This Father's Day, I baked a batch of rollout cookies for my dad. I cut them into the shape of letters that spelled B-A-B-A, which is Persian for 'dad'. Not only do his children call him 'Baba' but so do his grandkids, and even some friends and in-laws. I wonder how long it took before he stopped hearing 'dad' and starting hearing 'Baba' as a name of its own.

My dad prefers sweets made with honey and pistachios, but in the fashion that he has followed since emigrating to this country nearly fifty years ago, he gamely smiled and ate a yellow frosted 'B'.