sewn stories: the rooster in my kitchen

I'm really excited to introduce a new series we're starting called "Sewn Stories." Each story will focus on a garment or textile that has had a profound impact on someone's life—whether it was handmade by them or someone else. Today, I’m thrilled to welcome Mithra Ballesteros, a stylish blogger who is here to share her tale about a rooster needlepoint hanging in her kitchen. Here’s her story. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we did! If you'd like to contribute your own "Sewn Story," here’s how you can participate. Don't forget to share your stories on Instagram using the hashtag #sewnstories.  In a quiet corner of my kitchen, there’s a framed needlepoint rooster that holds a special place in my heart. This piece was stitched by my Persian grandmother when she was a young girl living in Hamadan, Iran, likely sometime in the 1920s. Her name was Zarrin, and she was incredibly skilled with a needle. After her father passed away, she supported herself and her mother through her handiwork. In 1927, she met and married my grandfather. I believe this needlepoint was created before her marriage. Following their union, my grandmother expressed her desire to study French and learn to play the tar, a stringed instrument similar to a sitar. It wasn’t common for women to play instruments or pursue further education, especially married ones. However, as her husband’s second wife—smart, young, and beautiful—he agreed. They settled in the Jewish quarter of the city, far from the prying eyes of the Muslim community. My grandfather arranged for a teacher from a nearby school to visit their home weekly. Zarrin learned French one day and played the tar another. During this period in Iran, the Shah was pushing for modernization, banning public veiling for women. Many women stayed indoors, but my grandmother continued to venture outside every day, her head covered only by a French hat. She was truly remarkable. I wish I’d known her better. Most of my life, we were separated by vast oceans. Later, when she joined my family in America, I was already in college. Yet, I still have this needlepoint. The more I examine it, the more I see. The instructions on the back are written in both Farsi and French, which fills me with immense joy because, like my grandmother, I adore everything French. From the detailed diagram showing the rooster’s eye—or “oeil”—it’s clear this wasn’t a simple pattern. I picture my grandmother putting great effort into capturing that rooster’s stern gaze. Despite its complexity, I find no errors or tangled threads. The design is just as clear on the reverse as it is on the front. A testament, I believe, to my grandmother’s skill. (Just like Persian rugs—if you want to judge a rug’s quality, flip it over to check the knots.) The final detail I notice is that the canvas isn’t fully finished. My grandmother left some blades of grass incomplete. Perhaps she ran out of thread? I prefer to think she chose not to complete it, deciding the piece was good enough as it was. I cherish her decision not to finish. She didn’t sweat the small stuff. I like to think we shared that quality. She wouldn’t agree with me that her needlepoint deserved a frame or pride of place in my home. Or even a mention in this essay. She stopped needlepointing altogether when she had the opportunity for a more significant education. After all, it’s just canvas and thread. Even though she was so intelligent, my grandmother couldn’t foresee that one day her vibrant rooster would become the most cherished possession of her college-educated American granddaughter. Photo Credit: Renn Kuhnen [Adsense Ad] Related Posts: - [Story of a Quilt Passed Down Through Generations](#) - [The Embroidered Tablecloth That Changed Everything](#)

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