Category Archives: Village Life

Beauty is . . .

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It does not matter where you live in the world, the expectation and actualisation of beauty remains the same.  Us women suffer for our beauty.

Many of my personal friends are well aware that Daughter suffers from Alopecia Areata.  For those of you who do not know Alopecia Areata is a condition in which hair is lost from some or all areas of the body.  For Daughter it was her scalp. At one point she rocked a great punk-ish style but for most of the time there was a lot of tears, many trips to various doctors and failed treatments.  Finally I located a Chinese herb supplement which worked wonders and now nearly three years on her hair has, in my opinion, grown back quite well although she continues to take the hated herb supplement on a daily basis (I brought a year’s supply with me to Turkey).  It is still quite thin and gappy but I think we should be thankful that she has her father’s genes because otherwise she would probably be bald right now.

My last trip to the hairdresser resulted in my walking out with blonde hair.  Well after some tears it was brown hair with a lot of blonde highlights.  Now 5 weeks later I find that I am quite used to the blonde, in fact I kind of like it.  It still has its brown elements but coming into summer I like the lighter colour with my tan, and it hides my grey hair a little more than my brown hair did.

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Speaking of tans I am going to a wedding tomorrow night.  I have a gorgeous 1950’s inspired dress with a bolero jacket and shoes to match.  Very cute.  But.  My legs are the colour of freshly fallen snow.  They are white.  Beyaz.  They have not seen the sunlight for nearly a year now (seeing we arrived here in Mersin at the end of an Australian winter and went straight into a Turkish winter).  I tried going into an eczame (pharmacy) to purchase fake tan.  The words “fake tan” just do not compute in a country where everyone is naturally bronze.  While out with Alana last weekend (who incidentally is her very own shade of beyaz as she is Irish) we tried to explain fake tan or bronzer to a lady at a beautician’s shop near Alana’s house.  The woman was confused and perhaps wondered if we were a little deli (crazy).  She did tell Alana that she was cok beyaz (very, very white).  Nice.  Don’t hold back your thoughts love.  Finally I was with Daughter at Sephora and found fake tan but then decided I wanted to wear something different.  Hours of grief and I, of course, change my mind at the last minute.

Back to my original story.  I went for a cut today at the same hairdresser’s who blonded me.  Aziz is his name.  He recognised me immediately.  He was probably quaking in his boots.  “Crap it’s that bloody yabanci again.” He immediately settled me into his chair and got to work.  He has obviously been practicing his English because he was ready for me today.  “Cut yes?  No colour?  OK.  Tamam.  I do it good today.”  In the meantime the ladies in the shop were busy trying to convince me to have a manicure or a pedicure (10TL) and I even had one lady try to convince me that my “beard” needed to be epilated.  Thank you very much. I was very happy with the result.  The best part was the price 30TL (AU$15).  I arrived back home to lots of oohhs and aaahhs and then was informed that I paid too much.  You know how people tell you that you have done the wrong thing and then give you that pitied look.  That’s what I got today from the fam bam.  “Yes you paid too much. The lady across the street would do it for 10TL”.  I will just repeat that sentence – the lady across the street would do it for 10TL.  Yes the lady across the street is a beautician. It is not a shop, it is her spare bedroom.  Realistically 30TL is money well spent because it is in a shop – commercial premises with outgoings.  Incidentally the lady across the street does a great job threading (known as ip) on my eyebrows and my lip (which is a pain that I can only liken to child birth and no I am not being overdramatic).  She does Daughter’s eyebrow and lip as well but Daughter has it waxed not threaded – she can’t stand the pain but for whatever reason I don’t get an option, I am threaded.   Yes I am happy to let the woman across the street do my eyebrows but seriously my hair?  I am pretty sure the $15 I spend is well worth it.  I am pretty sure that I am not going to go broke going to the hairdresser in Carsi every eight weeks for a wash, a head massage (thank you God) and a blow dry for $15.

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I have melded into Turkish life pretty well.  I am becoming the epitome of a Turkish Housewife – this afternoon I made Dolma, blog to follow – but please let me have a few little luxuries, a few of the little things that remind me of just what it is to be a lady of leisure.  That head massage was the most divine head massage of my life.  It went for about 15 minutes and Aziz crooned away in Turkish as he did it.

Çok güzel!

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Icli Kofte

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Recently we walked down to visit the remaining Auntie Muriel at her home down by the deniz.  A pleasant walk on a beautiful spring day and all of us including My Hurley Dog enjoyed ourselves immensely.  A spot decision was also made to take My Hurley Dog to the beach so he could have a run and a splash (after all it is very much warm enough here).

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Arriving at Auntie Muriel’s I immediately realised we came on a good day.  Her son was returning to Germany the next morning and so she and her daughter were making Icli Kofte for his farewell party.

Icli Kofte (also known by Daughter and I as Nene Kofte) is Daughter’s absolute favourite meal.  They are bloody hard to make.  The few times The Turk and I tried they were dismal failures but everyone in the village seem to know how to make them and damn it they make it look so easy! 

Anyone who has been to a Middle Eastern or Lebanese Restaurant (or has been to the Middle East or Lebanon) would have tried the similarly made Kibbe but I know that Icli Kofte are just that little bit better (Daughter says its because it is made with love).

There is an awful lot to the recipe so if you want to give these a go I would suggest you try the recipe from Ozlem’s Turkish Table.  I have tried a few of her recipes and they always successful (well most of the time) and spot on for taste.

Referring to her recipe we do not put in walnuts at all.  We do use all the spices mentioned but we also add cumin and biber salcasi (pepper paste) to give the bulgur dough a tinge or glow. 

The dough needs to be perfect.  If it is not perfect it will be damn near impossible to make the little parcel and fill with the meat mixture.  To be honest I cannot do it.  It is bloody hard.  I sat there watching Auntie Muriel making these at such a speed all the while chatting and laughing, not a care in the world.  I tell you the last time The Turk and I tried to make them it nearly caused WWIII in our household (and it left a hell of a mess to clean up).  Oh also we add the pepper paste to the dough as well – obviously we like it spicy here in the village.

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After a couple of leisurely hours drinking cay and listening to Turkish chatter Auntie Muriel sent us on our way with a plate of her Icli Kofte for dinner.  I carried my precious cargo of kofte home and immediately started making the sauce which we add to pretty much everything.  I have mentioned the sauce before – pepper paste (yes again), garlic and oil, honestly it works with pretty much everything.

Ozlem bakes her Icli Kofte but here we either deep fry them, a favourite with the çocuklar (kids) or boil them (my favourite and obviously a lot healthier). 

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Served with a salad, for me this is a meal but to many this is merely an appetizer, either way I will finish with Afiyet Olsun or enjoy your meal.

Double Barrel Post

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I woke quite early on Saturday morning – my nemesis has been cock-a-doo-a-doo-ing really, really early (yes my nemesis is my neighbour’s rooster).  I hate him.

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You might recall this post when My Hurley Dog took out one of his women, well I am quite sure that he holds me personally responsible for her assassination and he is now waking up even earlier to cock-a-doo-a-doo outside my window.  I hate him.

The only thing he is good for is a roast, or maybe fry up some pieces a-la KFC.  I hate him and I hate his women (of which there are many).

They cluck.  All day.  Cluck, cluck, cluck.  Clucking and cock-a-doo-a-doo-ing.  I hate them all.

A list of reasons to hate chickens:

They are dumb.  They eat everything including their own poop.  They are dumb.  They are ugly.  They smell bad.  They cannot even fly.  They are useless.  But they are pretty tasty.

I have suggested to My Hurley Dog that if the rooster gets into the garden he is to go for the jugular.  He doesn’t understand me but I know he will do it regardless.  He is like The Terminator without the accent.

The other part of my morning was taken up my My Kedi Cat’s bestie.  We have called him Evil (although by the end of this story you will know that ‘he’ is actually a ‘she’).  Evil was a wild little kitten when we first arrived 9 months ago.  He wouldn’t let you near him but through perseverance and a lot of luck I converted Evil into ‘my’ stray.  I always kept an eye out for him and he would always come running to me if he saw me in the street (actually all the Village Kedi’s do that. I am the Village Cat Lady) and, of course, he is my cat’s BFF.

Last Tuesday Evil was asleep in My Hurley Dog’s bed.  He seemed really dopey and quite sick.  I called him to the door to give him a little food and when he stood up there was blood running down his hind legs.  Worse still there was mucus (dare I call it a plug) on the bed.  Ewww.  I did not know what had happened but when I tried to examine him he ran off.  At this point I realised that Evil was in fact a ‘she’ and I expect that she was either in labour or had had a miscarriage.

Fast forward to Saturday morning and I poked my head out the window and saw Evil asleep in My Hurley Dog’s bed again with My Kedi Cat watching her intently.  She was a mess, the bed was a mess too but in the corner of the bed was a teeny, tiny little kitten.  Really tiny.  See, Evil did not look pregnant, even before the bloody incident of last Tuesday she did not look pregnant so to find this teeny, tiny kitten in the bed was quite a shock, particularly as this would indicate that she had been labour for 4 days.  This little guy or girl was quite a fighter though to have survived thus far.

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My Hurley Dog was a little put out by Evil dropping her bub in his bed so I transferred her and bub downstairs with a clean towel and box.  She’s turned out to be a good little mother too, very protective.

Finally and just because, here are some more photos of Nanu’s babies.  They are a bundle of crazy.

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Kittens make me happy.

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I Am Switzerland

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It has come to my attention that my sisters in law are constantly in-fighting and I, being the newest addition to the clan, am Switzerland, always trying to broker peace between the warring parties (which is incredibly difficult to do when you do not speak Turkish).

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The battle is a 2 on 1 and every time I walk into anyone’s home I get a rundown of the most recent wrong that had been brought to pass.

Since Vito’s son’s return from the army Vito’s wife (The Onion) has been popping in with plates of food or inviting me down for cay or kahve.  This is a complete turnaround from her behaviour over the past 9 months and I put it down to me making that effort to attend at her son’s welcome home party.  As the cold war has been defrosted slightly I have decided to take this change of attitude in my stride and establish my role in this family as a NATO peacekeeper (which will be an incredibly difficult task believe me).

My first assignment as official conciliator took place on Sunday night.  Songul invited the family over for mangal (BBQ(.  Let me explain – Songul invited this family (The Turk, Daughter and I) and the upstairs sister in law and her family.  This also means that The Onion was and her family were NOT invited.  I suggested that we invite The Onion to dinner but I was shot down.  I explained with my limited vocabulary that it would be the right thing to do and, when this did not work, I said that if she invited The Onion and she said no then Songul was the bigger person and looked like she had made an effort.  Her eyes lit up at the thought of having one up on The Onion but still pride got the better of her so I took the initiative and sent Daughter down with an invite anyway.  The Onion did, as expected, say no to the invite which, of course, made Songul exceptionally happy.

I do understand there are hurt feelings on all sides, I really do, but I also would not want to go through life with such anger towards another person.  The Onion was, of course, incredibly angry at The Turk’s mother for butting in her intended marriage (you can read more about that incident here) and yes I can sympathize with the other sisters having such acrimony with The Onion’s behaviour over the past years.  I just wonder if it isn’t time to bury the hatchet, put aside any old grudge and just get on with it.

Incidentally last night The Onion and her son (who I have decided for the future to call Capt. Awesome) came to our house for drinks and nibblies while Songul was over.  Yep, this has never happened before either.  I am definitely Switzerland.

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Regaip Kandili

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Yesterday 1 May 2014 is an important day to Muslim Turks as it is Regaip Kandili (the night of Muhammad’s conception).  A Kandili (candle) is a Mosque Festival called such as the mosques will be illuminated (no doubt originally by candles although today probably not).  Last night Muslims prayed for forgiveness and hope. 

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There are in fact five holy evenings over the course of the Turkish Muslim calendar year and these five dates will change dependent upon the revolution of the moon for example Regaip Kandili will be celebrated on 23 April 2015.  The five holy evenings are:

Mevlid Kandili – the birth of Prophet Mohammad (12 January 2014)                     Regaip Kandili – the night of Muhammad’s conception (today 1 May 2014)               Miraç Kandili – Prophet Mohammad’s rising to the sky (25 May 2014)               Berat Kandili – forgiveness of the sins (12 June 2014)                                             Kadir Gecesi – the first appearance of the Koran to Prophet Mohammad (23 July 2014)

The Turk and his family are not particularly religious (although they always seem to be sacrificing animals) and they did not attend at the mosque last night however those practicing Muslims that attended worshipped and sang Mevlit which is a poem written for the birth of Prophet Mohammad. 

The Turk warned me that there would be many visitors to our home last night as part of the tradition of Regaip Kandili and it is normal practice to give Kandil Simidi or Lokma Tatlisi to visitors so yesterday Daughter (with me as her sous chef) decided to attempt making the Lokma Tatlisi for the expected visitors. 

Lokma Tatlisi is a Turkish fried sweet dough that is covered in a simple syrup (basically it is a doughnut with a syrup rather than sugar or cinnamon). 

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Daughter made a simple dough, 1 cup of warm water, 1 teaspoon of sugar and 1 teaspoon of yeast.  Mixed together with a well-oiled wooden spoon (oiling the spoon is integral to the success of the Lokma).  She then left the dough for the length of the movie Mean Girls (firstly, how many times do I have to watch this movie?  Secondly, “That’s so fetch”.  Finally, it’s been 10 years since this movie was released?  What the hell happened to Lindsay Lohan?   Look at what drugs can do kiddies.) before getting back into it.

On our return Daughter prepared the syrup.  At this point I realised that we did not have enough sugar so Daughter sent her sous chef from house to house to get enough for the 3 cups required.  Most of the sugar is cubed so I was concerned that the syrup was not going to be successful.  Daughter added the sugar, 1 1/3 cups of water and 2 tablespoons of lemon juice. Mixed until boiling and then left to simmer for about 20 minutes.

Preheating the vegetable oil (sous chef was getting nervous at this point) she spooned the dough in by the tablespoon, 2 minutes each side until they were a golden brown colour.  Drizzle syrup over these strange lumps of dough and eat.

Our Lokma were not pretty, they were not little balls covered in syrup.  They were weird looking pieces of dough, in fact they looked like fish pieces, one looked like a chicken’s foot, others chicken nuggets or honey chicken but I swear covered in the syrup they were still pretty tasty.  Daughter made enough for all of the family plus expected visitors and she proudly delivered them to each house last night.

I was pretty impressed with Daughter’s cooking although I was less than impressed with the mess that was left.  Syrup from one end of the kitchen to the other, and on the stairwell outside.  Thank you very much you little grub!

Seasonal Fruits

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Spring has, of course, sprung which means all the farms and gardens around the village are abundant with new, fresh and usually unknown to me fruits.

When The Turk arrived he planted trees around the garden but they are still very young and so far only our nectarine (which is a sad looking young sapling) has borne fruit.

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I have however been thieving fruit from the neighbour’s trees to taste and to introduce to you today.

The first fruit that I have never seen (or tasted) before is called as Yeni Dünya (New World) but you may know the fruit as a loquat.  There are so many trees groaning under the weight of these little beauties that I am clearly doing their owners a favour when I steal them.   I am told that you should never buy them from the market and if you cannot eat them straight from the tree don’t bother as you are wasting your time.  They do not keep well, even in the refrigerator, and can bruise very easily.  They are succulent, tangy and sweet.  Delicious.

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Another seasonal fruit in Mersin at the moment is an Erik, a super crunchy little fruit that you need to eat it now – before it ripens.  They are quite tart or sour in taste but they are very moreish.  The Turk has them with salt which I believe can soften the taste a little.  Can anyone tell me if eating unripened fruit is problematic to the digestive system?  I remember from science class (all those millennia ago) that unripened fruit is very acidic but honestly I just cannot stop eating them.  As they ripen the Erik fruit loses its zing.

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There are so many fruits currently burdening the trees and gardens around the village (mulberries, apricots, nectarines) that I now take a basket with me when I go on pilfering so that I can pick at the branches as I go by – and I am not the only one who does it as I helped an elderly lady fill a plastic bag with Kayisi  (unripened apricots) this morning.  When she had had her fill she patted my face and said “sus” which basically means keep quiet or hush.  We are now partners in crime.

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Asker

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“Every Turk is born a soldier”

This is a well known saying in Turkey however every asker (soldier) needs a little training and it is compulsory for every Turkish male between the ages of 20 and 41 to undergo military service in order to protect their homeland if deemed necessary.Image

The Turk’s nephew left for his training last November and yesterday returned home after completing his service to much fanfare and excitement.  For those of you who have been reading my blog for a while would be well aware of the family feud between Vito’s wife and the rest of the family resulting in no one from the family being invited to the nephew’s farewell shindig last year.

I debated with myself whether I should go and enjoy the frivolities or whether I should stay hidden behind my blinds and extend the feud to a new family line.  In the end I realised that ultimately I would only be doing myself an injustice festering alone in my living room as I am quite sure no one else would really care if I attended or not – plus I felt like going to a party.

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It does not matter where you are in the village when one returns from asker because you can hear the horns and the drumming heralding his return at least 5 minutes before the glorious arrival.

As soon as he sets foot on the ground the dancing begins immediately.  I find it quite strange that people just get crazy in the street but that is exactly what you do, young or old, throw out your arms and go for it in wild abandon.

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The beating of the drum and the dancing went on for some time until it stopped for the next part of the party.  The sacrifice.

I chose to take Daughter and her young cousins upstairs at this point as I just cannot fecking believe how many fecking sheep have been killed since I arrived.  I get that it’s a religious thing but for feck’s sake – enough!

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I think making the effort to attend yesterday was the right choice as last night, yet again, the shit hit the fan with The Turk losing it at the other two sisters in law that did not attend.  I wasn’t there, thankfully, as I was still at the party however when I tried to make The Turk understand their feelings, particularly taking into consideration the recent death of his mother, he put their behaviour down to being a “female thing”.  Internally I exploded at this point but again being the good Turkish housewife I chose to keep my mouth shut.

Kaboom!

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The Demise of the Horse and Cart

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One of the most unique aspects of living in the Village is knowing that the freshest of fruit and vegetables, straight from the farm, can be found just by walking out my front door.  Yes the horse and cart is a mainstay of village life here in the Village and each day I am inundated with vendor’s selling everything from fruit and vegetables and fresh milk (yes I have found a supplier) as well as being utilised to transfer firewood and charcoal, agricultural day workers, and even, on occasion, kids to and from school.  Basically, the horse and cart are an integral part of my life.

For us Turkish housewives (which I am calling myself now despite not being Turkish nor a particularly good housewife) having the vendors come to you door means that we, who are extremely busy keeping our homes spotless, working in the farms and feeding our families (none of which I am doing but I stand by my statement that I am a Turkish housewife), do not need to leave our homes to shop and everything will come past at some stage over the course of the week.  This means I get the freshest of fruit and vegetables while practicing my inadequate Turkish on the vendor.  I am a source of amusement for the vendors too as I try and purchase their goods and negotiate the price all the while trying to control My Hurley Dog who, due to the fact that he has Small Dog Syndrome, hates every animal on site that is bigger than him.  I am quite sure I am one of the highlights of their day.

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With the change of Government from CHP to MHP in Mersin one of the first laws brought in by the new Government is outlawing the horse and cart as the Government body believe that they are inhumane and outdated (and they poop everywhere).  Sure no one likes horse poop outside their front door but what happens to the horses I questioned?  Sadly (and definitely even more inhumane) many of them have been sold for food but a few others are put out to pasture to live the rest of their life peacefully after all they have worked hard every day pulling their owner’s cart through rain, hail, snow and extreme heat.

And what are out options now for daily deliveries?  This morning a small tractor pulled up outside with a cart attached with fruit and vegetables.  The vendor tells me (via a lot of hand gestures and laughter) that the cost is higher now (as I found when I purchased some muz) as he has to pay for diesel.  Also stopping by was the vendor that usually sells kitchen and household goods.  He has purchased an old motorbike with a cart on the back.  It was apparently very expensive to purchase and sadly he had to sell his old horse to pay for it.  Poor thing.

 

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Turkish High Tea

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The first thing you need to know about Turkey is that Turkish people love their cay (tea).  Man or woman they have their own distinct way of enjoying a cay and whether you drink it or not you are going to learn to love it.

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The men can usually be found in a cay evi or tea house where they play cards, argue about futbol or politics and hide from their wives all the while drinking copious amounts of cay.  The women are usually too busy to spend their day in a cay evi as they have their chores around the home but once those chores are finished they can often be found getting together for a good gossip, cay and something delicious to nibble on.

On Monday I was informed that the neighbouring ladies wished to come to my house for gün.

Gün means day but it also has another meaning that you may not be so familar with. It is also the word for a home visit, where women visit one particular friend and eat pastries and drink cay. It is a very traditional custom here in the Village and it seemed it was going to be my turn next.

I kid you not when I tell you I almost shat myself at the idea.  Putting aside the fact that I don’t speak anywhere near enough Turkish to hold a social gathering I also make really crap cay.  The Turk arranged for my sister in law Songul to come and help host the get together (thankfully) so all I had to do was show up (and provide my home).

Thursday afternoon was chosen and sure enough at 1 pm my doorbell was ringing off the hook.  The Turk sensibly excused himself as soon as the first neighbour arrived and before I knew it there were 12 Turkish ladies from new mothers to a great, great grandmother arriving for cay and a good gossip.

As each lady arrived she handed over a plate of sweets or cakes and these were added to the biscuits I had purchased from the patisserie that morning along.  My kitchen was overflowing with food!

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Of course I had no idea what was going on most of the time and was so thankful that Songul was there to host the event.  I spent most of my time handing out kahve and cay, ensuring that everyone had enough to eat, giving tours of my home (as most of them had not been before and giving them something to gossip about next time they get together) and chasing My Hurley Dog away from the teyze (aunt) who was allergic to dogs.  I listened as they talked about their husbands, babies, neighbours, me, The Turk and just about anything else they could possibly gossip about.

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By 4:30 pm it was time for the ladies to be on their way as they needed to go and start dinner for their husbands, children, family, neighbour, friends, visitors, etc.  A final round of cay was drunk along with pieces of Turkish Delight before the ladies started for the door.  Lots of kisses and invites for visits before I could throw myself on the couch and process the afternoon.  It seems I now have to go and visit each of them and thank them for coming and have cay with them.  This Turkish socialising is exhausting.

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Don’t get shot!

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I am embarrassed to say this but Daughter is nearly 12 and never had a bike.  Living in North Sydney it was easier to walk everywhere and after moving to the suburbs our street was a cut through so was exceedingly busy.  Now living in the Village Daughter has the opportunity to ride until her hearts consent with only one little hiccup.  I had never taught Daughter how to ride a bike.  I am a terrible parent.  Parent failure 101.  I hang my head with parental shame.

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As you know yesterday The Turk surprised Daughter with an extremely early 12th birthday present (her birthday isn’t until June and we will be in Australia on the celebratory day of her birth) of a beautiful, shiny new bike.  She was a little worried about not being able to ride and also she didn’t want her cousins to see her potentially fail so Daughter and I walked right up to the other end of the village where we found a nice quiet lane and yavaş, yavaş (slowly, slowly) Daughter slowly but surely learnt the art of riding a bike.

Our first attempt was a bit of a failure.  A car turned down the street and scared Daughter witless.  She yelled at the car as it went past, “student driver, student driver”.  I was laughing as she yelled but then she started wobbling, lost control, lost confidence and stacked the bike into a wall.  I was still laughing but only on the inside.

On her second attempt I ran alongside her to give her the confidence to take off on her own.  She was doing ok.  She didn’t crash.  She kept it in a semi-straight line.  She had mastered bike riding in 15 minutes.  “Bloody kids a genius” and then “BANG”!  I heard the distinct sound of gunfire!  I ground to a halt but, of course, she kept going (having not used the brake before). “Don’t get shot” I yelled at her back as she worked the brakes.  Eventually coming to a stop at the end of the lane she fell off the bike and ran back to me.  I knew where the shot came from.  I knew which house it was.  I had seen them before with the rifle doing target practice in their yard.  I yelled through the wire fence – just to let them know that we were there.  The owner of the rifle waved hello and asked how I was.  Well you are randomly firing bullets as we are going past so I’m not that great at the moment thanks mate – and God help me he was carrying the rifle in one hand and his infant son in the other!  Daughter and I ran back to the bike and we waited a moment assessing whether the gunfire had stopped.  It had so she hopped back on the bike and again I ran alongside her until, finally, I let go.  As she rode off I yelled “Don’t get shot”.  Again excellent parenting skills.

She made it to the end of the lane when “bang” another shot ran out.  Phew we timed that well.  I ran passed the fence and back to Daughter.  Making a sound parental decision I suggested we choose another lane to ride in.  Daughter nodded in agreement and we continued down the street me walking and Daughter riding until we found an area that was a little less dangerous.

Daughter hopped back on the bike and with my catchcry “Don’t get shot” yelled after her she took off like a bull at a gate.  She didn’t look back.

Parental success.  Fist pump moment.  She had had a few stacks but there was no stopping her now – and she wasn’t shot which was good too.

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