The first time I make ghormeh sabzi

My mother doesn’t cook in measured
tablespoons or cups,
it is always
           some oil
           a little zardchoobeh
           handfuls of whatever herbs on hand
           and enough water to cover it all

she expects my hands to understand
the kind of food we make
doesn’t come from recipe pages,
it comes from the hands of women
too busy to abide by directions

so I fry onions and turmeric
until the smell of home
convinces me I can do this,
I can make this khoresh,
           even if I can’t read the newspaper in Farsi
           and my accent is like a map of the years I’ve been away

I chop the herbs
until there is enough life in the pot I stir
           even if I constantly worry it is not enough
           that I am not enough

I add the water and beans
           even though the water I crossed as a child
           was a one-way ticket away
           from the only home I had known

I stir in a little tomato paste
           even though I don’t remember my mom ever adding it,
           (but she said it thickens the stew, so I try)

I ignore how the color looks off,
           why didn’t I pay more attention as a child?
                      too eager to eat
                      too naïve to understand how difficult it would be
                      to mimic my mother’s skilled hands
                      to know the difference between enough and too much

I taste with my nose and my tongue
add lemon juice and gard-e limoo

and even if it doesn’t look exactly the same,
even though Maman makes
three times as much in a third of the time,
it still tastes and smells like
my mother’s kitchen,
like oil and herbs and spices, just
           a little less oily
           a little more red
           a little less salty

As I eat my bowl of khoresh,
poured over my Instant Pot basmati rice
           (don’t judge)
I look at my hands,

impressed they were able to find
their way back home.