When You Feel Like a Complete Idiot

It was a beautiful sun-shining Saturday morning, all the more glorious because it was the first we'd seen sun in a week. I got myself up and out of the apartment relatively early, walked the 2 blocks to the bakery for breakfast, then another block or so to grab a bus to Taksim. Of course, since I was riding backwards on the double-decker bus, and even though I go to Taksim often, I had no idea where I was, so I got off the bus a stop or two too early. After 10 minutes of walking on the crowded street, I spent at least twice the amount of time picking out clay tools at the ceramics hobby shop. Back to Taksim Square to buy a paper and as usual play chicken with the other pedestrians, then head to the Metro. I took the subway from one end of the city to almost the other, then got on a dolmuş to Sariyer where I exited at Çayırbaşı. Here, I went to Anatolian Arts, a store in which you can find reproductions of Hittite ceramics, glass and ceramic pomegranites which apparently are quite popular though I prefer copper ones, juniper "rosary" beads, and other artsy craftsy things. While I was shopping for a friend's Christmas present, I stopped to pet the annoying little dog who I assume belongs to the nasty woman who works in the store. I'm not a big fan of little dogs, but it was much easier to humor this one than it was to be annoyed by it. The nasty unnaturally blonde, dog-owning woman sat at the computer and sporadically shot me nasty looks. I thought nothing of it. She's just that way. Purchases purchased, I walked the block to the ceramics studio and made a French press of coffee. I need coffee when I wake up in the morning, and just about before I begin any project before 5:00PM.


While the kettle was heating up, I for some reason looked down at my feet and realised I was wearing two different shoes.

To market, to market

Monday is market day in Nevşehir. I will never tire of a good market, and this one isn't bad at all. The labyrnthine streets are lined with awning-protected tables. My favorite part is the fruit and vegetable section. It smells of sun-warmed peaches and strawberries. There are small mountains of eggplants at 1 Lire a kilo, piles of peppers, neatly-lined pears and plump figs, both purple and green.

Some of the venders grumble amongst themselves when I take pictures. "Tourists, foreigners.." I imagine they're remarking that it's as if I've never seen a vegetable before. Others, such as the man above, are more than happy to strike a pose.

Okra

Sweet peppers

Nice to look at, but I still can't eat them.

Many of the venders heap their produce on newspaper, or leave them in crates on the ground.

The cheese market

This market is not for those with a sensitive stomach, as the animal odors that waft from the cheese, especially on a hot day, are quite strong. The cheeses are kept in open basins, in jugs and plastic buckets, either placed directly on the blacktop or on plastic crates.

Tulumu peyniri in animal skins

Some of the cheeses are stored in animal skins. I don't know how expensive they are, but the flies, I assume, are free.

More cheese in an animal skin. I think it's a goat.

Cabbage on a side street

I am still struck by the size of the cabbages. They're wider than my backside. At the end of the street, you can buy a handle-less broom in any size.

Still Life with Cabbage

Once in a while, I'm really proud of a photo, but have to admit this was a complete accident.

Popettes for 25

When I was a kid, one of my favorite meals was spaghetti and popettes. "Popette" is a bastardization of "polpetta, " Italian for meatball. My grandmother's family made these meatless meatballs because, as I understood it, they didn't have a lot of money. Made primarily of bread crumbs and eggs, they act like little sponges for pasta sauce and are quite delicious. I wrongly used to think that it was a secret family recipe until Pina, a Sicilian married to a local Turk, told me it's a commonly made dish in Italy. So much for carefully guarded family secrets.

I first made Polpettes A la Turca a few years ago. Since it's impossible to find parmesan cheese in Cappadocia, I have to make due with what I can find, and instead use Tulumu Peyniri, a crumbly but soft "village" cheese. It makes for a tasty popette, but does not go well with pasta sauce. Instead, we eat them plain, with our fingers.

Last night, we were about 25 for dinner. A group of French friends were invited, a pair of couples from Rome offered to make pasta, and Taner's wife Serpil brought her lentil soup. Somehow during the day, two other small groups of Italians were also brought to the evening table.

I spent a good portion of my day preparing the bread and cooking. Here's my recipe for Polpettes for 25, breakfast leftovers guaranteed. (Really, some foods are better the next day.) To be honest, this recipe isn't written in stone. I can never remember from one time to the next how much of what I used.

8 large loaves of bread from Uchisar Market, not nasty sliced white bread from a plastic bag.
1 1/2 kilos of full-fat tulumu peyneri. I suppose the half-fat version would work as well, but who are we kidding? This isn't diet food.
62 eggs
2 heads of garlic, or more to taste. (Normally I would use a bit more garlic, but a person needs to consider her guests.)
Olive oil, not extra virgin.

Sit in a sunny spot. Split open all the bread with your fingers so it can sit in the sun and dry a bit. Pull the bread apart to make small pieces being careful not to squish the soft inner parts. No need for bread glue. This took me about 1 1/2 hours, but the process is a kind of meditation.

Crumble the cheese with a fork and mix with the bread crumbs. For this amount, you will probably need to use more than one huge bowl.

Finely chop the garlic and add to the crumbs and cheese. Get your hands dirty, and mix until the ingredients are evenly distributed. Admittedly, it's difficult to tell if the garlic is well-mixed throughout, but I kind of like a surprise chunk of it.

Add the eggs. Get your hands really dirty and squish the crumbs and cheese through your fingers so the bread is completely soaked in eggs.

Depending on the bread and whatever day it is, you might need more or fewer eggs. The mixture, in my opinion, should be wet enough to form "meatball," but shouldn't be runny. I think the correct term for the texture is "gloppy."

Form balls of the mixture, then flatten them like a hamburger. You can make them larger or smaller. I like to make them about the size of my palm. Make sure to pat around the edges so they don't fall apart when frying.

Heat olive oil in a big pan, not so much that the popettes float in it, but enough so that the oil comes half-way up their sides. I use olive oil, but not extra virgin. It tends to break down when heated. You can also use vegetable oil, but I don't recommend it.

Carefully place the popettes in the heated oil. Flip them when they are crispy brown. Make sure they're cooked in the center. I don't know anyone who wants to eat raw-egg-soaked bread.

Serve hot, warm or rooom temperature. I prefer to eat them with my fingers, but those who are more refined than I can certainly use a fork and knife.

Three Times Lucky

Last week, a friend from Istanbul came for a visit. Since it has been so hot, and since there wasn't enough room upstairs for all of us to sleep comfortably, Nicky and I decided to sleep on the terrace. We piled cushions of woven and embroidery covered bags on the floor and threw sheets and blankets over them. It's pleasant to sleep under the stars with the wind blowing gently. As far as I know, the few bats didn't fly too closely, and I refused to think about insects that might creepy crawl there way over and around us while sleeping. The nights are a bit chilly, but at about 8:00, the sun beats down unbearably hot.

One morning, I woke up with the sun burning a small hole in my face. I stumbled into the kitchen to make my coffee. Because the transition between sleeping and waking is a long one for me, it took me a while to find the Italian coffee pot and fill it with water and coffee grounds, then locate a lighter for the stove and a something for heating the milk. While the water was slowly making its way through the coffee into the upper part of the pot, Nicky came in holding my pillow away from her body and laughing. On the pillow case was a great gob of bird poo, slowly and viscously sliding its way downwards. Since, as I mentioned, the transition between sleeping and waking is a slow one, I failed to see the humor in the situation.

As I was trying to verbalize that the poo was headed toward the floor, the lid of the coffee pot blew upwards and coffee exploded all over the wall, the stove, and one side of my person, including my face. Fortunately, the coffee wasn't hot, but the noise and spray was, needless to say, startling. I still wasn't able to put a sentence together. Pina, hearing the explosion, came out of her bedroom, concerned. After she realised I wasn't burned, she found the newly painted walls and my face very funny and had a good laugh. I, however, failed to see the humor in the situation. And the bird poo was still sliding floorwards.

After cleaning myself and the kitchen, (Nicky took care of the poo) I went to the store just down the hill. As usual, I asked if anyone needed anything. No one did, but Murat offered to go with me. Murat is 10 at most and a gorgeous kid. He's one of the few people I can tolerate while cooking because he carefully helps me, cutting tomatoes, mixing the salads. He's also extremely polite and asks if he can use my computer before grabbilng it and turning it on. I was pleased to have his company, even for the short trip to the store.

I offered to pay for the package of two milk puddings that he had chosen, but he paid for them himself. As we were returning the store, he handed me a plastic spoon and found a place in front of a blocked door to sit and eat. I had the impression that he wanted to share this treat as our little secret, and for that, it was delicious.

With a little distance, I realise now how lucky I was, three times, that day. First, my head was not on my pillow when a bird shat on it. Second, I am not disfigured from coffee, and third, Murat shared his pudding and a little private moment with me, in the shade, on a doorstep.

The Apricot Thief of Uçhisar

This post is dedicated to Roger Hours, who every summer makes the most glorious apricot jam. If he likes you, he will give you a jar. If he likes you, you are a lucky person indeed.

Pigeon Valley

In the evenings, when the temperature drops from intolerable to pleasant, I often take a walk near Pigeon Valley, specifically to steal apricots. Past Goreme Onyx, a large jewelry store invaded by busloads of tourists, I turn into the driveway of Yemini Restaurant to visit my favorite dog. He's huge. Unlike most sensible people, I am not afraid of this Kangal even though I know they can be dangerous. He must be terribly bored all tied up with little place to run. The men who work at the restaurant are now familiar with me from my frequent visits and sometimes wave at me from a distance. There is a small poodle-like dog who runs about freely. Often, when I'm visiting, she runs for the larger dog, jumping and playfully snapping at his face. Clearly, the Kangal does not like this attention, but patiently stands, completely aware that he could snap the little one like the preverbial twig.

Noble the Kangal

After dog therapy, I follow the dirt road above the valley and walk next to fields of chick peas, squash and other vegetables and through vineyards. Once, I was surprised by a fox who was equally startled by me. He ran across the fields, white tipped tail in the air.

Butterfly on a sunflower.

The outside of the butterfly's wings look like dirt, but when opened
reveal a white-spotted black ground.

Apricots

Before stealing apricots, I check the ground to make sure many have fallen. To my logic, this means no one else is eating them except me and insects. When I find a tree particularly burdened with fruit, I find it difficult not to strip it bare. Many of the apricots are freckled by the sun and would probably be rejected by customers in a supermarket. I've learned not to be prejudiced by these spots, as they are usually sweet and perfectly edible. There is one tree with tiny fruit, slightly larger than gumballs. These are the tastiest. I sample from various trees and fill plastic bags from the market with them to bring back to the store.

Sunset

As the sun begins to set and before heading "home," I make a second visit to the dog. On my way back, I give handfuls of fruit to the various merchants whose stores I pass. They think I'm a bit nuts, but I don't really mind so much.

Here is my recipe for stolen fruit dessert, but you can also use ones that you have procured by honest means.

Use a big pan, the kind used for making spaghetti sauce.

Split the apricots in half and toss the stones on the compost pile.

Cut peaches into smallish pieces and put them in the pan with the apricots.

Squeeze a few oranges into the pan, or use orange juice. Use enough so that the fruit doesn't burn and stick to the bottom, but not so much that you'll end up with orange juice and fruit soup.

Add cinnamon to taste. I like a lot of cinnamon.

Cook on medium heat for about an hour, more if you have the time. The longer it's cooked, the thicker the juice gets.

This can be served warm over really good vanilla ice cream. Please don't waste the dessert on average ice cream. If you do, don't tell me.

If you live in France, you can skip the ice cream and pour creme fraiche over the fruit instead.

You can use other fruits as well. I've made this with apples, pears, and plums in different combinations.

Peppers on a String

Summer vacation truly begins after a string of peppers hangs from the exterior wall of Ala Turca Old Collection.

Eggs with Legs and other stuff I made

Personnages autour d'un bassin

Almost every Sunday, I go to a small ceramics studio with friends. Lately, I've been more concerned with nonfunctional objects inspired by ancient pottery. This one is an abbreviated version of an object in the Louvre. It's not a complete success, but I consider it part of a learning curve.

Dysfunctional Teapot

I'm very fond of the shape and feel of my teapot. Unfortunately, and despite the greatest care, the lid somehow fused with the pot during the glaze firing. Like I said, it's a learning curve. Besides, after I had made it, I learned that the clay body probably isn't food safe. Now it's a sculpture.

An Egg with Legs

Another Egg with Legs

More Eggs with Legs

I was afraid the one on the left would crack during the bisque firing, so I made it into a bank instead of a vessel with spouts.

Small Fish

This one's my favorite. It came about kind of by accident. The learning curve took an upward swing.

Sometimes kids surprise me

I'm so proud of my 6th graders that I wanted to share one of their projects. We're currently reading The Tale of Despereaux, the story of a tiny mouse that falls in love with and saves a princess. He also loves the light and is fascinated by the colors that spill onto the floor from stained glass windows. One of my teaching partners had the brilliant idea to have the kids make stained glass windows out of paper and colored acetate, and have them describe what the windows symbolise and how they might fascinate Despereaux.

Objects of Desire

A few weekends ago, I was in the Spice Bazaar stocking spices for my dad. He likes the ones for potatoes, chicken and meat. The spice mixtures, teas and henna are mounded in barrels and scooped into plastic bags to be vacuum-packed for shipping. Because I want to practice speaking, and because I think it's respectful to at least try and communicate in the language of the country in which I live, I haltingly requested my dad's spices in Turkish. (I do realize that it is more than slightly hypocritical of me not to speak Turkish better than I do and not to make more of a concentrated effort to learn the language. I have a full shelf of Teach Yourself Turkish books but only read them for a few weeks after buying them before I get distracted by something else. Lessons are a possibility, but just the thought of sitting in a three hour lesson, three evenings a week after teaching all day exhausts me. And my weekends are sacred. But I digress.) After I had chosen a selection of spice mixtures, the salesman said "I want to say this in your language. Thank you for trying to speak to me in my language." Often, salespeople will tell me that I speak very well with varying degrees of sincerity. This man, however, appeared genuine in his compliment, and struggled to express himself in English. I was enjoying the encounter enough to buy a few more mixtures, even though I'm sure my dad has no need for lemon pepper and special flavorings for rice.

Several months ago, I was on a mission to find something in particular in Çukurcuma, a section of the city near Taksim Square known for its overpriced antique shops. I never found the thing for which I was looking, but that's beside the point. A series of signs advertised a new store called "Objects of Desire," a place where one can find unique and memorable items for the home. I found the store and was taken by the amount of very cool objects inside, vintage sunglasses, toys, kitchen wares, clothes, crowding every centimeter of shelf space, spilling over into the narrow passageways. It was a bit claustrophobia inducing, but I pressed on from one room to the next and spotted a thing or two that might have fit the description of the object of my mission. Since I don't like plastic and didn't want metal, I tapped gently on the sides of the display cases that might have been worthy of my hard-earned cash.

The very surly man, the owner I assumed, answered my grammatically incorrect questions with impatience. Determined, I continued to look and ask until finally he looked at me with the greatest contempt he could muster and snapped "Look, why don't you just tell me what you're looking for!" Taken aback, I imagine that my facial expression first conveyed shock, then anger. "Well, you keep on babbling in Turkish!" This time, I am sure my face immediately registered acute anger, and I replied with all the indignation I could muster in return "I'm leaving" which was answered with a snotty "Fine" over the man's shoulder. I think I'm a polite person, at least I usually try, but I couldn't just leave without comment to this man who until the previous minute had not given any indication that he spoke English and allowed me to continue in a manner that clearly offended him. "Most people appreciate that I at least try to speak in their language, but if you're going to be a complete asshole, I'm not going to buy anything from you."

I tried not to let the experience bother me, especially because vendors often compliment me on my language skills with varying degrees of sincerity, and because there's a man in the Spice Bazaar who is genuine.

The Crone

For as often as I make the pilgrimage between here and there, I'm sure I cross paths with some of the same people more than once but never notice them either because they blend into the crowd, or I'm not paying attention. There is one woman, however, whom I have seen on half a dozen occasions and for whom I've kept an eye out for the past few years. She's hard to miss, but not for her great size. I have no idea what her age is, but it's very, very old. If she could stand up straight, she might reach my nose, but as she's nearly doubled over at the waist, she comes up to just below my shoulder. Because she's old and hunched over, she has a very slow and awkward gait. Despite her lack of speed and mobility, and with her backside swinging slowly from side to side, she fearlessly makes her way across the street regardless of the color of the light, and as often as not, stops traffic for a moment or two. Once, I helped her carry her bags across the street and made sure she got on her bus without mishap. Another time, I sat next to her for several stops. She told me about her heart and blood pressure problems, smiling, as if she were talking about good weather.

I hadn't seen her for a while and sometimes wondered if she was still amongst the living. While returning from the Spice Bazaar recently, the tram at Eminönü stopped, doors open, much longer than usual. Those of us who had craned our necks to see of there was a problem soon realized that the hold-up was due to my favorite crone being guided onto the train by a kind stranger. I say crone with affection, and because she is covered from head to toe in black, skirt, blouse, large head scarf longer than a nun's, with face and hands exposed. Immediately, a seat was vacated for her. She spoke to no one and everyone, her sharp chin jutted, her tongue seemingly too large for her mouth from of her lack of lower teeth. All eyes were on her as she dramatically flapped her thickened, claw- like hands. "I was so scared, oh I was so scared!" And yet, she had that talking-about-the-beautiful-weather smile on her face. Several women approached her to ask where she was going, a question she either didn't hear or didn't care to answer directly. Between her declarations of fear, she must have said something funny because half of the people in the tram car laughed. The women insisted and volunteered to accompany her.

As she exited the bus, with one woman on each side to support her, I watched to make sure she reached her bus. As usual, she crossed the street with her very kind strangers against a red light and stopped traffic for a few moments.

The Compliment

I have four siblings, very close in age. There’s about a year between each of my sisters and me; my brother came along after a three-year gap. My parents were very unusual in that they took us on Sunday afternoon drives to watch the barges go through the locks on the Mississippi River, and for long vacations in a borrowed camper or our two-toned van with a sliding door named Betty. When we were quite young, they took us to out to eat as a special treat. I’m not sure how they did it, but they put the fear of god in us and we were very well-behaved in restaurants. To be fair, we weren’t perfect by a long shot, but we knew it was a privilege to go, and we also realized that many of the kids in school were never taken anywhere because “they wouldn’t appreciate it.” Initially, the waitresses would look at us with dread, but almost inevitably, would compliment my parents on their children’s good manners.

While on the tram the other day on one of my frequent pilgrimages to the bazaar, a tall man with three small children boarded at the Tophane stop. His girl must have been about four, the boys three and two. There weren’t enough empty seats for them all to sit together, and no one was giving up theirs. The man guided his children to three separate seats while he stood in the aisle between them. He spoke gently, and his children obeyed without a fuss. The girl was wearing her brand new, bright pink coat and all of the other pinks in her wardrobe. She wore very thick glasses. Without them, one of her eyes probably would have crossed to the center. One of the boys had his hood pulled down over his forehead. All of them were thrilled to be riding the tram and smiled so broadly their cheeks must have hurt.. They didn’t yell or even talk to each other, but giggled quietly in their own seats. The smallest was very taken by his reflection in the Plexiglas guard in front of him. As adjacent seats opened up, the man shepherded the kids to the spaces next to each other.

As I watched this family, I thought about the waitresses who complimented my parents. My Turkish vocabulary doesn’t include "well-behaved," (though it should so I can better speak to my students’ parents in their own language) so I thought that “These children are very sweet” would sufficiently carry my message. Before I exited, I approached the man, looked him in the eye and uttered my carefully rehearsed sentence. He looked at me oddly. While I was mentally reviewing my pronunciation, he replied “I don’t know English” in a thick accent. I think he thanked me when I quickly retranslated my little speech back to English, but I had to jump off the tram and couldn’t be sure.

No More Stuff in 2010

I generally don't make New Year's resolutions. Why set myself up for the inevitable failure and the mild self-loathing that comes with it? I am, however, making an exception to my rule this year.

Once again, I emptied my room of possessions, this time for the painters to transform the walls from a light mint green to a lovely neutral beige. Better for the lovely, earthy colors of my accumulated stuff; antique trunks, old wooden tools and bent-wood boxes, bowls and kilims and other textiles. I am overwhelmed with stuff. Against my genetic disposition, I cannot accumulate more things to stuff under the bed, in drawers, in piles.

As a consolation, I am allowing myself to buy more shelves. For my stuff, of course.

For when you feel like an idiot

I hit the snooze button once more than usual. It was so dark, and so very warm under my two, count them two, down comforters. As usual, I spent too much time waking up with a cup of coffee and couldn't find anything to wear. I looked at my watch, swore, grabbed my new black scarf from under a pile of clothes, dashed out the door and nearly ran up the buns of steel hill.

The service bus and I simultaneously arrived at the pick-up spot. I settled myself in and buckled the seatbelt. My scarf was oddly wrapped around my neck, so I adjusted it. It was then that I realized that my scarf remained under the pile of clothes. I had wrapped a pair of black leggings around my neck instead. And they were inside-out, tag waving, a white flag.