Bottom of the that is, scorched
goodness, gilded disc of savory bliss,
euphoric gift to my mouth: tahdig, you
are the flame-adjacent base beneath the weight
of steaming basmati
or spaghetti, patiently lathering in the slow heat
of canola oil, secretly sizzling until your textured flatbread
or sliced potato glistens into the right shade of brown, which
is every color brown glazed by the sun’s tongue, from golden earth
to coppered twilight, no one knows until you emerge
from the careful shake of maman’s firm flip, and pride
widens her eyes when you are done right, this
is also a factor of your deliciousness, the moment
of irreversible truth, how the breath breaks
when we anticipate
your release onto the plate, whether you appear
as a presentable medallion or a burnt emblem
of ineptitude, and even if you don’t glide easily
against your bordering grease, the spatula scrape
removing your edged crust from steel will do, you are
cooked below the featured dish, not even a main course,
but when you surface, you crown the rice, the pasta,
like an architectural wonder, a UNESCO landmark,
adorning every meal, succumbing
to fighting hands and to the bite on the side
with our good teeth it is all the more joyous
that we can’t check on you while you toast, you simply soak
with our hope, and honestly, if you happen to char
into the inedible, we volunteer to chew around it—and now
they act like they discovered you, assuming you’re synonymous
with tahchin, hyping you into mainstream and hurriedly
marketing ceramic cookware in millennial pink
to bake no-mess tahdig! eliminating
the need for precision, erasing the surprise
since it will yield perfection, any day now
a trendy grocery chain will freeze-pack your triangles
cut symmetrical, label with a Comic Sans version
of Farsi, as if you can be reheated, as if
you aren’t naturally averse to leftovers,
remember how they headlined chia seeds and pomegranate juice,
like they came up with ancient superfoods, we
just wait for them to catch up, you caramelized high,
product of trust, comforting crunch, centerpiece
of crispy cuisine we never save you for later
Click here to read Mehrnoosh Torbatnejad on the origin of the poem.
Image: photo by Roozbeham on Unsplash, licensed under CC 2.0.
- Ode to Pot - April 20, 2024