It is ironic that on the same day I decided to make a colorful roaster full of Armenian dolma, an email arrived with a funny story. It told of a man named Hovannes on his deathbed, who was about to draw his last breath when he suddenly smelled the aroma of something delicious and familiar. It revived him enough to be able to call out in a weak voice to his wife Vartanoush, known for making the best dolma in Harput: “Is that dolma I smell?” He received no answer.
His next move was to gather all the strength left in him, force himself out of bed, and crawl to the kitchen. There, he found his wife working on her famous dolma. From his pitiful position on the floor, Hovannes reached up to the table for one of the dolmas when his wife rapped him sharply on the knuckles. He looked up startled to find his wife wielding a big wooden spoon in her hand with the threat of using it again to prevent poor Hovannes from pilfering any of her prized vegetables bursting with hamburger, rice, and a secret blend of herbs and spices.
She admonished him: “Don’t touch those dolmas, they are for your Hokehankist!
***
Happily, my dolma came to fruition for a happier reason.
Although the calendar said we were on the cusp of summer and fall, the weatherman predicted the last Wednesday of September would emerge as a sunny but windy day of 87 degrees.
But then my husband uttered the five words I dread the most: “Let’s get up early tomorrow.”
Anyone who knows me also knows I am a night owl who sleeps in late. Not even the promise of a trip to an exotic destination is tempting enough for me to become an early riser. My reasoning is that a later departure is always available. I am a confirmed night person.
He closed the deal by saying, “We can spend the day relaxing on the beach. I know how much you love Lake Michigan and looking at all the beautiful boats that pass through its harbor. You can nap in the car.” He knows my metabolism doesn’t kick in until noon.
Our thoughts immediately turned to celebrating summer’s last hurrah by taking a day trip to the western side of the state to visit beautiful Grand Haven located on Lake Michigan with its miles of inviting warm, white-sandy beaches and sunny skies.
It was a perfect opportunity to make up for the missed annual adventure to the shores of our favorite Great Lake, always taken during the abundant blueberry season of July and early August. The area is famous for its numerous blueberry farms, and folks travel great distances to partake of this juicy fruit now enjoying popularity as a healthy antioxidant.
It was just what we thought it would be. All you have to do in Grand Haven’s public park is to pull into a parking spot, install your chair in front of your vehicle along with your snack filled cooler, plop yourself into the chair, and lazily while away the hours watching the waves crash and scanning the horizon for ocean-going freighters.
My face and bare feet sunk into the sand were the only things exposed on this breezy beach day. The high winds never let up nor did the sunshine.
Our return trip home was filled with stops at farmer’s markets displaying a dazzling array of fresh fruits and vegetables. I gathered up an abundance of red, green, and yellow sweet bell peppers, along with tomatoes, zucchinis, eggplants, and for added spiciness, some hot banana peppers, knowing they would be perfect for making dolma.
It took over five pounds of meat to use up all the vegetables. I added chicken broth to the now full large turkey roaster, tomato paste, and a squeeze of lemon juice, and off it went into the oven for an hour and a half.
I must say this: The one tomato nestled in the middle of this vegetable mélange was a large heart shaped Keghi tomato given to me by “cousin” Mitch Kehetian from what he calls his Keghi Garden in Allen Park, Mich.
He doesn’t just write books, he is an avid gardener. Each year he collects seeds from the tomatoes and unusual cucumbers that originally came from the province of Keghi. He describes the emerging little plants that spring from these seeds as “little Armenian soldiers.”
The fragrant unmistakable aroma of dolma soon filled my house bringing back memories of my mom’s cooking. Nothing says Armenian home-cooking like a roaster full of mixed vegetable dolma.
At dinner time we filled our plates with hot dolma but not without the necessary topping of cold madzoon and garlic streaming over the top.
The joy of another satisfying meal was written on the husband’s face, but he didn’t have to add the last comment: “See, I told you getting up early was worth it!”
All I can say is poor Hovannes. He went to his death with sore knuckles and no dolma.
Betty Apigian-Kessel
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