Iron Chef

Hamid's mom, like nearly every other Persian mother I've met, runs her house like a five star hotel, cooking elaborate meals for all of us three times a day without fail; something the way my own mother does - the way they combine ingredients, expertly creating entrees for seven+ people is beyond me both in terms of capability and interest.
I do not like to cook, I CAN cook, but it's not my idea of a fun thing to do.

Once, I made chocolate chip cookies that tasted like soap, having put in baking soda instead of baking powder (or....was it the other way around?). It's these types of logistical errors that make me avoid the kitchen like the plague.

However, watching my darling mother-in-law slave away this past month has left me with a distinctively guilty feeling which I could only alleviate by pitching in for at least one meal.

The project began by creating a soup stock from chicken parts - a yucky endeavour for anyone who is or has ever been vegetarian, but is really the only honest way to make chicken soup.
Hamid's father came home from work to find me in their house stirring away at the pot of chicken-bits and onion pieces and wondered quietly over what on Earth it was I intended to make, probably inventing kind things to say over my fare just-in-case.
When I informed the household that no, this was not the soup, that this was meant to be strained for the broth and then placed in the fridge overnight in order to let the fat come to the top for removal, there were more sideways looks than I've ever seen in a room and I cringed but remained calm, still unsure that I could pull off pleasing such spoiled taste buds.

The next morning, when I removed the lid from the chilled pot, faces drooped even further - and who could blame them? The contents of a fresh chicken stock cooled overnight is no pretty thing.
I determinedly spooned out the fat, and much to the dismay of Hamid's little brother announced that I would now prepare the soup.

Dadash kuchulu (little brother) came to check on my progress numerous times over the next two hours, once informing me that he never, ever eats the chicken in soup. No reasons offered, just a friendly warning.

Once the vegetables, rice, and properly prepared chicken had been added the soup looked, well....more like soup, and everyone relaxed.

A finishing touch of fresh homemade garlic butter on toasted french baguette and the meal was served.
I am pleased to report that no one died, gagged, or otherwise complained. And little brother ate the chicken.

The End.