There are some mornings that are special for my family. Such mornings are quite rare, but you can identify them from the moment you open your eyes. Sunlight nudges you awake, and the soft air seems to whisper in your ear, “Wake up, it’s happening.”

Maman always calls me down for breakfast, but on those mornings, her tone is different—it stirs in me the same excitement I used to feel on Christmas morning, dying to open my gifts. She only needs to call me once. I’ve left my room before the morning chill can push me back to bed.

I know I’ve woken up to one of those glorious mornings after just five hurried steps from my bedroom, when I arrive at the top of the stairs. I don’t smell pancakes or eggs; I don’t hear the telltale sizzle of an omelette or the pop of a toaster. The kettle gobbles and a sharp thwack of a plastic bag and psshh of a container tell me all that I need to know. This morning we’re having noon khameh assal. Bread, cream, and honey.

The recipe is as simple as its name. It’s the ingredients that make it special. There are two versions—the precious Iranian original, and my family’s Canadian reenactment, characterized by small modifications due to a significant change in circumstances—namely, the fact that my family no longer lives in Iran.

STEP 1: 

Take a bit of noon lavash, freshly made by the bakery in the neighbourhood, after you’ve waited in line in the stifling heat of the tanour.²

AMENDMENT: Take a bit of pita bread you bought from Costco.

As you construct your bite, the textured bread grounds you— to the dinette, to that very morning, with sunlight spilling into your home—as the rest of the world slips away.

At nine years old, excited to visit my grandparents’ house in Iran for the first time, I concluded that waiting in line to pass customs at Tehran airport was like baking in the oven. I associated summer heat with colourful bathing suits and days at the beach, and I would have liked to have a word with whoever was in charge of the dress code. How could all these women breathe under their thick veils when I was barely surviving beneath my thin hijab, my modest long-sleeve shirt, and my grey jacket? 

Our flight had landed at night, and the blackness through the windows, the black veiled women, and the black-bearded officials reminded me of pieces of charcoal in a tanour.

“Maman, it’s hot. Can I take these off?”

Her grip on my hand tightened. “No, keep everything on until we’re home. I mean it, Ana.”

Home? We were twenty hours away from home. Surely this oven couldn’t be what she meant! Baba spoke to her worriedly. They kept their heads down, they kept quiet, and they never let go of my hands, like they knew I would loosen my hijab if they did.

It took us an hour to make it through the airport. We arrived at my grandparents’ house shortly after. I had taken off my extra layers by then, and their house cooled and comforted me. The smell of Mamani’s cooking shielded the house from the outside world. The familiar pieces of furniture I’d seen during Facetime calls welcomed me, grounding me as the rest of Tehran flew away. The familiar surroundings and smells told me: It’s ok, we’re safe, we’re home.

STEP 2:

Spread the sweet cream your grandmother bought the night before from a trusted dairy shop on your noon lavash.

AMENDMENT: Spread the mascarpone cheese you bought from IGA on your bit of pita bread.

When you take your first bite, the cream awakens your mouth, reminding you of a hunger you could ignore while asleep. Words begin to form, as your thoughts are slowly brought to life by the welcoming creamy softness.

A few years later, on a trip to Vancouver, my great-aunt hustled us into the car so she could buy us Iranian sandwiches. I was just hoping that I wouldn’t die at 13 because of my great-uncle’s driving. When we arrived at Hidra Sandwich, I was so relieved I felt like kissing the ground. Once we stepped outside the car, we suddenly entered a safe ‘Tehran.’ Everyone spoke Farsi on the streets, the smell of Persian restaurants mixed with that of gasoline, and Hidra Sandwich was filled to the brim with Iranians.

I felt as if I were nine again, but now, instead of baking under the Iranian sun, the Vancouver breeze danced in my hair.

We found a table in the corner of the restaurant. Iranian newspaper articles were displayed on the walls. Instead of ketchup, there were bottles of Persian sauces on each table. Baba sat beside me. “What do you want to eat?” he said.

“The zaban sandwich.³ And I want a bit of your soosis bandari.”⁴

At thirteen, I’d finally come to admit to myself that I hungered for something I didn’t have.

A community. Iran.

STEP 3:

Drizzle fresh honey over the noon lavash, with pieces of honeycomb falling onto your bite

AMENDMENT: Just squeeze the bottle of honey over the pita. You can trace over the words “Fresh and Natural” on its label for dramatic effect.

Once you leave behind the security of sleep, you face the uncertainty of breakfast. Will it taste as sweet as it does in your memories? Will the sweetness bring the same comfort? As the honey trickles down your rough throat, it soothes you, reminding you that while you still long for those past mornings, the honey can help alleviate the pain.

At the end of our trip to Vancouver, we went to Mashti Cafe, known for having the best bastani sonati⁵ and majoon,⁶ and where the owner generously drizzled syrup on Baba’s smoothie and topped my ice cream with pistachios. Maman and I brought the treats outside, where my dad and my great-uncle and aunt waited at a table facing the cafe’s entrance.

From my seat, I could see three girls, slightly older than me, enjoying their pomegranate shakes. The cafe’s owner started blasting Tavalod mobarak, the Iranian birthday song, and two of the girls lit a candle over their friend’s smoothie. The whole cafe joined in the singing. My family and I sat outside, watching strangers celebrate a young girl’s birthday.

At that time, the only Iranian kids I knew were my cousins. I wondered what my life might have been like if people other than my family sang Tavalod mobarak on my birthday. Or if I didn’t have to defend my Persian food at school. Or if I had a friend who could relate to having a second culture, and a past that no one understood.

I ate my bastani sonati watching the three girls. The saffron sweetness soothed the lump in my throat.

STEP 4:

Take a sip from your chai nabat⁷ when the saffron rock candy has completely dissolved in the tea.

AMENDMENT: There isn’t any. You can find it in Canada, too.

While you struggle to satisfy yourself with the artificial sweetness of your bite, the chai nabat makes you forget the fleeting sweetness and alleviates the ache of your stomach that longs for Iranian mornings. The tea warms your soul and gives you enough strength to truly say, “Sobh bekhayr”—“Good morning.”

A few years later, in Montreal, I sip from my water bottle to stop myself from crying as Iranians from across Quebec and Ontario sit on the edges of their seats, waiting for Aref’s farewell concert to begin. At 18, excited for the new independence of adulthood, I imagined my first concert would be with my friends, not with my grandparents, parents, and aunt. But Mamani insisted I attend. She wants me to see Aref, the singer of my favourite childhood song, “Soltane Ghalbha.”⁸ Still, part of me wishes I were sitting in the concert hall as a fan who knows all the lyrics instead of a granddaughter whose grandmother is trying to reconnect her with her culture.

On stage, Aref brings us into the past. He speaks of friendships with other Persian greats who took their memories to the grave, buried far from their Motherland. He sings the songs of my parents’ youth, and my aunt, my parents, and my grandparents cry for what they have lost. I cry for what I never had, while small children sit confused, watching as everyone around them weeps.

Aref plays “Sultan of my Heart” last. He asks the audience to sing for him, for Iran. Our voices are muffled by our sobs, but we mouth the words when our voices fail. 

The concert hall isn’t the pumping heart of our nation, but its bleeding wound. We are connected by the distance between us. We are lonely together.

This grief, these tears, these voices, they’re my Iran. My heart belongs to their loss, but not to their past. We drink our tears, and they give us the strength to carry on.

. . .

My life can be traced through these lines— amendments to past morning rituals, and a nostalgia for something I’ve never truly known. I’ve spent 19 years living between them, caught between two half-lives—one Iranian, one Canadian. These parts won’t fit together to make me whole. I grew up with Persian cuisine, songs, and stories of war and grief. I grew from them, even as loneliness grew within me. Solitude—tanhai—is my companion, while I long for those rare mornings to be my daily bliss. But it whispers in my ear: “Drink your chai nabat, Ana. Listen to the tinkle of your teaspoon in your cup. Listen to what it says. Believe it when it tells you there are still many more mornings to come.”

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1. Solitude, or loneliness, in Farsi. ↩︎
2.  Traditional Iranian oven. ↩︎
3.  Persian beef tongue sandwich. ↩︎
4.  Iranian street-food consisting of spicy sausages, onions, and potatoes. ↩︎
5.  Persian saffron ice cream. ↩︎
6.  Persian date ice cream shake. ↩︎
7.  Persian tea infused with saffron sugar. ↩︎
8.  “Sultan of my Heart.” Song by Aref, featured in the famous 1968 Iranian movie King of Hearts. ↩︎