{"product_id":"pomegranate-soup-isbn-9780812972481","title":"Pomegranate Soup","description":"Beneath the holy mountain Croagh Patrick, in damp and lovely County Mayo, sits the small, sheltered village of Ballinacroagh. To the exotic Aminpour sisters, Ireland looks like a much-needed safe haven. It has been seven years since Marjan Aminpour fled Iran with her younger sisters, Bahar and Layla, and she hopes that in Ballinacroagh, a land of “crazed sheep and dizzying roads,” they might finally find a home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the kitchen of an old pastry shop on Main Mall, the sisters set about creating a Persian oasis. Soon sensuous wafts of cardamom, cinnamon, and saffron float through the streets–an exotic aroma that announces the opening of the Babylon Café, and a shock to a town that generally subsists on boiled cabbage and Guinness served at the local tavern. And it is an affront to the senses of Ballinacroagh’s uncrowned king, Thomas McGuire. After trying to buy the old pastry shop for years and failing, Thomas is enraged to find it occupied–and by foreigners, no less. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the mysterious, spicy fragrances work their magic on the townsfolk, and soon, business is booming. Marjan is thrilled with the demand for her red lentil soup, abgusht stew, and rosewater baklava–and with the transformation in her sisters. Young Layla finds first love, and even tense, haunted Bahar seems to be less nervous. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd in the stand-up-comedian-turned-priest Father Fergal Mahoney, the gentle, lonely widow Estelle Delmonico, and the headstrong hairdresser Fiona Athey, the sisters find a merry band of supporters against the close-minded opposition of less welcoming villagers stuck in their ways. But the idyll is soon broken when the past rushes back to threaten the Amnipours once more, and the lives they left behind in revolution-era Iran bleed into the present.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInfused with the textures and scents, trials and triumph,s of two distinct cultures, \u003cb\u003ePomegranate Soup\u003c\/b\u003e is an infectious novel of magical realism. This richly detailed story, highlighted with delicious recipes, is a delectable journey into the heart of Persian cooking and Irish living. \u003cbr\u003e\"Few novels have such charm, such fusion. Marsha Mehran takes one of the great staples of literature, food and its creation, and makes it  the vehicle of a delightful, subtle fairytale. With a deep understanding of opposites such as whimsy and poignancy, she delivers a moving and very amusing enquiry into whether differences between peoples exist at all. \" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-- \u003cb\u003eFrank Delaney, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eIreland\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Pomegranate Soup is glorious, daring and delightful.  I adored the Iranian sisters, Marjan, Bahar and Layla, who are looking to build a life, start a business and find love in a place so far from home. Ireland has never been more beautiful -- the perfect setting for this story filled with humor, hope and possibility.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Adriana Trigiani, author of \u003ci\u003eRococo\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRecalling James Joyce's Dubliners, this first novel by Mehran (who was born in Iran but now lives in Ireland) centers on the inhabitants of a small Irish town. When three Iranian sisters move into the former bake shop and open a Middle Eastern caf , turmoil erupts. The quirky and wonderfully fleshed-out characters who make up the populace of Ballinacroagh align with either the sisters and their exotic delicacies or the town bully, Thomas McGuire, who attempts to put them out of business. From the young and lovely Layla to resident gossip Dervla Quigley, these characters come to life; they're as uniquely simple or as deeply complex as the dishes that eldest sister Marjan concocts-recipes included! Personal demons and questioned loyalties play out like a movie on the page (think Joanne Harris's Chocolat), making the reader feel like an eyewitness to all the events. A satisfying summer read or book club pick; highly recommended.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Library Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Books Best Read With a Helping of Fairy Dust: Three sisters who have fled their native Iran set up a Persian cafe in their new home, the tiny town of Ballinacroagh, Ireland. After initial suspicion, the townsfolk learn to love the shop with its spicy fragrances and exotic foods. Marsha Mehran describes the food in mouthwatering detail--with a dash of magic realism.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-- \u003cb\u003eThe Chicago Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo give the reader a better appreciation for the pivotal role of food in the novel, Mehran includes recipes for some Iranian specialties: stuffed grape leaves, elephant ear pastries, and the title’s pomegranate soup. Stark contrasts between the sisters’ lives in Iran and Ireland and between the Irish and Persian cultures energize Mehran’s tale. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e–\u003ci\u003eMark Knoblauch\u003c\/i\u003e  -- \u003cb\u003eBooklist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In one bite, exotic pomegranates offer a bittersweet reminder of where you are and where you could be. Marsha Mehran is masterful in her exploration of the worlds of the familiar vs. the unfamiliar, chuckling all the way.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e-- Rocco DiSpirito, celebrity chef and\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003eauthor of \u003ci\u003eFlavor\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eRocco's Italian American\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003ePomegranate Soup\u003c\/i\u003e, a delightful debut novel, goes from Iran to Ireland and catches the flavors of both cultures through unforgettable scenes and characters.  The three Aminpour sisters leaving Iran on the eve of the Revolution, opening a Persian restaurant in an Irish town, enchant us with their optimism and aroma of pomegranate soup, lingering beyond the pages.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e-- Nahid Rachlin, author of \u003ci\u003eForeigner \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eVeils\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Vibrantly alive and populated with rich characters, this is a delicious first novel flavored generously with Persian spices and Irish temperaments. Marsha Mehran writes with a deft hand and a sparkling imagination.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e--Amulya Malladi, author of \u003ci\u003eServing Crazy with Curry\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"An enchanting tale of love, family and renewal that illuminates the magical qualities of Persian cuisine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e-- Firoozeh Dumas, author of \u003ci\u003eFunny in Farsi\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Pomegranate Soup is a delicious first novel, chock-full of wisdom, hope and the human capacity to overcome.  All first novels should offer as much.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e-\u003cb\u003ePhilip Gulley, author of the Harmony series and \u003ci\u003eIf Grace Is True\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e Born in Tehran, Iran, Marsha Mehran escaped the Revolution with her family. She has since lived in such diverse places as Buenos Aires, The United States, Australia and Ireland. Her first novel,\u003ci\u003e Pomegranate Soup\u003c\/i\u003e was an international bestseller, and her second novel,\u003ci\u003e Rosewater and Soda Bread\u003c\/i\u003e, continues the adventures of the three Aminpour sisters. She lives in New York, where she is busy spinning more tales.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor Marjan Aminpour, the fragrances of cardamom and rosewater,  alongside basmati, tarragon, and summer savory, were everyday kinds of  smells, as common, she imagined, as the aromas of instant coffees and  dripping roasts were to conventional Western kitchen corners.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDespite having been born in a land of ancient deserts, where dry soil  mingled with the crumbled remains of Persepolian pillars, Marjan had a  great talent for growing plants. She had learned from an early age how  to tempt the most stubborn seedlings to take root, even before she  could spell their plant names in Farsi. Guided by the gentle hands of  Baba Pirooz, the old bearded gardener who tended the grounds of her  childhood home, young Marjan cultivated furry stalks of marjoram and  golden angelica in dark mounds of earth. The dirt drew its moisture  from melted mountain snow, which trickled down from the nearby Alborz  into Tehran’s wealthier suburbs, before flowing into the Aminpours’  large octagonal fountain. Bubbling at the center of the walled garden,  the pool was lined with turquoise and green Esfahani tiles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile Marjan trained her eye to spot the first yellow buds of tarragon,  or to catch a weed’s surreptitious climb up the stalk of a dill plant,  Baba Pirooz would recount the long line of celebrated gardeners who had  been born on Persian soil. “Avicenna,” Baba Pirooz began, clearing his  throat, “Avicenna was the most famous plant lover of them all. Did you  know, Marjan Khanoum, that this wise physician was the first man ever  to make rosewater? He squeezed the soft petals for their oils then  bottled the precious liquid for the world to enjoy. What a Persian,  what a man!” the old gardener would exclaim, pausing only long enough  in his lectures to ignite the strawberry tobacco he smoked in a knobby  little pipe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs an adult, Marjan carried the warm memories of Baba Pirooz and her  childhood garden with her wherever she went. Not a day passed by that  she was not on the lookout for some mound of soil to plunge her fingers  into. Using her bare knuckles, engraved with terra-cotta dust and  mulch, she would massage her chosen herb or flower into the soil’s  folds, whispering loving encouragements along the way. And no matter  how barren that slice of earth had been before, once Marjan gave it her  special attention, there was no limit to all that could blossom within  its charged chambers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the many places she had lived—and there had been quite a few in her  twenty-seven years—Marjan had always planted a small herb garden,  consisting of at least one stem each of basil, parsley, tarragon, and  summer savory. Even in the gloomy English flats she and her sisters had  occupied for the last seven years since leaving Iran, Marjan had  successfully grown a rainbow of cooking herbs in the blue ceramic  flowerpots lining her kitchen windowsill. Always the consummate  professional, she could not be tempted to give up planting by any  amount of rain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarjan tried to keep her past perseverance in mind now as she stood in  the old pastry shop’s kitchen mixing a second batch of dolmeh stuffing.  She wished she’d had more time to cultivate a healthy ensemble of fresh  tarragon, mint, and summer savory to add to the dolmeh that she and her  younger sisters, Bahar and Layla, were making. Perhaps if she had  planted something here in Ballinacroagh, she could have avoided the  anxieties that were now creeping up her spine. But then, Marjan  reminded herself, it was best not have such regrets, especially when  she couldn’t do anything about them. There was still one more batch of  the stuffed grape leaves to go—not to mention a half dozen other  mouth-watering delicacies—and Time, that cantankerous old fool, was not  on her side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Babylon Café was set to open in less than five hours. Five hours!  In this new town whose name she could hardly pronounce, let alone  spell. Ballinacroagh. Ba-li-na-crow. A whole town full of people who  would come to taste her fares with questioning eyes and curious  tongues. And unlike her other stints in the kitchen, this time she  would be responsible for everything.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarjan’s heart quickened as she browned the ground meat and onions  together over the low, dancing flame. The satisfied pan hissed as she  introduced dried versions of her precious herbs, the only sort she had  been able to buy at such late notice. Even in Iran, there had been  times when Marjan had had to resort to cooking dolmeh with dried herbs.  By soaking them overnight, she had discovered, they worked almost as  well as their fresher relatives. Using her entire torso, Marjan mixed  the herbs with the cooked rice, fresh lime juice, salt and pepper. She  stirred with all her might despite the unrelenting ache in her  shoulders, for such strong rotations were necessary to the dolmeh’s  harmony.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePausing to rub her tired arms, Marjan glanced across the kitchen at her  sister Bahar, who was rolling up the first batch of dolmeh. With her  wide and piercing eyes, Bahar always looked intense when she worked  with food—as if her life depended on whichever vegetable or herb was  being sacrificed on the chopping block before her. Surprisingly, of the  three Aminpour sisters, it was petite Bahar who possessed the greatest  upper arm strength. Fragile in most every other way, Bahar had  shoulders and arms that were as powerful as those of a man twice her  size, which came in handy whenever jars needed to be opened or there  was mixing to be done.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarjan picked up the wooden spoon and returned to the dolmeh. Her  sister looked too busy now to help her beat the remaining stuffing, for  not only was Bahar concentrating on rolling her own grape leaves but  she was also keeping Layla’s work in check. No matter how many times  Marjan was reminded of the differences in her younger sisters’  personalities, there was nothing like the simple act of rolling dolmeh  to show her how poles apart Bahar and Layla really were.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBahar, guided by a stern inner compass, smartly slapped each grape leaf  (vein side up) on the chopping block. It was a consistent, methodical  march that started with a no-nonsense scoop of stuffing with her left  hand, followed by a skilled right-handed tuck of the grape leaf. Then,  bringing the dolmeh to a clean surrender, she briskly rolled the grape  leaf from the bottom up. Despite her rather gruff manner, Bahar’s  method for rolling dolmeh was always successful; she ensured that her  little bundles of good fortune were secure on the road up, lest all  that she had gathered should fall asunder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRolling was always where Layla faltered, for her method was more  carefree and altogether too trusting. Although Marjan and Bahar  demonstrated the right way endless times, Layla would still leave her  dolmeh vulnerable to the elements. One could always tell which bundles  were hers, for if neither of her older sisters was quick enough to  catch the spill of stuffing, rerolling the grape leaf while shaking her  head, the moment of truth came forty-five minutes later with the  opening of the oven door. Among the neat, aromatic green fingers  expertly tucked by Marjan and Bahar would be the younger girl’s  unmistakable burst parcels of golden filling. And for some strange  reason, they always smelled of Layla’s signature scent—rosewater and  cinnamon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a familiar enough smell, this faint perfume that accompanied  Layla’s every move, but odd for a recipe that did not contain either  ingredient. The cinnamon-rose dolmeh never really surprised her  sisters, though. Layla had a way of raising expectations beyond the  ordinary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen thomas mcguire’s spits and curses hit the pavement outside the old  pastry shop, Bahar was in the middle of removing a ready tray of dolmeh  from the oven. After forty-five minutes they were as perfectly  symmetrical as the greatest Persian carpets, the tray a clean loom upon  which the stuffed grape leaf fingers were lined in even clusters and  patterns. Although the kitchen was at the back of the shop, the sound  of Thomas’s vulgar excretions carried clearly to Bahar’s sensitive  ears. Gasping with surprise, she reached for the hot tray of dolmeh  with bare hands and paid dearly for her distraction with the start of  smoking blisters.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Quick! Get under the cold water! Layla—aloe vera! Bahar, stop  squeezing your thumb like that!” Marjan yelled, pushing her sister  toward the sink. As the eldest of the three, Marjan was accustomed to  directing her sisters in emergencies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBahar shuddered as the cold water ran over her scorched thumb. In the  upstairs flat, a small one-bedroom residence that the Delmonicos had  used as an office and storage area, Layla scrambled through open  cardboard boxes looking for the green bottle of soothing gel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I can’t find the aloe! Are you sure you packed it?” she yelled down to  the kitchen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes!” Marjan hollered. “Look in the small box that says  ‘Miscellaneous’!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t worry. It’s stopped already. See? I’ll just put an ice cube on  it,” said Bahar, sticking out her hurt thumb so Marjan could see the  rising welts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBahar tried to put on a brave face, but inside she felt a lot like that  thumb of hers. Born, as her name indicated, on the first day of the  Persian spring, she had the superstitious nature of people whose  birthdays fall on the cusps of changing seasons. She was forever  looking over her shoulder for fear that she had stepped on cracks or  wandered under a ladder. Bahar’s inherent nervousness had escalated to  a deeper malaise in recent years, the result of unspeakable events that  had left indelible scars. Although her neurotic tendencies often  irritated the more hardy teenager Layla, Marjan’s heart just softened a  bit more every time she saw her sister jump so.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are you sure you’re all right? Listen, I’ll finish the dolmeh. Just  mix the rice for me, okay?” Marjan gave Bahar an ice cube wrapped in a  torn piece of newspaper and placed the piping tray of dolmeh on a low  wooden island in the middle of the kitchen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMade especially for a man of Napoleonic measurements, this rectangular  table had been the centerpiece of Luigi Delmonico’s kingdom, where he  rolled, powdered, slapped, and whipped the exquisite paninis and  chocolate-filled brioches he would later showcase in his beloved Papa’s  Pastries. It was also where Estelle, his bride of forty-five years, had  found him dead—three hours after the bowl of meringue he was preparing  had stiffened into a pink, cotton-candied tutu.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course, Estelle had failed to mention this last point when she had  shown the three sisters around the place five days ago, though in  reality, it probably would have made little difference. The girls’  battered boxes were already shipped over and waiting to be picked up in  Castlebar. Besides, the shop, complete with all the appliances and  utensils of a working kitchen (albeit outdated and a bit rusty), was  perfect for what Marjan had in mind. And it came at a bargain price.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My niece told me that you are the best chef she has ever seen. Gloria,  she’s a very good girl, no?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Delmonico had stood in the kitchen after the grand tour, the dying  afternoon rays entering lazily through a narrow, stained-glass  partition in the back door. The sun rays illuminated the dust particles  floating above her peppery hair. All surfaces, from countertops to the  stacks of pots and dishes, were cloaked in a good inch of the snowy  stuff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, Gloria was very good to us when we arrived in Lewisham. A great  friend,” Marjan said. Behind her, Bahar and Layla both nodded in  agreement. “But I think she was exaggerating a bit about my abilities.  I was only a sous chef. She was the real talent at the restaurant.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, Gloria knows how to cook parmigiana and manicotti, but who  doesn’t? Maybe to those English that is gourmet, but you should have  seen my grandmother cook! Pfff! If she was still alive today she would  be rich from her cooking, I tell you!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEstelle Delmonico laughed and placed her chubby hands on her hips. The  good-natured widow cocked her head and offered a smile to each of the  three young women. Fate had it that, although blessed with the  welcoming girth of childbearing hips, she had never been able to give  Luigi a baby of their own. It was one of her few regrets in an  otherwise fortunate and colorful life. But her barrenness had never  turned to resentment, a blessing Estelle often accredited to her niece,  on whom she was able to practice all the loving criticisms her own  mother had lavished upon her. Gloria was a great source of release for  Estelle Delmonico, and now she had sent her three darlings to look  after as well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay, then? You will take the store, eh?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarjan turned to Bahar and Layla, both of whom appeared to be asleep  standing up. Their drawn, exhausted faces had the look of torshi,  pickled onions that have been pulled from their bed of vinegar and  salt. Who could blame them, really? It had been a long four days since  they left London, shipping off their hastily packed boxes and throwing  a few personal belongings into two worn plaid suitcases, the same  suitcases that had seen them through the Iranian desert a long time  ago. The plane ride from London to Knock had been painfully tedious,  immigration and customs even worse. Answering the same questions about  their religion and ethnic background over and over again. Then two days  holed up in a backpackers’ hostel in the nearby town of Castlebar,  waiting for their boxes to arrive while they survived on white bread  and some hard cheese that Marjan had bought from a corner grocery.  Layla, of course, had complained all the way (such was the prerogative  of her age), but Bahar had remained sullen, her big doe eyes wet with  frightened tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut, thought Marjan, the worst certainly seemed behind them. Especially  now that they were standing in this dusty little kitchen, with this  generous Italian woman. It was time for a new start, time for them to  take all the money they had in the world and finally make something of  those years of hardship.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You stay, yes?” Estelle Delmonico pulled a heavy, corroded key from a  hidden pocket in her black dress. Toothy and archaic, it was the kind  of key that would have released Pandora’s own demons.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes.” Marjan nodded, accepting the key. “We’ll stay. How would you  like the rent paid? Monthly or weekly?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Agh, don’t worry about that now. You give it to me whenever you have  it, yes? I think what is more important is to get you a big bowl of my  minestrone soup. That would put some energy in this pretty face, eh?”  Mrs. Delmonico walked over to Layla and lightly patted her left cheek.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarjan, determined to keep up the momentum that had carried them from  London over the Irish Sea and into this land of crazed sheep and  dizzying roads, shook her head, more to her sisters than to the jolly  widow.[quote]--Orlando Sentinel International bestseller","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301271032037,"sku":"NP9780812972481","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812972481.jpg?v=1767734948","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/pomegranate-soup-isbn-9780812972481","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}