Monthly Archives: December 2015

The Return of the Nemesis

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I know I said I wouldn’t be back until 2016 but I just have to have one final bitter rant before the year is at an end.

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Do you remember my nemesis The Rooster?   This post will tell you a similar story.  I still have a nemesis.  He is still a rooster but – this time it’s personal!

In the past my nemesis (or nemesi – plural?) seems to have had a pretty short life span.  If it wasn’t one of the stray cats or My Hurley Dog that terminated my nemesis then I guess he usually ended up fricasseed or something because they never lasted long enough for me to want to go nuclear at the neighbour.  Until now.  This time around the neighbour seems to have replaced those early model nemesis with a crazy ass, psycho ninja nemesis that seems to be quite prepared to feck shit up!  This little bastard has turned the table so to speak.

He spends his days terrorising the strays, stealthly appearing and disappearing before trying to peck out their eyes.  He cornered My Hurley Dog in our garden and attempted to dismember him piece by piece before finally, he turned his evil ninja sights on me, stalking me in a manner that made me feel like my life was in real peril.  He did.  I swear!  Thinking he’s all Sylvester Stallone and puffing his chest out stomping around, again in our garden, flapping his wings and squawking at me all offensively while I was grabbing lemons off my lemon tree.

You might be wondering (and rightly so) why this fecking crazy ass ninja nemesis is in our garden?

Well let me tell you – the neighbour’s fecking chicken coop backs onto our fence (incidentally the fence is about 10 metres from my bedroom window) and my nemesis seems to not only be some crazy ninja he is also pretty good at escaping said chicken coop.  He is everything that a nemesis should be!

Did I also mention that my nemesis seems to have a cock-a-fecking-doodle-doo crow that sounds like an angle grinder had shacked up with nails on a blackboard resulting in this crapfest of a rooster?  And did I mention that this shitty angle grinder, nails on a blackboard asshole starts his incessant crowing at 4am?  Ugh!  Now I don’t want to sound like a bitch (I actually do want to sound like a bitch) but it’s not like we live in a rural area.  We might live in a village but honestly it’s more of a distant suburb of Mersin and we are packed in here pretty tightly.  Buy your fecking eggs from the fecking shop!  In fact if you get rid of your fecking shitty angle grinder, nails on a blackboard asshole crapfest nemesis rooster I will fecking buy you the fecking eggs!!!

I have just read that roosters can live to be 10 years old!  This brought tears to my eyes!  Actual tears!!

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Ho Ho Ho!

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It’s just after midnight here in Mersin which means today is Christmas Eve.  Santa has already given me my Christmas present as on Wednesday I was given the all clear from the doctor and could get out of the house and frantically finish (read that as ‘start’) my Christmas shopping.

Thanks to social media I know that back home in Oz friends are indulging in some early celebrations with photos at packed beaches, parties on Sydney Harbour, leisurely lunches and generally having a merry old time.  They are frantically hitting the shops to buy their prawns and oysters, as well as mangoes and avocados all in readiness for their Christmas celebration whether it will be at the beach or by the pool or even a barbie in the backyard.  Ah Sydney – I can dream can’t I?

Christmas in Sydney

Here in Mersin, Christmas has been a pretty low key affair; in fact the last few years have been positively depressing.  On our actual first Christmas Day here I made a huge fuss and arranged a full Christmas lunch for the family with presents for everyone.  Unfortunately none of them came because, well, it was just Wednesday to them (plus most of them work and were unable to take a day off).  Having learned my lesson last year The Turk took Daughter and I out for lunch which was nice but not really special or Christmassy at all.

This year, however, I am excited at the prospect of Christmas Day as I have been invited to a friend’s house for lunch.  I am told, however, that calling tomorrow ‘Christmas lunch’ is not giving justice to the day or the meal for that matter.  This is no mere Christmas lunch; this will be a Christmas extravaganza.  There will be pork, and bacon (Eeekkk!).  There will be turkey (yes haha turkey in Turkey – hilarious).  There will be prawns.  There will be gravy and oodles of vegetables, and sugary biscuits and lots of Gluehwein.  There will be something called an Eton Mess and finally there will also be ox tongue (I’m not really sure what to say about that but it’s apparently a tradition).  This will not be a mere lunch either.  This is an all day, into the night and with the possibility of continuing into Boxing Day spectacular.  I am thinking of wearing my tracksuit pants as they are stretchy enough to sustain themselves throughout what will no doubt be a wonderful day full of great friends, lots of laughter and waaayyy too much food.

ChristmasDinner

To all of you who follow my ridiculous antics here in Mersin I say thank you and may all your Christmas wishes come true.

See you in 2016!  2016???  Crikey!

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Gotta Cut Footloose

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I was wheeled into the ER where, in a scene reminiscent to Gone With The Wind, two nurses held me down while the doctor cut open my foot with a scalpel.

footloose

That is a very dramatic opening to this post isn’t it?  And it’s all true!

Let’s go back a few days shall we?

I had been a busy bee this past week.  Making sarma.  Family commitments.  Christmas shopping.  Lunch with the girls.  Busy.  Busy.  Busy.  I noticed I had a bit of a niggle in my foot but, thanks to Google, I quickly self-diagnosed as Athletes Foot and asked The Turk (aka My Ex-Husband) to get me some spray next time he went into the city.  Of course he forgot each and every time thus why he will forevermore be known as My Ex-Husband.

Thursday morning I thought I should perhaps take myself down to the local clinic in the village to have a squiz at my foot.  The happy little doctor there (whom My Ex-Husband calls ‘the amateur’) told me it was mantar which confused me greatly as this means mushroom in Türk but, as I now understand, also means fungus.  This is beginning to get a little gross isn’t it?  Anyway, he gave me a spray and sent me on my way.

I really wasn’t feeling too special by Friday.  Dropped Daughter at school.  Took My Hurley Dog for a walk and then came home and collapsed.  My foot was aching and had swollen to the size of a cantaloupe but I soldiered on with the spray and a few Panadol.  By 8pm it was clear that I was dying and was immediately bundled off to hospital.  The doctor diagnosed an abscess and immediately removed an excess of liquid (I refuse to use the word ‘pus’) and sent me home after a shot of the unknown mystical ‘serum’ into my ass and a bundle of pills to keep me happy.

By Saturday my foot was the size of a watermelon and a constant flow of pus (yes I am calling it pus now) was oozing from my now open (due to stitches popping) wound.  I also had a wonderful new symptom of a rash all over my body and a red streak running up my leg!  Feck!

Arriving back at the hospital The Turk (yes redeemed himself and is back to being The Turk rather than My Ex-Husband) went nuts getting immediate attention by staff and I was wheeled straight into the ER where a doctor with a fecking big scalpel set to work on my foot.

While I was being operated on a very nosy teyze (teyze means aunt but it is also used when you speak to any other older person even if you do not know them which was the case here) was nearby in the ER and she came over to examine my foot (as you do).  Like all teyze she was extremely vocal and helpful by letting me know that my foot was gangrene and that it would need to be amputated.  She knew this, of course, because her husband had just had his foot cut off and was in the bed down the row!  As I lay on my bed while the doctor continued to cut into my foot (without any anaesthetic mind you) I thanked teyze for her helpful advice and I updated my FB status thusly –

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I obviously should have explained that this status update was made in jest because within minutes my phone blew up with messages and calls from friends both here and back in Oz worried that I really was going to lose my foot!   The doctor diligently working on me even stopped his very important work and watched me curiously as my mobile kept beeping and ringing with anxious queries from friends before shaking his head, calling me something under his breath (which included the word yabancı mind you) – and took my phone off me!!!

Now it is Sunday morning and my foot has receded back to a small cantaloupe.  The red streak seems to be disappearing however the rash is still covering my entire body.  On the bright side nosy teyze was completely wrong with her medical diagnosis – and I still have two feet!

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It’s Not Easy Being Yesil

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Following on from yesterday’s post about making sarma I thought I would dwell a little on yet another of my food fears  *deep breath*.

chard 4

When I was a kid I had a prejudice against anything yeşil (green).  It was never going to cross my lips.  It was poison I tell you – POISON!  A lot of my numerous food issues can be put down to the fact that my mum was a terrible cook.  Green beans were always brown.  Peas too.  Broccoli was just gross – who wants to eat miniature (brown) trees anyway?  And spinach?  Puke!  I also had my well known prejudice against domates and patlıcan but as we have already previously discussed my very obvious need for therapy I return to the story at hand.  Yes, a prejudice against anything yeşil.

Being my mother’s Daughter I too am no chef (and certainly not to the standard of a Turkish Housewife) so it was always going to be a trial living here in Mersin where home delivery is just about non-existent (although for some strange reason there is a home delivery service for Burger King and Macca’s).  So with my numerous and varied aversions to pretty much everything and the fact that I am a crap cook leaves my menu choices, well, I am going to say it, pretty limited.

Thankfully The Turk’s family took pity on me and fed us on a regular enough basis so that we didn’t starve as well as giving me a few cooking lessons so that I was self-sufficient (or perhaps because they were sick of feeding us).  Of course living in Mersin many of the meals are green based meaning I had to overcome my prejudices and learn to embrace yeşil.

In the first few months of winter many of the farms here in Mersin have a green leafy vegetable growing, so similar to spinach that I assumed that was what it was.  Naturally with my aversion to the colour of baby poop green I have never grabbed any but while visiting Auntie Muriel recently she gave me a big bunch of the ‘spinach’ to take home and cook for The Turk.  It will make his heart stronger she cries.  It turns out that the spinach was in fact not spinach it was something called pazı (Chard) which of course I had never heard of before but as The Turk is still feeling poorly I thought I should use some of this magical green stuff to help him spring back into health.

On the advice of Songul, SIL extraordinaire, she immediately gave me the secret recipe for chard – Kis sarmasi or stuffed winter greens!  Anything stuffed is delicious to be honest.  Having already mastered the art of the sarma I immediately knew what to do.  Stuff ‘em!

If you want to try your hand at Kis sarmasi let’s go:

20 piece pazı (chard) – cut into two or three size dependent

200gm kıyma (mince meat)

3 cups pirinç (rice)

2 finely diced soğan (onion)

2 grated domates (tomatoes)

2 tablespoon salca (biber paste)

1 bunch finey chopped maydanoz (parsley)

2 teaspoons dried nane (mint)

Cumin, tuz (salt), karabiber (pepper) for taste

Limon tuz (half cay glass mixed with water)

Zeytin yağı (olive oil)

From there it’s pretty simple; mix all the ingredients before slowly adding the olive oil.  You want the oil to cover everything but not get too sloppy.

Sear the chard leaves (or vine leaves) for about 30 seconds until they are semi-soft (soft enough to manipulate).  Then fill and roll.  And fill and roll.  And fill and roll.

Place the little parcel into a large pot and cover with water.  I pour in a little more olive oil and limon tuz (as needed) before placing a heavy plate over the sarma. Leave on medium simmer for 40-50 minutes.

This recipe made approximately 60 kis sarmasi, devoured by family in no more than 10 minutes.  Yah me!!!  _________________________________________________________________________

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December Shines

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My thoughts today are very cruisey and I certainly don’t want to be cooped up indoors on such a glorious day so this post will be short and sweet.

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How’s your day faring?  Mine has, so far, been excellent.  Daughter is at school where she seems to be sitting a neverending run of exams, The Turk is taking the neighbour’s Rottweiler for a walk (because they keep him chained up all day long) and I find myself, yet again, on my terrace taking in the sunshine with My Kedi Cat.

I really should get off my bum and get a few things done, I haven’t even put up the Christmas tree yet or finished buying presents.  There has been some discussion that I am, perhaps, a Christmas lightweight although I think that was made abundantly clear last weekend with my dismal failure to keep up at the Köln Christmas markets.

Alright.  Up and at ’em.  I have been eyeing off the pazı (chard) growing in the bahçe opposite and am thinking a little sarma is on the cards for tonight’s dinner.  Yum.

So whereever you are today and whatever it is that you are doing have a great one!

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Köln

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I just got back from a sneaky girlie weekend in Köln (Cologne), Almanya (Germany).  I had the grip the whole time I was there which certainly put a bit of a dampener on things but still as it was my first time visiting I tried to get out and see as much as I could.

Cologne

So because I like my lists today’s list is 10 things I have learned about Almanya over my girlie weekend:

1. Alcohol is an acceptable bevy at any time of day. No shit.  I stepped out at 7 in the morning to go buy Starbucks and watched 4 well suited young men wandering down the street with a briefcase in one hand and a bier in the other.  I can only assume they worked in the financial district … or maybe they were lawyers.

2. Pork worship. Upfront I am ok with this type of worship.  Hallelujah and all that.  Bacon.  Ham.  Salami.  Jerky.  OMG – crackling!  Again any time of day is a good time for domuz (pork).  Why not start your day with a plate of bacon with crackling on the side before snacking on some jerky to tide you over until holy hell – just look at what they serve up for dinner!  Yikes.

Cologne 163. Köln Christmas markets are the place to be. Where else can you wear dancing tree hats or a Santa suit while drinking glühwein (red wine heated with spices) before munching down a sausage sanga and finishing it off with the more festive feuerzangenbowle (red wine infused with rum)?  It is all about Christmas and the more Christmassy you are the better!  If you are not into Christmas get the hell out of dodge ‘cause you are going to be the odd man (or woman) out!

4. Germans are tall! I mean freakishly tall.  How tall are these people?  I’m like a tiny little oompa loompa next to most of them.

5. The Gothic styled Cathedral in Koln is a treat to view and is monumental in stature. It can seat 40,000 people and took nearly 700 years to build.  That’s a really long time considering it was built by Germans who are renowned for their efficiency.  If it was built by the Turks we would still be arguing over the right paperwork before the first foundation could be laid.

cathedral

6. Back to food.  Sauerkraut and lahana (cabbage) are again an any time of day food.

7. More food. Deep fried camembert and maydanoz (parsley)!  Why is it deep fried?  Bilmiyorum but damn it was delicious!

8. Still on food. Ekmek (bread).  Did you know there are over 300 different types of bread in Germany?  That is all.

9. Everything is closed on a Sunday. Well not churches and probably not the brothels either (prostitution is legal in Germany) but shops are which kind of sucks.  Sundays are also known as a quiet day so no mowing of the lawns either.  I guess it’s so you can get over that monumental hangover that you have from all the bier and feuerzangenbowle that you have consumed.

10. David Hasslehoff! I already knew he was a thing over in Germany but to hear his music blasting through the speakers at our hostel on a constant loop was a little hard to handle.  Well done though David.  Well done.

hasslehoff

Prost!

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Generator Envy

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Anyone who currently lives or has ever lived in Türkiye will no doubt get a case of the feels while I tell this tale full of torment and of anguish, of anger and jealousy.  In fact this story has something for everyone but before we start – a warning.  There is a completely unacceptable level of swearing to be had.  So continue on at your own peril.

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This is the story of darkness so black that it must come from the soul of the devil himself.  This is my story of no electricity – yet again!

Over the past week we have seem to have pulled the short straw here in the Village as we have lost power every single night.  It is usually cut around 4pm (just as night begins to creeps in) and it reconnects anywhere between 7pm and gelecek sabah (the next morning).

Last night I was on my terrace when I saw the dark clouds brewing over the deniz (sea).  Being totally psychic I knew it was going to happen and I ran inside to grab the lanterns before the storm hit – which it did – and the electric failed – which it did as well!

Me: Feck!

The Turk:  (sigh)

Daughter:  (distant wail of angst from her bedroom)

Me:  (fumbling through the darkness) Where the feck are the lanterns?  Who the feck moved the lanterns?

The Turk:  I put them upstairs.

Me:  Why the feck would you do that when we have fecking lost fecking electricity every fecking day!  What the feck is fecking wrong with you?  FECK!

The Turk goes off to find the lanterns and Daughter scuttles down the hall in the darkness protesting about the loss of her precious, precious Wi-Fi.

Daughter:  How do you expect me to live like this?  It’s not the Middle Ages!

Me:  (dripping with sarcasm) Yes it is, in fact I was invited to the signing of the Magna Carta last week.

Daughter:  Huh?

The Turk returns with the lanterns that have not been charged.  He turns them on and off and on and off and on and off … well, you get the drift.

The Turk:  They don’t work.

Me:  You think?

The Turk:  (turns them on and off again) Yes.  They don’t work.

The Turk leaves to go and buy candles while Daughter and I sat in the darkness.

Daughter:  So who is Magnus Carter?

Me:  (threw pillow at Daughter.  It missed).

The Turk returns with candles and the house takes on the romantic tinge of flicking light.

Daughter:  Welcome to hell.

The Turk:  You will survive this.

Daughter:  Even in hell they have Wi-Fi you know!

Me:  Yes but it will be forever slow.

Daughter:  Aarrgghhhh!!!

Some normalcy returns as I go about preparing köfte which is really the only thing I can make without electric and The Turk gets busy opening a bottle of red while we both commiserate with Daughter as she continues to make unnecessary but still witty remarks about the loss of her basic human rights.  It sucks to be her for sure!

And then we heard it.

Brrrrrrrrrrrr.  Brrrrrrrrrrrr.

A sound so foreign that The Turk and I tentatively stepped out onto the terrace.  The blackness enveloping us was overwhelming and we clung to each other in fear (not really) as we investigated the source of the sound.

And there it was.

A house.  A house filled with light.  A bright beaming light calling out to us in the darkness.  I stood there watching in awe as others too came out of their houses drawn towards the light like a moth – or a dead person.  You know what I’m going to say don’t you?  Can you feel my jealous rage?  Yes dear readers.  It is true.  My neighbour has a generator!  At that moment my head exploded.  I mean literally my brain went into an overload of emotions – and it blew it’s final gasket.

Me:  Do they have a generator?

The Turk:  (nodding too overwhelmed with emotion – or too fearful of my reaction – to speak)

Me:  Why the feck don’t we have a fecking generator?

Daughter:  I bet they have Wi-Fi!

Me:  We need a fecking generator!

Daughter:  Why is life so unfair?

Me:  Buy me a fecking generator!

The Turk:  *sigh*

Me:  (with the maturity level of a 13 year old) AAARRRGHGHHHH!!!!

Generator envy is a real thing people and I have it bad.  Not being able to cope with the amount of jealousy raging through my veins I had to have a lie down while The Turk finished preparing dinner and Daughter continued to complain to The Turk about her awful, abused life.

Incidentally the electricity came back about 15 minutes later but the damage was done.

BUY ME A FECKING GENERATOR!!!!!!!

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