Andy Baraghani, the recipe creator and cookbook author, keeps his holiday table full of streamlined, modern takes on classic Iranian dishes.
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I’ve always wanted to go to Iran, the country my parents fled in the late 1970s just before the revolution. But for so many reasons — political tensions, family fears, shifting circumstances — that trip never happened.
As someone who creates recipes professionally, cooking has become my way of closing the distance. And during Nowruz, the Persian New Year, which begins on Thursday, the spring equinox, and runs for 13 days, food takes on greater significance. Each dish, each ingredient symbolizes something greater: herbs for rebirth, fish for prosperity, sweet, sticky confections to usher in a year of joy.
The celebrations begin even before Nowruz itself, with Chaharshanbeh Suri, the festival of fire. Growing up, small bonfires would be assembled in my uncle’s backyard, and everyone — kids and adults alike — would leap over the flames, burning away past hardships and absorbing warmth for the year ahead. Music would blast, conversations would switch between English and Farsi, and the air would thicken with smoke, laughter and the smell of sizzled mint for ash reshteh, a thick, herby soup with beans and long noodles, meant to bring luck and guidance.
Once the holiday officially began, it was time for the haftseen, the ceremonial spread. As a kid, I barely thought about its meaning. But while I watched cooking shows and ate as much as I could, my mother would carefully arrange our family’s seven symbolic items: sabzeh (wheatgrass) for renewal, seeb (apples) for beauty, serkeh (vinegar) for patience, seer (garlic) for health, senjed (wild olive) for love, samanu (wheat germ pudding) for affluence and sonbol (hyacinth) for spring. I remember how the hyacinth’s scent would fill the house, and how, at the exact moment of the equinox, cheers, tears and plenty of kisses would welcome the new year.
And, of course, I remember the food — specifically my mother’s sabzi polo mahi, or herbed rice with fish. She long served hers with seared salmon, sour oranges and plenty of pickled garlic. Over the years, she’s started making my version: a boneless, skinless fillet that’s slowly roasted with leeks, garlic, dill, saffron and a heavy hand of olive oil.
But if there’s one dish that feels like it belongs to me, it’s kuku sabzi. It was the first Persian dish I truly felt confident making on my own. My recipe continues to evolve, as I fine-tune the balance of fenugreek, turmeric and eggs, making sure the texture is just right. Some families add walnuts and barberries, but I keep mine simple, letting the herbs take center stage.
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