I feel compelled to start by saying this is not some sort of vapid millennial-coded content to usher in the crisp weather of autumn. It’s also very much not a recipe post.
The only soup we had with regularity in my home growing up was matzo ball, and it was never homemade. Why reinvent the wheel when Manichewitz and Streit’s had perfected it and packaged it for ease? As such, I have zero opinion on what makes for a better matzo ball — baking powder, whipped egg whites, or seltzer — for me, I simply have the preference of dense on the inside for a good “bite” and slightly fluffy on the outside.
So while my “family recipe” for our people’s penicillin comes from either a boxed mix or a ready-made in a jar (a game-changer, really), I still have an appreciation for the warm hug that comes from a bowl of soup; its depth of flavor representative of someone who, as younger people may say, understood the assignment.
Soup subculture runs deep, but for me, it’s admittedly more superficial. When temperatures plummeted after weeks of 80-plus-degree days, we entertained whether or not to turn on the heat, pile on blankets, or order soup.
We settled for two of the three. Not cold enough to turn on the heat, we opted for heavier blankets and an Uber Eats delivery of one of my favorite soups: ash-e-reshteh (here’s another from Andy Baraghani).
I’ve made Jake Cohen’s version several times, but even his is a recipe that requires more planning and care than I was willing to apply on a Friday night.
The down-county delivery from Shiraz took nearly two hours to arrive, and yet, ironically, still delivered.
I can now confirm that ash-e-reshteh travels well and satisfies deeply.
The comfort starts with its deep, earthy broth. It reminds me of a soup that my cousin Alice’s mom made for me in Israel. Her soup was Egyptian in origin, I think it was called molokhia, but I remember her referring to it as “grass soup.” And ash reshteh feels similar, if for no other reason than its striking green broth.
More stew than soup, ash reshteh is sturdy by design, with beans, noodles, herbs, and greens. Finished with sour kashk to deliver a memorable bite, once you slurp your last spoonful, you’ll understand and appreciate why it’s served near Nowruz. There’s something almost fortifying and refreshing despite its heartiness.
My craving for ash reshteh might confuse my fellow matzo-ball millennials or members of the tribe, however, for me, there’s meaning in ash rashteh, too.
I don’t have Persian lineage; I remember trying Persian food for the first time in college, including Baghali Polo, a long basmati rice with dill, fava beans, and a richness that comes from butter.
Years later, when my husband I were visiting with family in Los Angeles, we went with our uncle and aunt (technically his, but I claimed them as mine almost immediately) to a Westwood restaurant called Attari Sandwich Shop. Uri, who we lost in 2020, insisted that I order a soup called “ash.” Its appearance is an easy cue to its complex flavor, and it’s a forever reminder of my fondness for my California mishpucha, also complex and curious in its own way.
Food is a great connector, and soup is a great gateway. It brings memories to the forefront through flavor, forcing me to slow down either as I soak beans overnight and bring them to a boil the next day, or as I wait for my out-of-bounds long-distance delivery.