.

– Roma tomatoes, no buts or hipster alternatives. There is something about the acidity, gelatin and concentration of flavor with plum variety tomatoes that works incomparably well in this dish. Other varieties of tomatoes create disappointing results. I would take a canned plum tomato in a heartbeat if I were short on hand of the fresh ones, over compromising for another alternative like an heirloom or beefsteak. 

– Spices are meant to be played with. Identify the proportions that feel representative of you. My mother is heavy of hand with her spices, she borders an almost Ismaili like palate because of the region she grew up in in Iran. Feel implored to add as much or as little advieh, turmeric and saffron that feels good to you.

– Fresh Bread. Enough said.