Peppers

I don’t really like peppers. Bell peppers, stuffed peppers, long skinny ones… Sometimes, I actually hate them. Their smell makes me nauseous, especially when they’re being cooked. I make an exception for the small dried and very hot ones called “birds’ tongues” in French that are used to make pasta arrabiata.

I do, however, like stringing things: beads, popcorn and now peppers. It was too hot one day to do much of anything, but I needed to do something fiddly. The rooftop of Ala Turca is lined with pepper and tomato plants growing in blue plastic bags. Nevzat picks the peppers and puts them in the fridge. I found them. Ali brought me a big needle and some thick thread. As I chatted with a French woman and her daughter, and as Taner spoke with some Italian customers, I threaded many peppers. I hung them on the outside wall, off the tent post, and under the window like a garland. The Italians received one as a parting gift. They’re quite pretty, like Christmas. The peppers, I mean. The Italians were atractive too.