Read Online A Teaspoon of Earth and Sea by Dina Nayeri - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dina Nayeri
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we will have a feast with our friends.” This translates to a bargain: Feed Saba today and tomorrow you can use our wellstocked kitchen and invite whomever you wish—two chores, but well worth a social event funded by the Hafezis. On his best days he leaves a plastic container of Saba’s favorite stews, left over from one of these parties. Today Saba spots an enormous white fish thawing in a bucket in the sink, with a note. “Saba joon, do you know how to cook this yet? If not, fetch Ponneh.”
She eyes the plastic bag Ponneh pulls out from her backpack— white rice and smoked carp, a simple money-saving dish. She moves toward the fridge, but Ponneh is already taking two spoons from the drawer. “Don’t worry. I brought enough for both of us.”
“Thanks.” Saba takes a spoon. She nods to the bucket and the expensive white fish flopped inside. “You can maybe take that to your mother.”
Ponneh’s face darkens. “I can afford to share one stupid lunch.” “Sorry,” says Saba, as they settle on the ground at the center of the cavernous Hafezi kitchen. The room is full of contrasts, with its oldworld tanoor from Ardabil—left over from the time of her grandfather who loved bread more than rice, though he didn’t make a show of it in Gilan—next to an industrial refrigerator and burlap sacks of homegrown rice in a corner beside a restaurant-quality oven and a huge rectangular sink. To make up for her mistake, Saba makes sure to eat out of Ponneh’s bowl—though her father has told her not to share food so intimately with any of the villagers. She takes a bite of smoky fish and buttery rice so plump and light, the grains float off the spoon and melt in her mouth. She tries to think of a way to restore Ponneh’s pride and says through a mouthful of underspiced food, “What if I just eat all this myself and you go on a diet?”
Saba heaps another spoonful, knowing that this will please Ponneh, that she will tell her mother and they will both feel proud. In Cheshmeh the quality of your food determines the quality of your family, and this is something Saba can give to Ponneh that no one else can, because the Hafezi stamp is hers. Maybe it will help make up for all the times that Ponneh offered Saba these intangible gifts—like during the first big rainfall after Mahtab left, when Saba wouldn’t get out of bed and Ponneh blindfolded her and forced her into the kitchen pantry for a surprise. After a few moments in the dark, Saba felt someone’s soupy breath on her face and heard a familiar whisper, “I don’t want to,” followed by a cry of pain. Saba yanked off the blindfold and saw Ponneh twisting Reza’s ear and scolding him until he ran off. “I’m sorry,” she said to Saba, her tone irritated, “I was going to get you your first kiss, so you can be happy again.”
Now a sad look passes over Ponneh’s eyes and she says, “You want me to diet so I can be a stick. Then you can win Reza for yourself and leave me out . . . like in the ‘Fork in the Road’ story, where one girl gets left out.”
Saba stares at Ponneh and tries to work out what game they’re playing now. She searches for a response. “That’s different! You can’t be in love with two people.”
Ponneh shrugs. “Who says? You don’t like it because you want a big Western-magazine love story that doesn’t happen in real life. And you like to fight. You and Mahtab were always competing for things. Now you’re trying to compete with me.”
The mention of Mahtab sparks a heat in her chest that Saba wishes she could rub out with her fingers. How dare Ponneh say that? Who does she think she is to mention Mahtab’s flaws? “We didn’t compete,” Saba snaps. “I just don’t think your way works.”
“It could,” says Ponneh. “And Reza agrees with me. His baba left to be with a new family when he could have brought them back here. They could have all stuck together. It’s better to have good friends for life than to
She eyes the plastic bag Ponneh pulls out from her backpack— white rice and smoked carp, a simple money-saving dish. She moves toward the fridge, but Ponneh is already taking two spoons from the drawer. “Don’t worry. I brought enough for both of us.”
“Thanks.” Saba takes a spoon. She nods to the bucket and the expensive white fish flopped inside. “You can maybe take that to your mother.”
Ponneh’s face darkens. “I can afford to share one stupid lunch.” “Sorry,” says Saba, as they settle on the ground at the center of the cavernous Hafezi kitchen. The room is full of contrasts, with its oldworld tanoor from Ardabil—left over from the time of her grandfather who loved bread more than rice, though he didn’t make a show of it in Gilan—next to an industrial refrigerator and burlap sacks of homegrown rice in a corner beside a restaurant-quality oven and a huge rectangular sink. To make up for her mistake, Saba makes sure to eat out of Ponneh’s bowl—though her father has told her not to share food so intimately with any of the villagers. She takes a bite of smoky fish and buttery rice so plump and light, the grains float off the spoon and melt in her mouth. She tries to think of a way to restore Ponneh’s pride and says through a mouthful of underspiced food, “What if I just eat all this myself and you go on a diet?”
Saba heaps another spoonful, knowing that this will please Ponneh, that she will tell her mother and they will both feel proud. In Cheshmeh the quality of your food determines the quality of your family, and this is something Saba can give to Ponneh that no one else can, because the Hafezi stamp is hers. Maybe it will help make up for all the times that Ponneh offered Saba these intangible gifts—like during the first big rainfall after Mahtab left, when Saba wouldn’t get out of bed and Ponneh blindfolded her and forced her into the kitchen pantry for a surprise. After a few moments in the dark, Saba felt someone’s soupy breath on her face and heard a familiar whisper, “I don’t want to,” followed by a cry of pain. Saba yanked off the blindfold and saw Ponneh twisting Reza’s ear and scolding him until he ran off. “I’m sorry,” she said to Saba, her tone irritated, “I was going to get you your first kiss, so you can be happy again.”
Now a sad look passes over Ponneh’s eyes and she says, “You want me to diet so I can be a stick. Then you can win Reza for yourself and leave me out . . . like in the ‘Fork in the Road’ story, where one girl gets left out.”
Saba stares at Ponneh and tries to work out what game they’re playing now. She searches for a response. “That’s different! You can’t be in love with two people.”
Ponneh shrugs. “Who says? You don’t like it because you want a big Western-magazine love story that doesn’t happen in real life. And you like to fight. You and Mahtab were always competing for things. Now you’re trying to compete with me.”
The mention of Mahtab sparks a heat in her chest that Saba wishes she could rub out with her fingers. How dare Ponneh say that? Who does she think she is to mention Mahtab’s flaws? “We didn’t compete,” Saba snaps. “I just don’t think your way works.”
“It could,” says Ponneh. “And Reza agrees with me. His baba left to be with a new family when he could have brought them back here. They could have all stuck together. It’s better to have good friends for life than to
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