The Feast

I can smell what is inside before I can hear it or see it. I get out of my car, gathering my things, and walk towards the home that holds such treasure inside. My tastebuds are giddy in anticipation, for they know the joy they are about to experience. I open the door and step inside the house, and I am greeted first by the aroma. It wraps its arms around me, its embrace warm and familiar. In it, years of memories the bitter mixing with the sweet. Celebrations and births and deaths and holidays all swirling together into one recognizable scent. I sweep my eyes over the freshly ironed tablecloth, always different than the one before, barely visible beneath the heavy plates and bowls and serving dishes that nearly cover its entire surface. Baskets rest on each end of the table filled with huge, ripe bunches of mint and basil, long, vibrant clusters of green onions, large leaves of cilantro and scatters of fat, crunchy radishes. Near each basket of fresh greens sit large bowls of salad, each a different kind. One with romaine lettuce, large chunks of tomato, cucumber and red onion. The other a broccoli slaw dripping with a lemon and olive oil dressing. Both filled to the brim and nearly overflowing. Small bowls of tangy, plain yogurt, spoons sticking out of them, sit ready to be used. Chunks of tender beef nearly falling apart in their own juices rest on a large platter, surrounded by garnishes of cooked baby carrots and onion. An even larger platter holds fat pieces of chicken piled high on top of each other. They are a deep yellow, smothered in the oily saffron sauce they have simmered in all day. Piles of flat lavash bread are on every corner of the table, surrounded by thick pieces of just baked golden brown bread with sesame seeds sprinkled  on top, and next to them are small plates of freshly pickled vegetables, fat olives, and fresh slices of white onion. The center of the table holds the biggest and grandest dish of all, piled high with steaming, fragrant  basmati rice, tossed with fresh chopped herbs and plump fava beans. Melting pads of butter drip through every grain and crevice, and my mouth begins to fill with water, knowing that in a few short moments I will sit down to devour this magnificent feast in front of me. 

This is a Tuesday night dinner at my in-law's.