Written by Allie and Marie Snyder for FoodMemory.net
Some of the happiest memories of our grandparents, Lillian and Sam (Gaggy & PopPop), were born around the dinner table.
When we were little girls, we would sit in the backseat of our grandparents’ town car parked at Doumar’s Drive-in (Norfolk, Va), savoring our greasy grilled cheese sandwiches and limeades.
In the front seat, Gaggy and PopPop always sat contently, their time-worn hands clasped.
Even then, we knew they had something special. PopPop would tell us the story of when they were young, sitting in the backseat of his family’s car, holding…
Written by Luisa A. Igloria
Published in FoodMemory.Net
In July 2015, I returned for a short visit to my home city in the Philippines, after having been away sixteen long years. My youngest daughter, who has never been there, was my traveling companion. She and her oldest sister, who lives in Baguio, met in person for the first time during this trip.
A few months before, as I began planning, I’d read an article about how, further north of Baguio, somewhere on the slopes of Mt. Pulag or Mt. Data, in 2011 a team of Filipino and American scientists rediscovered…
Written by Farideh Goldin for foodmemory.net
Searching for a vegetarian recipe for Passover, my daughter came across one from northern Iran, Baghali Ghatogh. Baghali means fava beans in Persian.
In many ways, Passover is a celebration of Spring in Iran.
We had a tray of sprouts, spring onions, rhubarb, kangar (a thorny vegetable of artichoke family), and boiled fava beans on our Passover Sofreh, a cloth spread over a Persian carpet, around which we gathered to have our meals.
Unlike Ashkenazi Jews, Persian Jews eat rice and some beans during Passover.
The recipe took me back to a time I…
Written for FoodMemory.net by: Tallieh Attarzadeh
Yummā, my grandmother was a well-known pious woman in Khorramshahr, Iran. Every year, she organized several Islamic female rituals at her home, among them rowzeh, sofreh, do’a, mowludi, and Quran-reading events.
Women in the neighborhood said that they saw numerous miracles in her house. They said, that Yummā was a woman whose faith was pure, who believed in God and the Muslim saints. She thought that one’s deep faith would bring God’s blessings.
About twenty years ago, an eight-year-old blind girl suddenly got her eyesight back after spending one night sleeping in the Hosseiniyeh…
Written for foodmemory
I had never seen a turkey or cranberries before having my first Thanksgiving dinner in the fall of 1975.
Although I love challah stuffing (another American tradition) and make it every Thanksgiving, I often add a touch of my Iranian heritage by making Persian rice and cranberries.
I asked the Iranian/American author Esther Amini to share the story of her Iranian Thanksgiving in the United States.
written by Farideh Goldin for Food Memory
Once again I fly from my home in Norfolk, Va to visit my mother in Holon, Israel for our yearly reunion.
Maman has lived in Israel since the Iranian Revolution of 1979 when she was evacuated amid revolutionary chaos with one of the very last El-Al flights from Tehran to Tel Aviv. She lived in Israel with my father and four siblings, including my three-year-old sister, for a while.
But, she has slowly become more isolated. My two brothers and a sister moved to the United States. Maman’s mother and three brothers passed…
Written by Farideh Goldin for www.foodmemory.net
Growing up in Iran, ceremonial food for Rosh Hashanah was more than just apples and honey. We celebrated the holiday with numerous prayers and symbolic food.
These symbolic morsels were the highlight of our holiday dinner. Each item was fresh or cooked from scratch.
My father knew whose gardens had white pomegranate trees and requested a few for our seder. We didn’t use regular pomegranates with red seeds. White pomegranate seeds are sweet and don’t have the hard seed (arils) inside. They are quite delicious.
Happy New Year and I hope you’ll enjoy celebrating…
The Dey’s conquered the Pashas of the Ottoman Empire in 1671 and ruled for One hundred and fifty-nine years until they were overthrown by the French in 1830. In the aftermath of the conquest and scattering of this caliphate state, my great great Grandfather, Joseph Dey appeared in the United States census of 1850.
Written by Christina Marable for foodmemory.net
At a writing workshop, a colleague once asked me why I was writing a short story collection centered around travel writing when I wasn’t the ideal person most envisioned as a protagonist of such novels. After all, that category is reserved for the Eat, Pray, Love types.
I trace my interest in travel writing back to my earliest childhood memories. Shortly before I was born, my family migrated from a small Tennessee town to Chicago in search of better jobs and opportunities.
Homelessness met them instead, and we bounced around from shelters to hotels…
My mother gestures toward her salads: a kaleidoscope of colors, spices, textures. “Mix the unexpected,” she says. “Jam made from sweet baby eggplants and walnuts, tagines simmered with saffron and za’atar. And ma fille, remember the importance of cinnamon.”
I used to roll my eyes when my mother invoked cinnamon as the miracle wonder spice. Then I heard myself telling my children to sprinkle cinnamon in everything from coffee to chili to meat and couscous and desserts, and add it to a spoon of honey to cure colds, and saw them roll their…