The envelope came postmarked Tehran and stuffed with crimson confetti: pure saffron. It came with instructions: crush, seal, steep. It came with thanks. Charlie had saved the sender’s life.
Charlie shared the saffron. He shared the instructions. In a pinch, he’d share the life-saving. He’s generous like that.
Once I read the note, I knew I was guilty. Previously, I’d rolled the red threads between thumb and finger, I’d tossed the crumbles into stew or sauce, I’d appreciated – but not marveled at – saffron’s sweet-hay scent, its golden glow and bitter bite.
The potent spice – stigmas of the saffron crocus, each hand-plucked and sun-dried – deserves the cook’s full focus. Now I, too, have Charlie to thank.