Dolmeh: cabbage-stuffed with a Persian mom’s love
By Talia Bina
My mother always began preparation the night before, usually on a Thursday night to prepare for Shabbat dinner after the kitchen had been cleaned and the leftovers put away from the night’s dinner. It was always the same setup — one big pot on the stove with two cabbages steaming, one large pot on the kitchen table, one medium silver mixing bowl beside it. With her white latex gloves on, she’d check on the cabbage heads while mixing together the ground beef, rice, raisins, herbs and spices. Never measuring — simply pouring a little here and there, opening cabinet after cabinet to reach each ingredient — then mixing the ingredients together with her hands.
Stuffed grape leaves are a common dish in many cultures, including Middle Eastern and Mediterranean cultures. Not only does the dish vary from culture to culture, but also from family to family. My mother learned the recipe from her mother, substituting grape leaves for cabbage and bell peppers.
She’d struggle to pull out the cabbage heads from the steaming pot from the stove and plop it onto a large circular tray, slowly peeling layers off to make sure the delicate leaves wouldn’t break. Her fingers were clearly burning from the heat of the vegetable, but that never stopped her or slowed her down.
My mother has always been a natural in the kitchen, cooking dishes that she learned from her mother and later from her mother-in-law when her mother had a stroke and was left paralyzed and with aphasia. I strongly believe that once my grandmother lost her ability to walk and talk, my mother lost her ability to connect with her mother. She was never able to learn the recipes she had never asked her mother about, or ask, “Was it cumin or turmeric that you used?” She always seemed sad and tired in the kitchen, lost in thought, but I’d sit beside her as she folded up the stuffed cabbage and asked her questions.
I’d tease, “Mom, not again!” and she’d say, “What?” She’d look at me with annoyance, then realize and try not to smile as she shook her head. Without fail, my mother always made dolmeh when it was “that time of the month.” It seemed like her dolmeh schedule and my menstrual cycle were in sync, in both a loving and an annoying way. While it was my favorite dish, cabbage didn’t settle well with my bloated and cramping stomach. Nevertheless, I was grateful and heartwarmed by this motherly internal instinct.
In many cultures, food is not only a way to nourish one’s body, but also to embrace culture, company and generational memories. In Persian culture, food is the primary uniting factor. Our homes are always spiraling with the scent of turmeric and saffron, and a cup of tea is placed in every guest’s hand upon arrival. Dinners at our home are always a lavish affair, and even after years of eating the same food, I’m always amazed at how a dish can turn out perfect every time. Every time my mother makes dolmeh, I am reminded of a warm feeling that reminds me of her veiny hands and tired eyes that never cease to lose their power.
Each time my mother would plop the rice and meat mixture into layers of cabbage, folding them over and placing them opening down in the pot, we’d talk about our day, memories from Iran or any other thing that would come to mind. She never failed to mention how exhausted she was, but even when I offered to help, she’d say, “I’m almost done.”
The morning after, she’d put the pot on the stove and pour a can of tomato sauce on top of the stuffed cabbage leaves. On low heat, she’d let them cook slowly, releasing a heavenly scent into the air. In high school, I’d enter the house after school and instantly know that dinner would be special that night. I’m convinced that it’s my mother’s cooking that taught my nose its keen sense of smell that allows me to decipher what dish is cooking as soon as I walk through the door. There is nothing that could separate me from those soft cabbage leaves — even when I stopped eating red meat, I’d make an exception for her dolmeh simply because I knew her heart would shatter if I avoided yet another dish she’d cook us.
At dinner, my mother always had the same ritual for serving. She’d turn to me and say, “Go grab Baba’s plate,” and I’d hurry into the dining room to ask for my grandfather’s plate. She’d shovel a large stuffed green pepper onto the plate for him and do it a second time for my father. Then, she’d layer the dolmehs delicately onto a platter, steaming hot, always putting the ones on the bottom of the pot out first because she’d claim that those were the best ones. Once we’d sit to eat, she’d turn to me and ask, “Pokhteh?” I’d nod and say, “Yes, Mom, it’s cooked through.” She’d nod happily and offer everyone at the table one or two of the perfect stuffed cabbage leaves, asking why no one was eating even though everyone’s plate was piled high with food. That’s just how she is — never affectionate, never physically intimate, but always showing her love through food.
Dolmeh Ingredients
2 heads of cabbage, steamed
1 can + 1/2 cup of tomato sauce
1 cup water
1 pound ground beef
3 cups basmati rice
1/2 cup raisins
1/4 cup barberries
3 tablespoons pomegranate syrup
1 tablespoon turmeric
1/2 cup oil
Ground saffron
2 tablespoons dried mint
2 tablespoons dried parsley
Salt and pepper to taste
Instructions:
Mix all but the first 3 ingredients together. Add in 1/2 cup of tomato sauce.
Peel off a layer of cabbage and add in some of the filling mixture to the center.
Fold edges of cabbage on top of the filling mixture. Place cabbage with the opening side (folded side) down into a large pot. Repeat until all the cabbage is used.
Mix 1 can of tomato sauce and water, pour on top of layered cabbage and cook on low for 5 hours.
