Chapter 7: Writing

I would pick up an empty notebook, carefully draw lines with a ruler and make a square at the top of the page. I would write the story for that page at the bottom of the square and then draw pictures related to what I just wrote in the square, just like the books I used to read when I was seven.

I don't exactly remember how I first started to write stories, but I think it was my aunt who ignited that passion. My mom and dad both worked and my grandma used to take care of me before I went to Kindergarten and after that on snowy days and sick days. I think that particular day was a snowy day, one of those days that we woke up on, only to hear our mom telling us that it had snowed and we had to wait to see what the news says. We would run to the window and with a mouth wide open look at the street that was covered with snow and there was that one neighbor whose foot steps had ruined that stillness. We would look at our mom and tell her that the schools are definitely close, "Have you looked at this?" we would ask. Our dad, who thought that even one day not spent in school is wasted day would say "Who knows? It hasn't snowed that much!" and we would run to the TV, sitting quietly on the floor in front of it, waiting for the news anchorman to say the magic words: "All schools of districts 1, 2, 3 ..." and we would be so happy that we would not go back to sleep.

It was probably on a day like that, on which my dad dropped me off at my grandma's place and not very long after my arrival I started to feel bored. My aunt was there that day, visiting my grandma from Amol, a city at North of Iran. She told me that I could pass some time if I started writing. "Writing about what?" I asked. "Hmm.. about spring for example."

I went to "my room" which was not technically mine but I was the main person who spent time there, started thinking about Spring. I wrote how spring looked like, what happened to trees, how much I liked it and whose birthday was on spring (my mom's). I went out of the room to show her my essay on spring, 10 minutes after she gave me the topic. She later on told me that she thought it would keep me busy for at least an hour, giving her time to do some grown-up talking with her mom. "Now what?" I asked, and the response that I got was actually not that bad. I went back to write on summer (when my brother is born), and then I went back again to write on fall (when I am born) and winter (when my dad is born) and I really liked that game. I think I spent that whole day writing, about different topics and I didn't get tired.

I had several attempts at writing a novel, which is still a big dream of mine. One was about a rich family with a son and a daughter who lived in a huge house in a city and naturally the kids were bored with having so much money and stuff that they decided to spend the summer at their relative's house in a small town. I think at that time I was watching too much "Road to Avonlea" and was inspired by the simplicity of life in a small town. Later, when I was a teenager, I tried writing about a love story but that didn't work either because I hadn't experienced it yet, so what did I know about love. Now I'm just taking small steps, writing about the things I know and experience. It may not be that interesting but at least I know what I'm talking about.

Chapter 6: Alma Mater

I now know how to "properly" start school. I didn't know that the first time I started school here because I was so worried about making to my classes on time and getting to know the bus system, taking notes in English, learning the banking system, opening up a bank account and a phenomena named credit card, those were all enough to make me not even realize how the first semester passed. It was surreal, like a dream and yet hectic, as if I was always running.

Now I know that you first have to go to your school's bookstore and indulge yourself in everything that has your school name on it: t-shirt, sweat shirt, sweat pants and a mug. Because you are proud of going to that school and you have to show that to everyone else, well everyone else on campus who also go to the same school, so not really a point there, but yoohoo!

Unfortunately I figured that out a bit late. I started setting foot in my school's bookstore the last year, after I came back from a visit to a friend who attended Berkeley. She had a big mug saying "Cal" in a italic font on it and she even bought a "Cal dad" T-shirt for his dad, which he wore when they had guests coming over. I didn't really get her, so I asked her why she bought all that stuff? And she asked me a very important question: "I'm proud of going to Berkeley, are you not for going to Illinois?"

I guess I wasn't. I never took pride in my academic achievements. I was never happy when I got an A. Nor unhappy when I didn't get one. That's how my parents brought me up. They thought me that it's ok to not get an A, that it's not a big deal, and I grew up with that in mind. I won competitions and my classmates' parents would call my parents to congratulate them and only then they would receive the news. I got into two of the best high schools in Tehran and my dad told me "good". I never took pride in anything, until my that visit to Berkeley.

I started to think about my journey, how far I've come. I, who hated school in undergrad and didn't even want to graduate have come to a grad school here in the United States of America, a country most known as "land of opportunities". I decided that I was going to be proud of myself, and make myself realize that. I bought a sweatshirt, bought my mom and dad mugs, bought myself a mug and had coffee in it everyday. Instead of my life being on fast forward, I started to look around, to spend an afternoon in quad, laying down under a tree shadow and read, to absorb the fact that I made it, I made it to my dream, to go to a good school in US.

University of Illinois, Urbana-Chamaign campus is my Alma Mater. At first I thought Alma Mater is the name of that statue that we have next to our quad, but then I realized the term means the school that you attended, and that every person calls his or her school Alma Mater and that made me feel less special about that statue, feel like it has all been a prank. But nevertheless, I love my Alma Mater, I even love that statue, I have a graduation photo in front of it for God's sake!!!

Chapter 5: Pasta

I invited a friend over for dinner. She is having an interview at Microsoft and I told her to come over before she leaves for her flight. We used to go to the same college back when we were both undergraduate students. I told her to come over for dinner, but I'm not sure what to cook. I can't cook Tahchin because I don't have yogurt. I can't cook any Khoresh because I don't have the stew meat that is needed for most of them. So on my way back to home I decide on pasta, I have everything that I need and I haven't made it in a very long time. I get home, wash my hands and quickly start on making the sauce. I let it stay on the stove for an hour so that the meat is completely cooked and then start on the pasta. After the water is boiled, I empty a pack of pasta noodles, break them into half and put them into the boiling pot. As the noodles are getting softer and softer, I twirl the boiling water and with that twirling my mind goes back to when I first had pasta.

My aunt graduated from University of Maryland. At the time she told me this, I had no idea where it was or the importance of it. Now that I had applied to about 20 universities in the US, have been to college park and have a friend who is getting her PhD in there, I know it's a big deal! She came back to Iran after she got her degree and I'm always grateful for her coming back and being a part of our lives. Because if she taught us nothing else, she definitely taught us about American cuisine.

I had my first pancakes, my first fried chicken, my first pudding and my first pasta at her place. My favorite is her pasta because no one could ever get it close to how hers tasted, not even with following her recipe. It tasted like fresh tomatoes, garlic, onion and a bunch of aromatic leaves have all been melted together. We always thought the key to her cooking being so different that anyone else is the love and passion she puts into it. The way she put salt and pepper with her hands on top of the cooking pan, the way she tasted the food with her wooden ladle and the look on her eyes when she knew it was just right, that is something that I hadn't seen else where, until I found this cute little restaurant.

I don't remember when I first went there, it was probably my best friend and partner in crime, Shadi that always took me to these cozy little restaurants and coffee shops that first found that place. It was a few blocks away from our university building, on perhaps the most educated street in Tehran where people usually go to find books, sit in cafes and discuss intellectual matters, Enghelab street.

If you passed it by, you would think it's probably a coffee shop,  and a very small one. But a closer look would have revealed that there are two cooks, standing right there at the back of the place, with their oven and cooking material, cooking pasta. That was the second best pasta that I had, in that little restaurant, with the two owners who cooked right next to you and served you the food themselves.

There were hardly 5 tables there, but they were clothed with tiled red table cloths. They had colorful plates to go with their colorful drinks. They had all sorts of Araghijat and traditional Iranian drinks with mint leaves inside. It just felt like home, like your mom is cooking for you and she will bring it to your table any second. That place became my favorite restaurant right after that first visit and I would go there many times in the course of my 4-year-undergraduate studies.

It was there that Salim and I went for our very first Sepandarmazgan celeberation. I had bought him a book and he got me a pursue that I really wanted. We were exchanging gifts that one of the two ladies came to our table. She asked us, with a smile that revealed her knowing the answer to her question already, what the occasion was for us exchanging gifts. As she heard our answer, she walked back to their kitchen, got us some chocolates and told us that she really liked us celebrating the Iranian day for celebration of love instead of Valentine's day. Then she went back to the kitchen, where her own love was cooking, because there was no doubt that the two of them were in love, and their love for each other and for food was what made that place so special.

I look at my half broken noodles boiling in the pot and remember that she once told me when we were eating lunch there, that the pasta noodles should be cooked full length. That is the proper way to do it and that people should be educated not to cut them in half when they are eating them. They should be using a spoon and try to twirl the noodles around their fork with the help of the spoon as a base. She would've been disappointed in me if she were to look into my pot. But then again my pasta is not even half as good as hers so nobody cares.