Torshi or Torshideh?

Ever since I can remember, I loved torshi -- the classic persian pickled vegetables in a jar that are a must with any chelo-kabab. I loved it so much that sometimes I would eat it straight out of the jar. Of course since discovering boys and kissing at 13, I had to curb my cravings for the pickled delights that would leave my breath smelling like so much garlic and onions. *Sigh* All the sacrifices I've made for men (but that's for another blog). Long before discovering the joy of french kissing, back when boys were still severely infested with cooties, my mamani (grandma) came to visit us from Iran for a few months. Next to my mother and khale (my aunt), I loved mamani the best. She smelled of rosewater mixed with mothballs and always carried some cheap grocery bin candy in her purse that my brother and I would always steal. I remember when she visited the house was filled with guests and some persian dish or other (always with rice) was cooking. It was the best. Even though I would be sent to sleep while mom, khaleh and mamani talked for hours, I would often sneak out to spy on their conversation.

Khaleh: "Did you hear, Goli's daughter is marrying the Nasseri's son -- can you believe it? His family is nowhere near as good as hers...."

Mom: "And he's balding, vay!"

Mamani: "Na, well what do you expect? The girl is 25! She's lucky anyone would marry her anymore. Deegeh Torshideh!"

All: "Hahahaha"

Me: "I want some torshi!!!!"

Mom: "What are you doing still awake? It's past your bed time. And what in god's name gave you the idea of torshi? Silly little girl...."

As I'm sent back to my room, I hear an uproar as the adults figure out why I wanted torshi. "She must have heard me say torshideh" -- I hear mamani announce. And the rest is a blur. Torshideh? What's that? A new version of the all time classic -- are they holding out on me? That night, I have horrible dreams -- it's a room full of bald persian men. They're all sitting around a table. A door closes behind me and I see a beautiful young girl walk in the room. As she gets closer to the table, she starts turning into torshi, literally. Her various body parts becoming cauliflower, bell peppers and other vegetables. Then the bald men start to eat her. I start screaming and wake up....

Mamani's staying in my room and she wakes up.

"What happened?"

"I had a bad dream that a girl turned into torshi and bald men ate her!"

"Oh silly child, girls don't turn into torshi -- they become torshideh!"

"What's torshideh?"

"It's when a girl turns 25 and she is not married yet. They call her torshideh because she has become pickled, rotten. Do you understand?"

"Sort of"

"She is too old to be married. She is no good anymore. So you must always remember to be a good little girl and find a nice persian husband early. You don't want all the good ones to be taken do you?"

"No, I guess not"

"Goodnight then azizam"

And so began my quest, at the tender age of 9, for a persian husband. I refused to become torshideh, no matter what it would take. No man, let alone a bald man, was going to eat me! Now, nearly 20 years later, I still shudder at the thought of a bald man eating me! Other than that, I have failed to stay true to my own vows. I am definitely torshideh with a deathly fear of commitment and dying alone -- not a good mix. Most people have one or the other. I happen to be of the rare breed that has both. But you see, unlike most people, I can actually, literally point to one person and one moment to blame -- mamani's visit in the early '80s.

So while I sit here and try to analyze all of my failed relationships, and those of my friend's and acquaintances, please share with me when you first learned of the concept that a girl has a shelf-life of 25 years tops and how it came to change your life forever........