Igrew up without a sense of abundance, in pretty much everything except maybe imagination.
We were lower-class Iranians—a less visible phenomenon in our part of the US in that era. We were refugees on political asylum, from war as much as revolution, and we lived in a part of Los Angeles with few Iranians, many lives away from the very conspicuous Tehrangeleno elite. My brother and I shared a small bedroom in a small apartment in the undesirable part of town—the apartment district of mid-century stuccos, called “dingbat buildings” all over the Sun Belt—and my parents struggled with putting food on our plates. My mother still managed Persian dishes, but they were simple, and always served alongside whatever else was cheapest in America: pasta, salads with dressings made primarily of mayo and ketchup, Hostess snacks, sugary cereal, soda. I remember thinking we didn’t have enough, and that was just my lot in life.
