One of three things happens when white folks find out I’m Iranian-American. It’s like clockwork, and I can usually predict people's responses just by looking at them. I’ve gotten so used to them that I’ve been disappointed when my assumptions are proven incorrect, and none of the potential outcomes occur.

The match was at best a momentary salve, a reminder that whatever baggage I thought it could help carry, it would, in fact, only carry so far, if at all.

Nostalgia can often hit in the moments when you least expect it. Last week, I was hit with waves as I cooked up this soup for the first time.