I’ve Moved!

16 12 2009

Last night in a fit of hatred for my job I decided to go shopping. So, I bought hosting to match my fancy hostnames. And I moved my blog. So, if you’re looking for the latest and greatest from Khoresht-e Catfish, please go to http://www.roeandstuff.com, our new home.

Don’t forget to update your RSS feeds and bookmarks with the new URL also. See you at the new digs!


Worried Man

19 08 2009

It is my job — my singular task in this world now — to provide my child with food, shelter, safety and unconditional love. To give her all that is necessary to survive and thrive in this world. So when I woke up at 3:37 am a few nights ago — covered in sweat, with a raging headache and a cold, cold fear in my heart — I wasn’t about to ignore the cause of my concern.

What would I do if my daughter liked the Stones more than The Beatles?

I’ve struggled with this question for nearly a week. It weighs heavy on my mind.

And it’s a choice she will have to make  on her own. I cannot help. When she is of the right age — I’d say around 8, maybe 7 (she’s shown signs of advanced musical tastes) — she will stop her iPod, take off her headphones and look over at me. “Baba, Aren’t the Stones just a really good cover band?”

“Yes they are princess. Yes they are. Now go get Rubber Soul from the top shelf in the library so we can hear how it was intended to be heard.”

Researching Fatherhood

13 08 2009

We took Azita to the University of Maryland on Thursday to take part in a study on language development. As a seven-month-old girl, her language hasn’t so much developed as shown promise for one day developing soon. But this a long-term study, so we went today to get the first one on the books.

I was more than a little excited about being “studied” as a parent. I was looking forward to seeing how my daughter reacted to words and researchers and a college campus. These are all things I really love. I wanted to be  a part of a university research project. I wanted to be “Subject B-13” or whatever they label subjects in these sorts of things.

It just wasn’t meant to be, and my dreams of being a footnote in a groundbreaking study on how humans learn to use the spoken word to communicate were crushed because most dads suck.

Yeah, I said it. Most dads suck, and I’ll tell you why most dads suck: Because there are never enough dads willing to participate in university research, so they only test children with moms. Allowing me to participate in the study would have introduced a new element, and damaged the research. I respect this so I didn’t complain to the researchers, but man I was hurt. Not because I took a half day off work, but because so many other dads didn’t. What the hell? A few hours off so our communication with our daughters and sons can help research.

When we returned from our adventure in College Park, I couldn’t stop talking to Azita. If I had a tripod I would have recorded me playing with her and emailed it to the research department — just in case any other dads decide not to suck so much.

What is Khoresht anyways?

12 08 2009

I think the question most people will have if they stumble across this blog is “What the hell is catfish?” Kidding, obviously.

Many places in the United States can now boast diverse culinary offerings, from more ubiquitous Mexican cuisine to perhaps the less common Ethiopian or Malaysian. Iranian cuisine falls pretty squarely on the less common side of things. While common in the D.C. area, where I have resided my entire life, and in much of California, not many American cities have an Iranian restaurant. So, I assume that most people haven’t heard of khoresht.

There are two primary mainstays in the Iranian diet — rice and khoresht. What is khoresht? If I had to compare it to something more well-known it would be to an Indian curry or a slightly more soupy Thai or Chinese stir-fry. It’s basically a thick stew that is served over rice. There is a khoresht for every palate — from Khoresht-e Bademjan (an eggplant and tomato stew) to Khoresht-e Fesenjan (a chicken stewed in ground walnuts and pomegranate syrup). If you haven’t tried khoresht, I highly recommend it. They are worth their preparation time for sure.  Check out the lovely My Persian Kitchen for some great, authentic recipes for khoresht and other yummy Persian delights.

Running Man

10 08 2009

I spent just about a year nursing a knee injury. I couldn’t play soccer. I couldn’t roll around on the floor with my nephews for more than 20 minutes at a time without cringing in pain. And I couldn’t run. It sucked. I had no idea how addicted I was to (slowly) propelling myself forward — cutting through the air as my shoes pounded concrete, pavement, bricks, dirt and puddles of mud water.

Z and I had trained for and ran the Marine Corps Marathon two years ago. And here I was limping around and trying not to feel too self-conscious about spending so much time on the elliptical machine. So I avoided the gym. Made excuses not to workout. I gained 20 pounds. Z was seven months pregnant and I was just fat. My clothes were snug or just didn’t fit at all. It was worse than not being able to run. As much as I love to run, I love looking good in good-looking clothes. I was forced to wear khakis and a polo shirt to work. I looked like, dare I say, the average guy. It sucked big time.

But now, four weeks into running between 12-15 miles each week. Slowly working my body back into some shape other than an over-ripe pear. Steadily running faster (from 14 min. miles a month ago to 11:30 min miles tonight). I am feeling better and better about the chance that one day I will walk over to that closet, open those doors and grab that Thomas Pink shirt and not think twice about my love handles.

Monday Morning Blues

10 08 2009

Azita was crying when I left her at daycare this morning. I know I’m lucky. This is not a usual occurrence. In fact, she usually smiles and coos and giggles at the sight of her main caretaker (hereafter referred to as Miss Poppins). I always leave her there knowing that I am leaving her in the hands of people she loves, and who dote on her. This morning would have been no exception, except that the advent of crawling has turned Azita into a perpetual motion machine. And, beware her wrath if you try to stop her. Miss Poppins had to stop her this morning, at least until a soft, clean crawling surface was put down. I know that the crying was probably a short-lived thing — when I looked in the window on my way out, she was already smiling and babbling at some of the other kids — but I couldn’t help feeling the same way I felt on that first day I dropped her off at daycare. I remember that day acutely. I refer to it often as “the worst day of my life.” I don’t think I’m being overly dramatic either.

On that day many friends plied me with words intended to comfort: “Don’t worry. In a couple weeks, you’ll be looking forward to Mondays.” Well, it’s 5 months later, and I think I can definitively say that I will never look forward to Mondays. Nor, I’ve decided, do I want to.


9 08 2009

Azita recently started crawling and that got me thinking about milestones. I didn’t know this until our last visit to the pediatrician, but crawling actually isn’t a milestone anymore. I know, right? Every damn thing a baby could possibly do is a milestone, and everyone is obsessed with whether or not their baby reaches said milestones. And whether or not they reach them before baby Jones.

I mean, every time I post a picture of Azita, someone makes a comment that goes something like this: “Oh, I see she’s poking at her navel. That’s a milestone. Nice work!” And, sometimes I hear: “Oh nice. Azita’s babbling. Is she talking yet? My daughter was talking by {enter some ridiculously young age here}”  Now I’m more competitive than most — my sister says I’m cut-throat — but I draw the line at competing vicariously through my infant daughter. And, honestly, I know that everyone is proud of their child. I know I’m proud of every little thing Azita does, impressive or not. But, boasting that your five year old is reading at a 5th grade level just makes me feel annoyed at your five year old. And, it certainly does not make me think better of you.

To make a point, I once changed my Facebook status to “I’m pretty sure Azita is pooping at the 4th grade level.” No comment.