The Problem with Rice

Alright, one rice in particular. Basmati, that beautiful son of a bitch. A long, slender-grained aromatic rice, traditionally from the Indian subcontinent.

For me, its the old friend I never visit anymore. The one I used to drown in ketchup because my parents never made kid-friendly food. Chicken and rice. Chicken and rice. Chicken and rice. That covers my childhood and my adolescence. Alright, throw in a few hot dogs when the folks weren’t looking…

But some days, it was different. It wasn’t every week, and only when she wasn’t too tired, Mom would make her special rice.

I’d watch her take a whole day and slowly curate her signature style, with so much care it would appear like she was at her day job, doing hair. Always gentle, and with the utmost attention to detail, I would see her pull this delicate spice out of the freezer, take just a pinch and dissolve it in no more than 2 ounces of boiling water. Swirling in a short glass, the darkest orange, almost red, releasing an intensely tart and complex floral aroma.

That smell alone told me we were different. We weren’t simply Canadians. We had history, a rich one. I dare say, one to be proud of.

My folks made quite the journey from East Azerbaijan, a northern province of Iran, though linguistically and culturally different from the Persian identity. And although, incredibly interesting and suspenseful their story, we’re getting away from the topic at hand.

Rice.

And the best part, the bottom of the pot. My mother used incredulous amounts of salted butter, thick balkan yogurt and several egg yolks with a touch of potent liquid saffron to create a near pancake base to the basmati. The already blanched rice would then layer on top, thus creating a fluffy and thick, oily and delicious base. Slow cooked for hours over low heat, she would tend to other things, but that smell would slowly waft throughout the house…

When it was time to eat, the rice would be gently scooped out, and the bottom would be lifted separately. A round pizza-shaped disc of crispy, and crumbly ‘gazmakh’ would be sliced into triangles and disappear before it even hit the table.

No one made it as good as my mother did. I remember all the Persian households we would visit when I was young, and I secretly judged…some used pita bread or potatoes at the bottom of the rice, which was just pure laziness! Man, I judged them 40 year old Persian ladies so hard as a fuckin jerk kid hahaha…

Fast forward to March 27, 2006; everything changed.

She was gone. And afterwards, I changed. A lot.

Everything that tied me to my culture reminded me of her. So I avoided it. I created distance between myself and people, places, interests, and foods that reminded me of her. The only way I knew how to deal, was to move on.

Dwelling in the past is something people in my family and culture do far too well. And I wasn’t having any of it.

Fast forward 12 years, a cousin of mine shows up at my doorstep, straight from Tabriz, Iran. With barely any notice, I am trying my best to speak what I remember of the Azeri dialect I learned at home as a child…rusty, but with a few drinks…I’m a natural (or maybe it just felt that way).

Hurricane Hormoz came and went, leaving behind a massive hangover, 3 packs of the best saffron money can buy, and a revitalized appreciation for being a Kazemi Arbat.

Now for the last two years, my Australian partner has been asking “When are we going to use that bloody saffron your cousin gave you?”

And for two years, I have been avoiding it.

Then COVID happened. I couldn’t make excuses any more.

The pressure to get it right had been building up over the years. Without her here, all I could do was my best.

So I decided to go with my gut, and what I remembered from nearly 15 years ago…

Holy hell, it took me back. Suddenly I felt close. Close to my culture, close to my childhood, close to her.

But I fucked up the bottom of the rice! When I tried to remove the gazmakh, it wouldn’t budge. I most ungracefully banged the shit out of the pot and nothing gave…It was undercooked, not even close to crispy. And I thought I would feel bad, but I didn’t. I was happy. Happy that the rice tasted good, happy that I tried, and happy that I now have a goal. A goal that I no longer fear pursuing.

So as I shared the results on my social media pages…the Persian ladies came out to play hahaha…. One by one, they popped up out of the woodwork, as if karma for my snobby little pre-pubescent self. I got special tips and humbling advice from people I hadn’t spoken to since I was a teenager.

It was funny. It was weird. It was nice.

And suddenly, I didn’t have a problem with rice.