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.