Anne geldi

My room mate's mother recently visited us for a weekend. I like her. She kind of reminds me of my Italian-American gramma. She sometimes points to my "Turkish balcony," or slightly pudgy stomach, as if to say "Where did that come from?" and then pushes food. Every morning, she prepares an elaborate kahvalte (breakfast) with cheeses, eggs and sucuk (a garlicky sausage), olives, and sometimes my favorite balkaymak. Bal is honey, kaymak is usually translated as clotted cream, but I think that's not quite right. In essence, it's a potent combination of fat swimming in naturally produced sugar. Liberally spread on freshly baked bread, it's one good reason for living. In her honor, I bought a special tea glass with a blue "A" (anne means mom) fused to the side.

I've learned to live with one of her habits, and from an informal survey of friends, have discovered it's quite a normal one. Each time she visits, she rearranges. One day I came home to discover that the door leading to the living room had been taken off its hinges to make room for the new furniture arrangement. Just last week, I discovered that the same door had been discretely stored behind the kitchen cupboards for months. After she leaves, I have to search for the new locations of spices, the trash can... She does clean out the fridge and that's a good thing. Sometimes, in her fervor but with a lack of options, she puts things back in the same order as she originally found them on a previous visit. Keeps me on my toes.