Noodle Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Noodle

As a child
(Too small)
I had seen the cuffs rolled
Men walking to knead mud

Wheelbarrows and shovels
Some brought earth, made pile
They made cup in center
Then filled ditch with water
And then worked
With cuffs rolled walked and walked
We did so for our game
(A boy-child)

Having left the village
Schoolboy in Tehran
City's son, urbanized
Needed work as pride
(To make change)

Word ‘Noodle' in paper
Was start, I got job
A long walk from home
In Bee-Seem; Najaf Abad
I would box the noodles

Though for me it was fun
At the end was funny and ugly

Mom's noodle
Filled with care
Made with love
Was better
Far better
She was clean
But not there
Looking back I say this:
'Factory was shitty.'

It was not mom's noodle but dad's mud
We rolled cuffs; flour and water and mixed up
Then we walked and kneaded, to make chunks

Then machines
One roller with slot in between; mouth and lips
We set dough; turned to tongue, thin and long
Other one had saw, teeth; the gone dough came out lines

Both at home and at work
Recipes were the same and local
The names too were local
Ingredients; flour and water; little salt
(Lot of work) to become ‘Polo, Ash'
Not western macaroni, vermicelli

Life had changed; past was past
Mothers too were tied up
(Small kitchens; with no time)
Everything shoved in box
(What we did with noodles)

From then I don't like ‘ash, polo'
If served with 'boxed-to go'

I loved them in village
If now, is privilege
Toronto, modern shops, all baggage
Can't change me, cannot change.

I love food of village
Milk of sheep and the goat
Directly from breasts
Fresh, warm and puffy
Like strings hitting base

I know well, restaurants
I know the factories
'I'd rather not have them.'