With the departure of the old cook, a part of our family history was wiped out—all those memories that involved him: Friday family luncheons, New Year’s charity dinners, the pleasing mix of aromas wafting from jars of tomato paste and preserves and condiments in the upstairs pantry, the soothing jangle of dishes and pots and pans, the magical taste of home-cooked meals, and the seemingly unassailable security of the kitchen. With him and Nanny Karaji leaving us, the Shah skipping the country, the uncles hastily migrating to far-off corners of the world, a neighbor’s house being confiscated, and Shamsolmuk Khanum being accidentally “martyred,” a door was being closed forever on our past. It was the end of an era and the beginning of something new, something ambiguous, vague, unfamiliar. The logic of daily events escaped us, and history, like the onslaught of a foreign horde, swept away old customs and pillaged what was left with an assortment of unmatched pieces that did not fall into any recognizable patterns.
