Anya was the granddaughter of a close Armenian friend of mine, and her mindset was to meet a gentleman while in college and to marry soon after graduation. It seems she had the nesting instinct. She wanted to become a dan deegeen (housewife).
Upon hearing her startling plans, my friend and I looked at each other in dismay, thinking, “Who does that nowadays?” A woman needs strong career options in case she never marries or if the union fails. No female should be unable to support herself well, so we hatched a plan that could either backfire or take hold. We got lucky.
“You and grandmother seem to have such rewarding lives,” Anya said. “You both love to cook, clean, and cater to your loved ones.” My reply was “Hah! Stay in school and be sure to get your degree. No intelligent girl should consider marriage before she is 30, and certainly not without a really good university education.”
She looked at me in amazement saying, “But Auntie.” I interrupted and leveled with her. “Listen, Anya, it may have been only 50 years ago but it may as well have been the dark ages. Our parents were old-country people. Armenian society thought all girls should be married before age 25 or Heaven forbid, they were labeled old maids, like overly ripened fruit that no man would pick for a mate. Their options to a daughter were to become a teacher or a nurse, but neither appealed to me. Mind you, they did this out of love. They had seen so much violence and destruction in Historic Armenia and they wanted safety and security for us.
“Their thought was a girl should become a secretary after high school, marry, have children, and take care of the home. That’s no recipe for fulfillment. We want more for you and if I had a daughter, I’d encourage her to get a law degree. It can lead to so many great career opportunities. I sold real estate and one of my clients was an attractive female attorney whose condo I marketed. She was thrilled with my knowledge and professionalism, offering me any legal help I may need in the future.”
“I asked her why she became a lawyer and her answer was, ‘I wanted respect.’ She went on to become a judge earning a handsome salary, while I still had to go out and beat the bushes for buyers and sellers.”
“Don’t think your grandmother is ecstatic about the life we both chose. She doesn’t complain but she wants more for you so please listen to reason. Marriage should be forever but if that doesn’t pan out a law degree will hold you in good stead all your life.”
“The reality is you don’t know it all at age 18, 22, or even 30. You may be old enough to drink and vote but life is overwhelming and you have to be prepared to meet its challenges. Do you think being a dan deegeen is romantic and fun? Spend a week with me and I’ll show you otherwise. Yes, there is a certain satisfaction in mastering popovers and soufflés, but girls today can have a very productive career and respect too.”
“When I get through with showing you the dan deegeen ropes, you’ll run to the nearest law school to submit an application—that is, if you are smart and I know you are.”
To her credit Anya was up for the challenge. On summer vacations and holidays she managed to spend time with me in my empty-nest kitchen. She started looking through my Armenian cookbooks while I watched with interest.
In June I had her in my backyard picking 500 grape leaves, then sorting them according to size and removing all the stems. She heeded instructions to pick the right size leaves and those without holes. I gave her the choice to boil salted water with fresh squeezed lemon juice for dipping then canning the bundles, or to freeze them. Her choice was quick after watching the process: She chose the freezing method. Before we started, I asked her to pull her long hair into a pony tail for sanitary purposes.
I was merciless. “You know those fried oil peppers you love, well, we’re going to the farm market to buy a bushel.” We returned to the kitchen to wash and clean the centers in preparation for pan frying, not in the oven but on top of the range. Yes, there could be oil splattering. We filled the jars then processed them. It was an all-day job and time consuming but delicious. “You don’t think it is worth it? Hmm, I’m surprised.”
She frowned at all the vegetable chopping so many of the recipes required. She passed on the ones like lahmajoun and her favorite chee keyma. When it came to mante, she began to weaken. Rolling out the dough, cutting the numerous little squares, inserting the correct size of hamburger on each piece, pinching each end, declaring it definitely was a two-person operation. She lined the pans, baked until lightly browned, finally adding the chicken broth. We made the madzoun sauce out of Karoun Yogurt, but I explained our parents went the extra mile and made their own with a starter portion from a previous batch. She understood, nodding that her Nana still made her own yogurt.
Katah was her true object to conquer and I read off all the ingredients as she lined them on the counter in her dan deegeen quest. The pounds of butter were melted. She tackled shaghel-ing the dough as she huffed and puffed. I wiped beads of perspiration from her forehead. She collapsed on the sofa while the dough was rising. We made the koontz. By now the kitchen was a mess and I warned her cleanup was part of the deal too. She wielded the long dowel quite well, but became frustrated when during the rolling process the dough stuck together because she had not sprinkled enough flour.
She followed through with all the required steps leaving it again to rise. She beat the egg to spread on each round katah and sprinkled sesame seeds on top. Into the oven the loaded trays went and had to be repeated. It was another all-day job. She looked at me in horror when I told her that by the time we had two for dinner, passed out a few more to loved ones, there would only be six left for the freezer.
“So I have to go through all that dough making again to make beoregs?” she asked.
“Yes, of course, but we can cheat if you are tiring of all this kitchen duty. We can use ready-made phyllo to make cheese triangles. Remember our parents did not have food processors, phyllo, and yogurt to ease their pain,” I said.
She wrestled with the thin phyllo sheets to make a tray of baklava. This was worth it to her. The walnuts were chopped in the food processor because now I was getting tired too. She made the syrup and the dessert turned out great. She was a proud semi-dan deegeen.
I told her making cheoreg was comparatively easy and was next. The sticky dough was getting her down, but on she marched like a trouper. She thinks making cheoreg will be one of the first recipes she will try on her own.
She began to make excuses for not having time to learn the fine art of Armenian cuisine. She did find making stuffed peppers and tomatoes for dolma fun, and making the onion-rice filling for sarma was not exactly easy. She lined the pan and crossed her fingers as she poured hot water on top of the stuffed leaves hoping they all would cook evenly. Now she understood why we picked so many grape leaves. “Yum,” she said as the lemony filling sated her appetite. “Now that’s Armenian,” she exclaimed.
“Anya, perhaps you should lower the bar on your culinary expectations. Your delicious effort will get you short-lived praise. Once the food is consumed the evidence is history, whereas a law degree will be yours forever. I never got a medal for being a fine cook, just personal satisfaction.”
She acknowledged Armenian cuisine was labor intensive but worth it, followed by whomever invented all of it must have been sadistic. I just laughed.
She said she’d buy her lavash hatz at the church bazaar. “Who is going to open up all those circles then throw them on a sadj to brown each side? Too hot a job.”
Homemade halvah required continuous stirring until the melted butter and flour took on a brown nut color. She liked how the splash of hot milk brought the mixture together for a nice dessert when poured onto a plate then cut into squares.
She quit when I began to show her how I prepare a needle and long string lined with walnuts to dip into a fruit juice tallow to make roejik. I told her how I would rig up two step ladders hung with a rope to hang each long piece after successive dippings into the thickened juice.
I’m proud to say Anya finished university and law school too. She remains happily single but is looking. The great part is she likes to wow her legal colleagues when she entertains in Anya’s Armenian Kitchen. They love her sarma and cheoreg. She has a collection of dowels and baking pans of several sizes.
This is Anya’s story on how not to become a dan deegeen, at least not before it is time.
Betty Apigian-Kessel
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Betty,
Forget Anya! When can I stop by your place for some dolma, mante and katah?
I’ve read a lot of your articles but this one has whet my appetite and left my mouth watering.
I can understand why the “ladies” like to do the cooking and baking together in the church kitchen. It could almost be fun, as long as they agree on the techniques for each recipe. Doing it alone at home with not even a radio in the old country had to be a drag. They must have joined forces with neighbors or relatives, but were the kitchens large enough for group endeavor?