Sunday 3 June 2007

“I cooked a Lamb Roast” - 23 May 2007

In an effort to return the hospitality of Shadi's family I decided to cook dinner. And what better a meal than a lamb roast and pavlova?

I know, I know, SUCH a stereotype…but please do not crucify for this parochialism, I just never know how to answer the question of ‘what is a typical Australian meal?’. Laksa? Kebab? Sushi? Pasta? Curry? I have no idea. BUT last summer I cooked a lamb roast with my Ma and thought that I’d give it a bash so that I had something to write home about…

As an aside, speaking of stereotypes (or should I write ‘shame’), I was in the beauty parlor in Tehran the other day when Shadi’s cousin asked me about government in Australia and particularly about the Australian royal family. I explained that there isn't an Australian royal family. Tapping her golden freshly applied fake talons on the counter top, she paused and said:

‘But then why do you have an ‘Australian Princess’?’

[I almost drop my glass of tea. No, please lord, say it isn’t so…]

‘I saw a show on satellite TV all about how you choose your Princess. Ohhhh I just luhve it. Really. What does she do in Australia?’

[Oh lord.]

‘Ah no, no, no that is a reality TV show – you know like the Bachelor or Big Brother. It’s not real. She’s not a real princess.’

[The look of disappointment is palpable.]

‘Oh…so it’s like a Miss Universe title?’

‘Yes, yes – exactly! Just as Miss Universe doesn’t actually have any power in the universe, Australian Princess doesn’t actually have any power in Australia…. And isn’t actually a princess.’

[And at this point in time I wished that I wasn't actually Australian.]

‘Oh, okay so it is not about the government of Australia…but I think it is a great show. Do you like it?’

‘No, not really – it’s not really my favourite show..’.

‘But you like All Saints, yes?’

So friends, cooking a lamb roast and pavlova is the least of our worries.

***

Back to the roast. First the meat.

As the glass door clicks behind me at the butcher’s, tumble weed blows across the floor and the piano man in his sleeve protectors and braces stops playing. I stand a little dumbstruck while my trusty side kick (Shadi’s mum) shuffles over to the fish counter. I eyeball the butcher, so he cannot see my fear.

My trusty side kick has arranged for some fish for lunch and is waiting for it to be cleaned. Now it is my turn with the lamb. I look to the butcher, wink at my side-kick and with the total confidence of the ill informed, I point to my shoulder and say ‘lamb’. My side kick backs me up on this and says something to the butcher in Persian. We all smile, and I am proud for another successful effort in cross-cultural communication…

The butcher with a spring in his step walks to the glass counter and returns with the loyalty of a cat leaving its kill on the verandah. I look at him, smile and then look at his hands.

Nope, he is not holding anything that looks like a lamb shoulder in Australia.

Rather he holds up what can only be described as a thin sheet of meat.

Where did it all go wrong?! Everyone is confused. ‘Yes, yes. This is shoulder.’ They have given me exactly what I asked for, the communication was clear – and somehow it was not what I wanted.

How the hell can this be a shoulder? I look a little closer. Yup there is definitely a socket joint there. And yes, this piece of flesh would sit nicely on a shoulder like a sort of macabre piece of body amour or ornamental lapel.

No misunderstanding, that is definitely a shoulder, but not as I know it.

I stumble a ‘different in Australia.’ Feeling like a tool I quickly look around for plan B. I see a back leg hanging in the window. Phew, I can work with this.

***

Next: the rosemary.

Rosemary is not really used in cooking here. Instead it is used to grow hedges.

Obviously.

So on the way home from the butcher with the windows down, my side-kick and I roam the streets of Tehran for some rosemary to snatch. There was nothing on the way home, so we set out again in the afternoon as we walked to the shopping centre where Shadi’s mum had to buy a new pair of gold shoes for her Mother-of-the-Bride dress.

As we leave the shopping centre I see something out of the corner of my eye. It is covered in mud and hiding next to a foot path. But yes, it is rosemary. Holding my no-body-in-here-tunic close, and tying my hijab into the ‘let’s get down to business fold’ I jump across the ditch and start tearing at the rosemary like a madwoman.

Mission accomplished – it has been a good day. Now the only thing left is to cook.

After making the pavlova with a hand rotary beater, I run my little red hands under cold water while Shadi’s dad is cursing me for not showing him how to make the pavlova and save my hands from this red tenderness. He then declares that he will watch me cook so he can help. I smile, thank him and then start to wash the rosemary.

Shadi’s dad asks me where I got the rosemary from, since it’s not sold in the shops.

[Pause]

What do I say?! I feel like a thief. I AM a thief! I return Iranian hospitality by stealing their resources, adding a little bit of processing to it and then return it to them as a benevolent gift or fair deal…

All I can do is confess. I hold it in front of me: ‘I stole it.’

[Okay, that was painless enough].

‘Ruby, please tell me. What is the meaning of stole?’

[Oh please. That’s a tough one. Really how do you explain it with a limited vocabulary. I thought I could try a Biblical/Koranic reference, but then – Eureka!]

I hold up one finger: ‘finger’. [Mansour nods, ‘Yes, finger. I understand.’]

Holding my palm in front of him and count from one to five in Persian, pointing at each finger in turn: ‘Yek, do, seh, chahar, panj’

I pick up the rosemary in my fist: ‘Five-finger-discount.’

Mansour looks at me, looks at my hand, looks at my smile and then laughs and slaps me on the back so hard I’m winded.

‘I understand. Five finger discount! Very good. Very good.’

As the bones of the roast lay bare and the soft, flat pavlova that looks like a gift from the invisible pavlova cow has been worshipped and renamed ‘Iranian Pavlova’ and 'five-finger-discount' has been translated into Persian, I stumble off to bed a very happy soul. Mission accomplished.

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