my grandmother's iranian pirashki

Food is woven into the fabric of Iranian culture in a way which is difficult to explain to those who haven't sat at an Iranian table — it is hospitality, it is care, it is the primary language of a family that spans continents. Whenever I visited Iran to see my grandparents, I knew that nightly feasts would be waiting: spread after spread of rice and herbs and stew, but the thing I looked forward to most was my grandmother's pirashki. Similar to the Russian version, these are small fried pastries filled with spiced meat or potato, and if we were lucky, a sugar syrup one would appear for dessert — golden, rich, and absurdly good. When she finally got her visa and came to London, I was happy for many reasons, but I'll admit a selfish one: more pirashki. Now, with the war in Iran and the cut phone signals, I’m not able to see my grandmother, and we haven’t been able to speak in over a month. I feel helpless in the way you only do when the distance isn’t a matter of miles but of something much harder to cross. So, i’m doing the only thing I know how to do: i’m teaching myself to make pirashki from scratch. I know it’ll never be as good as hers — she cooks and measures with her heart, which isn’t a technique you can write down. I’ve never wanted her on the phone more than I do right now, with my questions and my almost-certainly-wrong dough. But in a moment where very little feels certain, this much I know: pirashki is here to stay