Haleem: comfort for soft hearts

story & recipe

Please forgive my non-traditional Haleem.

My memories of Haleem are always on cold and gloomy winter weekends. When it was too cold for us to plan to spend a weekend outside, my mom would request Haleem. On those blistery mornings, my dad would wake up early to pick it up, so that the Haleem was already at the table when we woke up. Haleem places in Iran are often open as early as 4 in the morning. My mom, sister, and I would find ourselves at the kitchen table, still in our pajamas, with our eyes full of sleep from the cold night. The dim of early winter mornings draped over the house as the steam curled over our bowls of Haleem & Adasi. My heart is filled with these early quiet mornings, only the sound of spoons clanking against the bowl, and the nourishment of the soft porridge sweetening the gloom.

Haleem is a wheat porridge made by slow-cooking wheat grains, often using chicken or turkey, for hours until everything is melted into each other and has turned creamy. Adasi is a lentil porridge made mainly with brown lentils and onions, and it is also cooked down until soft and creamy. Haleem and Adasi always came together, an inseparable duo that would be enjoyed sweet or savory. People are divided here: some top it with sugar or honey, and enjoy it sweet. Others top it with salt, fried onions, and sometimes more shredded meat, and believe in the savory route. I always preferred the salty/savory way. I also preferred Haleem over Adasi and wished Adasi wasn’t mandatory. As a child, I usually mixed the Haleem and Adasi together, making them into one porridge before topping with salt and ghee. Haleem & Adasi are then enjoyed with bread or simply on their own.

Unlike other Haleem-eating cultures, Haleem is mostly served for breakfast in Iranian culture, due to its high nutritional density, as far as I know. It is also a common dish enjoyed during the month of Ramadan, for the same reason.

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Reuniting with Haleem & Joy

In 2017, during those early immigration days, I was finishing high school in California and lived at the home of my 75-year-old roommate, Monir Khanoom¹. It was then that I was reminded of Haleem once again. Her family had a Thanksgiving night, and her daughter, Nahid Khanoom, was wondering what to do with all the turkey leftovers. I loved her appreciation for feasts and elaborate meals with the family. Her hours of hard work in the kitchen were the reason this multi-generational family came together week after week. Nahid khanoom, an avid cook and an Iranian mother who refused to allow anything to go to waste, decided that she was going to make Haleem with all the leftover turkey and use the bones to make the broth for it.

Perhaps many people don’t make Haleem because it is time-consuming. When Nahid Khanoom decided to make Haleem out of that turkey, we didn’t get to see Haleem until a couple of days later. I always knew that patience was the most important ingredient for Haleem. In elementary school, a teacher had told me that the Arabic word حَليم, Haleem, literally references patience, and that is why the dish, Haleem, is named as such: because cooking it requires so much patience and care. I looked it up today, and the term also means things like tenderness, gentleness, and understanding. The meanings of the word almost remind me of the softness of the dish. The gentlest of dishes. And of course, as I learned later, it is not the wheat nor the meat, but time, that is the most important ingredient in Haleem.

When Nahid Khanoom brought over her turkey Haleem, I was reunited with a lost part of me with the first spoonful. The truth is, I had lost so much of myself in the process of displacement and immigration that I had to rediscover everything all over again. I was tasting Haleem for the first time, before remembering every time I had tasted it in the past. I was tasting Haleem for the first time before remembering all the Haleem on those rainy weekend mornings. Just like when I was a kid in my pajamas, I was surprised by Haleem again. I wasn’t a kid anymore. But my wish had come true: Haleem without the Adasi. Haleem that brought me back to myself and reminded me of my favorite flavors of home. Haleem, that reminded me of the playfulness of experimenting with toppings, having seconds, and stealing too much-fried onions.

Joy found its way back through a warm bowl.

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The future is soft

In summer 2022, Nahid Khanoom passed away after a year-long brutal battle with cancer. At her funeral, her daughter gifted us photos of her sitting next to her favorite poem in a frame with a magnetic back. I placed it on the fridge to remember everything she did to heal her family through her big meals, and everything I learned from her in the kitchen. Next to her, in her yellow shirt, bright yellow calligraphy read: ای عشق همه بهانه از توست

“oh love, you are every excuse/cause/reason”

I made Haleem when I got home that weekend. It felt like the only thing to honor her and every recipe she has taught me. She watched the steam rise above my bowl of haleem, sitting on her throne in the picture on the fridge door. There she was, in my kitchen, in that bowl of Haleem, and in every Haleem I have made since then.

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Months later, somehow, I found myself making big batches of Haleem weekly. It became an integrated part of my life. It was time-consuming but not labor-intensive at all. It was the smartest thing to do with any leftover meat / bones; grains are so affordable, and Haleem is so filling and healing. It is breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midday snack. If you’re feeling like a sweet treat and you know you need a whole meal: sweet Haleem. You’re too tired to make oatmeal in the morning: leftover Haleem. Body and soul transformer, you know?

I often make a big batch to make it worth all the effort, freeze some for future-me, and share the rest with loved ones. Back in my Oakland apartment, I would distribute the big pot of haleem between deli containers, and my lover would drop them off at friends' homes. I even wrote a guide on toppings with a sticky note on top.

Classic Iranian Haleem Toppings

Use a combination of the following toppings:

• Ghee: I believe this one is non-negotiable. Whether savory or sweet, you cannot skip the ghee. There is quite nothing as comforting as a pool of melted ghee on top of a bowl of warm haleem.

• Sesame seeds: For both savory and sweet

• Fried onions: very important imo

• Shredded turkey, chicken, or lamb: for the savory girlies

• Honey, sugar, brown sugar, or molasses: for the sweet girlies

• Butter: If you don’t have ghee

• Cinnamon: For both savory and sweet

• Sea salt, flaky salt, smoked salt: Salt is a classic topping, but I also love experimenting with different kinds of salt, and I invite you to do the same.

Here’s my combo: I love sweet and salty, so I usually top my Haleem with ghee, honey, sesame seeds, fried onions if I have any, cinnamon, and salt.

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South-Asian Haleem

Since everything in my Iranian-SouthAsian household takes inspiration from both of our cultures, the Pakistani Haleem soon began to influence me. I started incorporating different grains, spices, and lentils into my weekly haleem. In Pakistani cuisine, Haleem uses different spices and lentils, and there are many varieties of Haleem. It is more complicated than the one I am used to; Haleem with only a handful of ingredients. My favorite Pakistani place in Berkeley, Al-Maida, occasionally has a Haleem special. If I was lucky enough to catch them on a Haleem-special day, I would always get extra and freeze some for later. Their Haleem started to feed my soul during exam seasons and busy times. It also expanded the rigidity in my mind around food. Everything I thought Haleem was “supposed” to be had changed. My big batches of haleem became so true to my kitchen: I used whatever grain and meat we had, seasoned it based on vibes, and added any lentils I needed to use up.

Thoughts on Authenticity

Younger me thought I would never have authentic foods like Haleem again because I could never find the exact ingredients in the diaspora. There is no better gift I can give to that wounded and homesick version of myself who found herself so far from home that she almost forgot what it tasted like. My haleem may not be exactly the traditional Iranian Haleem, but it is authentic. It is authentic to me, my kitchen, and my culture. And it does taste authentic. It brings me home every time, even though it is slightly different each time. It makes me feel like this is what my ancestors were doing on a slow afternoon. Because they taught us to be smart and patient with grains, to make broth out of leftover bones, and to integrate and honor every part of the animal. We owe all of this knowledge to them, the knowledge that authenticity is built upon. When I make Haleem, I see the footsteps of those who made Haleem before us and gave it the patience and care it needed to receive it back in a bowl, soft and patient.

So next time I make Haleem, I will be using whatever I think makes sense from my pantry, instead of worrying about finding the right kind of wheat grains.

Because remember, Haleem doesn't mean wheat grains; Haleem means gentleness, softness, and love.

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Haleem Recipe