Iranian new year's feast is worth the effort

Roya Touran prepares ash-e reshteh in her Westwood home. (Debee Tlumacki for the Boston Globe)

WESTWOOD - Of all the New Year celebrations enjoyed the world over, the Persian Nowruz falls at the most logical time of year: On the first day of spring, a time of new beginnings and fresh hope. It may be precisely on March 21, or a day before or after (this year it's on March 20), but it's always tied to the vernal equinox and comes just as winter gives way to warmer weather.

And, like all Iranian celebrations, Nowruz is marked with furious activity in the kitchen. This ancient culture boasts a cuisine that's intricate, refined, and labor intensive. When Roya Touran and three Iranian friends gathered in her Westwood kitchen recently to demonstrate some of the holiday's festive dishes, evidence of hours of chopping and prepping were spread on countertops and stowed in the fridge. Touran remarked in passing that she'd been up since 6 a.m. getting things ready - but this is more a nurturing labor of love and hospitality than drudgery. The four friends whirl around the kitchen and chatter - in English and Farsi - about the food, cooking, and the role these dishes play in the holiday and in their culture.

Herb kookoo - a sort of dense souffle of chopped herbs, tart red barberries, and walnuts, bound together with eggs - is a traditional accompaniment to the Nowruz meal. As she mixes the herbs in a large bowl, Labkhand Asefi remarks, "I love the smell; it reminds me of New Year." The green herbs speak of rebirth and the warm season to come.

The other dish prepared this day is ash-e reshteh. This hearty noodle soup, full of beans and herbs, lightly thickened with flour, and finished with kashk, a kind of yogurt whey that adds a dairy tang and a bit of richness, is always made on Nowruz. Touran notes that the word for the noodles, reshteh, also translates to string or thread, and represents the "string of life." It's a dish that's eaten on the last day of the 13-day holiday, usually at a picnic. Touran shrugs at the difficulty of lugging a vat of hot soup to a remote site; it's part of the tradition, and her family still observes it in this country - even when early April in Boston doesn't bring ideal outdoor weather. That, says Fariba Salehi, was an adjustment when she first moved here from Iran. "We have four seasons there," she says, and each one knows its place: Winter is cold, summer is hot, and spring is temperate, unlike our capricious New England climate.

As they work, the four women banter about just how to make the dishes. The recipes are not codified, and there are many variations. One of the cooks never puts baking soda in kookoo, another does; one says mint has no place in ash-e reshteh, another grabs dried mint and sprinkles it in. This is a culinary tradition handed from mother to daughter; each family is free to vary it as it suits them.

Touran says her mother was a good cook, and that she "was like her shadow in the kitchen." Says Mojgan Rahimi, "Cooking was a family activity, a way of doing things with the family and with my mother." Today, she says, she does the same with her 10-year-old daughter.

Setting a beautiful table, it seems, is second nature to these women. When the food is ready, the kookoo is garnished with fresh vegetables, the ash-e reshteh decorated with meat, fried onions, and garlic, fried mint, and yellow lentils. A platter of herbs, walnuts, and feta cheese appears, with a tomato-cucumber salad dressed with lime. It's a fitting feast for a holiday, and the cooks take it all in stride. A lot of effort? Yes. But they wouldn't have it any other way.

"When you feed your guests well," says Rahimi, "it shows you care."