Tag Archives: Turkey

Simarik

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Have you ever found yourself staring into space, daydreaming perhaps, recalling a song that will transport you to a memory, moment in time, of love, happiness, sadness or even fear.

When I travelled to Turkey in 2000 I met The Turk but I also found myself obsessed with a pop song by the Turkish pop sensation by the name of Tarkan.  Tarkan had a hit song that summer called Şimarik (actually Şimarik is a repeated hit for Tarkan every summer and even today will be heard at least twice during a night out – I am sure he could retire on the money made from this song alone).  Şimarik means naughty in Turkish and this song definitely was integral to many people (including myself) doing some very naughty things during the summer of 2000 in Bodrum, Turkey.

When I first heard this song I loved it.  I didn’t know the name, I didn’t know one word from the song but the beat was mesmerizing and I found myself dancing night after night to the tune while holidaying in Turkey.

Returning to real life meant no more dancing on tabletops, no more sunkissed days and hot, sweaty nights and instead I could be found sitting behind my desk, arguing with lawyers and clients day in and day out – depressing really – but then that song, that tune, that beat would enter my mind and I would close my eyes, even if for a moment, and think back to the music, the dancing, the sunshine, food, lifestyle, hell it takes me back to one of the best holidays I had ever had!

In 2002 the a rather bland version of my favourite song appeared on Australian Radio being sung by an Australian actress / singer Holly Valance.  “Kiss Kiss”, was definitely a lot easier to sing along to but did not hold the memories of the original song for me.

Now that Youtube has been reactivated in Turkey I typed Şimarik and watched the film clip for the first time ever.  Yikes!

I thought he was hotter.  Everything gets better when you look back on it but I really thought he was hotter!  I think it’s the nose.  here is a photo of Tarkan with no shirt on.  Much better!

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Oh you wanted one of his face?  Sorry, I didn’t realise 🙂

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Slightly jaded now (really shouldn’t have watched it on Youtube).  I still don’t know the words to Şimarik but when that song comes on the radio I find myself humming along remembering that fateful summer when I first met The Turk and pretty much every summer since.

Do you have a favourite song, a song that takes you back to a special moment?  As long as it is not Celine Dion, I’m all ears, send me a link.

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Plus size beauty

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Here in Turkey there are two types of women, actually three types but we will get to that another day so just go with two types.  Those who are fashionable and those who are not.

Back in Sydney I had a plethora of choices for shopping.  My cup runneth over so to speak.  But here in Mersin my cup is so dry it has cracked and turned to dust and I find myself wearing the same jeans day after day.  After day.  Why?  Because I am a Rubenesque beauty.  I am of abundance.  I have a banging body and can shimmy like a star.  Actually the real reason I am wearing the same pair of jeans day after day after day is because I am fat.  Overweight.  Plus + size and all that.  I can say it.  I am not proud of it but I will yell it from the roof top because that is me.  I have boobs.  They are good boobs.  I have an ass.  It is a fine ass.  The Turk loves my fine ass but back to the problem at hand.

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In Turkey fashion is designed for those women who are itsy-bitsy teen-weeny stick figurines (which I am not).  Daughter can walk into pretty much every trendy shop in Mersin and find herself something amazing to wear.  She hits Mavi, Berska, Pull & Bear or Zara with frequency and comes out with bags of items.  I can wander around a shopping centre all day and find . . . nothing.  It seems that if you are not the aforementioned stick creature then you should not be shopping at all.  You should begin to purchase those baggy harem pants that elderly Turkish women wear (yes I own a pair).

Last weekend I went to The Forum with Daughter where I found myself sitting outside in the sunshine while Daughter went from shop to shop looking for the perfect outfit for her birthday party this weekend.  Sure I could go with her but frankly it does my head in.  I do not love shopping.  I go shopping to purchase something and then I leave.  The wandering up and down aisles and trying on dozens of items does not thrill me – at all.  I am happy to sit outside in my jeans in the sunshine and people watch.  Since it is now summer the young women of Mersin have thrown away their dignity and their modesty and are out and about in just about flipping anything.  Tight jeans are a thing here now (actually they have always been a thing but I swear they are tighter than before).  Denim on denim is a thing.  Twinsies is a thing.  Oh wait!  Side boob is a thing here now.  I don’t think side boob should be a thing at any time but nevertheless.  Boob tubes, navel rings, inappropriately tight singlets.  Boobs!  Perky young boobs everywhere.  Yikes!  I spend all my time trying to teach Daughter that modesty and respecting your body is important and every single teenage girl is dressing like a hooker!

Jeeze I went off on a tangent again didn’t I?  OK I am back.  After Daughter finished we started to search for a few items for me.  Actually just one item.  A pair of jeans is all I am after.  I am told by helpful skinny people that there are a few shops at The Forum that caters to us plus size beauties including Mango and W.C. Waikiki so Daughter and I visited a few of these shops in the hope of me grabbing a pair of jeans for my return trip Down Under.  OMFG!  It is obvious that designers in Turkey or perhaps Europe believe that plus size beauties do not deserve to be fashionable or perhaps plus size beauties deserve to pay three times as much as itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny women for the luxury of purchasing their items which are, honestly, less than stellar to begin with.  I tried on at least five pairs of jeans in three different shops.  Generally the jeans were uglier, baggier, hanging low in the crotch and saggy in the ass.  I found a yellow pair that actually fitted me but they were yellow.  Yellow!  No one should ever wear yellow unless it is a safety vest!

*Sigh*

So I will continue to live with my one pair of jeans for the next two weeks until I get back to Sydney.  Once there, I will shop (and eat bacon).

Kedilar Update

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Owning a pet in Turkey has just become considerably more difficult thanks to new laws that have recently come into effect.  Before you can purchase an animal you are now required to undergo training on how to look after the animal and also prove that you have suitable accommodation and means to look after your new addition before the final sale can proceed.  Oh the law also says that if you have sex with an animal you go to gaol.  Fair call.

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I love the idea of this law however I cannot imagine the difficulty in policing the law (the training before purchase law not the sex law although I expect the sex law would be difficult to police also unless you were caught in the act so to speak).  Anyone who has been to Turkey is well aware of the number of strays that roam the streets in any city or town and frankly pet food is so expensive I cannot imagine the average family being able to afford the weekly food bill for their pet (I often baulk when I see the cost of Whiskers or Pal here in Mersin).

In the Village there is a huge number of stray cats, in fact I am starting to think that people are depositing their strays at our house knowing that they will be fed as the number of kittens just seems to keep growing.  The Turk is literally having a breakdown every time he does a head count.   We have taken 4 females so far to the vet to be de-sexed but with the addition of at least 8 kittens in the garden and general vicinity I expect we will need to make a few more trips before all the females are sorted.  The vet that we have been using has been incredibly generous with his time.  He originally saw Stanley when he broke his tail and again when he broke his leg *sigh* plus the 4 females being fixed and a handful of kittens for shots.  I asked him if he could try and find good homes for the kittens but alas he cannot as the new laws make it too difficult for anyone to purchase an animal through the “usual means”.  Of course this means that the black market trade will begin to boom for animals trafficking which is incredibly sad to say as there is absolutely no control over this.

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There are also a large number of stray dogs (sometimes 5-10 strays) who seem to congregate in the maydanoz (parsley) across the street each morning.  This little gang of four legged friends meet just before dawn and frolic together for a good 30-40 minutes before returning to their respective homes, parks, beach or wherever it is that these dogs live during the day.  My Hurley Dog goes crazy when he sees them but I am unsure whether he wants to join in or kill them all (Small Dog Syndrome and all that).  There are a few good souls that feed the dogs but dog strays do not seem to last very long around here.  I don’t know whether they move on or pass away but there seems to be a large turnover in the stray dogs around the village.

We feed the cats each evening a concoction which I have christened the “Kedi Mix”.  It contains our left over dinner (and possibly our neighbour’s left overs as well) along with cat biscuits and the odd sachet of cat meat.  If The Turk is feeling generous he will go to the fish markets and purchase a kilo of their cheapest fish for 1-2TL.  This “Kedi-Mix” usually lasts a couple of days before we need to make more.

The Turk with his "Kedi Mix"

The Turk with his “Kedi Mix”

With Daughter and I leaving in two weeks The Turk will continue to look after the Village Kedi’s including my favourite stray “Evil” and her baby “Baby Evil”.  Evil is My Kedi Cat’s BFF and has been living in the stairwell with her baby but last night she moved out and they have now taken up residence in the chilli plants in our garden.

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Baby Evil is still incredibly tiny but seems healthy enough.  She is starting to play and toddle around but is very unsteady on her feet.  Hopefully when we return she will be running around with the other kittens and strong enough to survive on her own.

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That time our dolmus driver went bat shit crazy

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Yesterday our dolmuş driver lost his cool.  Postal.  I get it, I really do.  It’s hot here in Mersin and it is only going to get hotter.  It was 35 in the shade yesterday afternoon and when it gets hot people lose their shit but this guy was one sandwich short of a picnic crazy and I did start to worry about our safety (you will understand as the story goes on).

Just to remind you or for the uninitiated a dolmuş is a shared taxi that runs along a set route.  It is usually quite civilised.  They come along every few minutes.  There are signs on the dolmuş so you know where they are going and it is easy enough to wave them down or ask them to stop when you want to get off.  If you are lucky you will get an air conditioned dolmuş which is a blessing in this heat but if they are not air conditioned then it is a little like being stuffed into a sauna with 30 other unlucky souls.

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(Stock photo – not dolmus in question)

Up to speed so back to my story.

It all started with the driver receiving a telephone call.  Now I know I do not have enough Turkish to give you a rundown of the conversation but I can tell you that he was obviously not on time (the drivers have a very tight schedule to keep and if they run late or run early they are fined) and his boss telephoned him wanting to know where he was.  He pretty much told his boss to get f*cked and he would get there when he got there.  I had a big grin on my face at this point after all who hasn’t wanted to tell their boss to get f*cked at one stage or another.

He then lit up a cigarette.  No you are not allowed to smoke on a bus in Turkey but the sign above his head “Sigara içilmez” or “no smoking” meant nothing to him at this point after all he had already told his boss where to go.  An elderly lady complained about the cigarette so in reply he flicked it at her feet.  She got out of the dolmuş.

At the next block a young mother hopped on with two children.  She handed over 50TL to the driver for payment and this was the catalyst to the next fifteen minutes of crazy.  The explosion of expletives being thrown around the dolmuş by the driver was astounding and he wasn’t discriminating, he was screaming at everyone.  Daughter (who is well versed in expletives) was gawking at the driver with her mouth wide open.  “I think we need to get off this bus,” she whispered.  I nodded in agreement and was about to ask the driver to stop when his telephone rang again.  The driver looked at the telephone, pulled the dolmuş over, turned the engine off, got out and shut the doors behind him.  At this point I began to wonder if we were being held hostage.

A man stood up and started trying to open the door but he was unable to so he hung out the window and abused the driver who turned around and started kicking the side of the bus.  This was sensational, well except for being held hostage and all that.  The mother that the driver had abused moments earlier started crying and another passenger was comforting her.  I started to giggle (which is what I normally do when I am nervous) and I wondered if the other passengers thought I would lose my shit next.

A couple of minutes later the Polis arrived and the driver immediately opened the door.  The driver was yelling at the Polis, the passengers started to get off the dolmuş and began yelling at the driver and the Polis while Daughter and I stealthy snuck off the dolmuş and backed away from the scene.  Once we were clear we stopped and stared at each other.  WTF???

When we got home Daughter called out to The Turk, “Daddy we just got kidnapped!  Really!”

He is never going to let us out by ourselves again.

Take-away

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Do you remember getting take-away when you were a kid.  I do.  We would go to the fish and chip shop up at Narraweena.  We would get fish and chips (duh), hamburgers and potato scallops.  It was always amazing.  Because it was take-away.  Food is always better when you don’t have to cook it.  Then home delivery became an option and my culinary world exploded.  Chinese food!  Wow.  I really am a kid from the 1970’s aren’t I?

Here in Mersin take-away and home delivery is certainly an option.  They have Dominos that delivers as well as Hungry Jacks (which is a disgusting thought).  Many of the little restaurants here in the Village also home deliver and on occasion The Turk has had people knock on the door at odd hours delivering huge bags of food but I have not felt the need to partake – until now.

A couple of nights back The Turk decided it was too hot to cook (it is definitely warming up here in Mersin – I expect I will be complaining about the heat to you sometime soon) so he made a couple of calls and arrange for home delivery.  I was excited.  What would it be?  Obviously Turkish food, no option there but Turkish food could mean practically anything.

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Two hours (!) later and Daughter and I were getting a little edgy.  The Turk is well aware that if I do not eat at my allotted hour I become quite the bitch, well add Daughter into the mix and we were both chomping at the bit for dinner.  Finally a young boy arrived carrying an abundance of food that could have fed a whole army.  He firstly handed over two bags which contained Kiymali pide, Peynir pide, salads, freshly baked bread, rice and Ayran.  Then he disappeared back down the stairs returning with the largest clay plate of Kağit Kebabi I have ever seen.  This huge plate with a circumference of 60 cm was filled with lamb, mushrooms, eggplant and handfuls of spice.  Holy moly this was a feast.  Total cost 25TL (about AU$13).

pide

Was it worth the 2 hour wait?  Oh.  My.  God.  Yes.  This was a taste sensory overload.  Possibly the best thing I have ever put in my mouth (don’t be dirty).

Introducing The Turk

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He is part adult, part baby.  He is emotional, overly emotional, passionately emotional.  He can be selfish.  He is stubborn.  He smokes.  He drinks too much.  He is a terrible driver.  He is argumentative.  He is dedicated to his family – too much so.  His crazy antics are the reason why the grey hairs on my now blonde head appear more often than they ought.  Only him.

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On a good day he is an acceptable human being.  He likes to clean.  He likes to cook.  He likes me.  On a good day.

On a bad day it is clear that I have upset the Gods and they have sent this demon monster to me as punishment for my wrongdoing.  My mother in law had a ‘whacking stick’ that she used on the stray cats if they made their way a little too close to the front door of her house.  I had also seen her use her ‘whacking stick’ on both The Turk and his brothers more than one.  I have decided I need a ‘whacking stick’.  I will keep it next to the front door where I keep the slippers for visitors.  If The Turk gets a little out of control I can grab my ‘whacking stick’ and wield it around like a big ass shiny sword.

In case you are wondering my Dad actually did like The Turk.  Not at first.  Not when you get his only daughter “knocked up” but he came around eventually.  He didn’t love him but he liked him all the same.  He said we were “well matched” and “both as ridiculous as each other”.  There you have it.

Daughter has another ear infection.  Her own fault.  She runs around in mid riff tops and cut off shorts most of the time and she will not take the medicine prescribed by the Doctor.  Last night she was very, very sick.  Ear aches.  Stomach aches.  You name it, she was suffering from it.  The Turk aka the most childish, spoilt, overly emotional pain in my ass that every existed spent the night sitting next to Daughter’s bed.  If the blankets were pushed off he put them back on.  Is it too hot?  He adjusted the air con (incidentally it is too bloody hot).  When she woke uneasily after a disjointed dream he shushed her back to sleep.  He offered to sing to her at one point but I heard her shout “NO”, we only need one rock star in the family after all.

I still need a whacking stick but perhaps I will not need to use one today.  Not today.

Remembering Dad

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I was not going to do this today.  I was going to keep today just for me.  Hold it in.  Put it in my box where all my feelings live.  But he would not want me to that.  He would have told me a (rather blue) joke.  He would have told me to get over myself; to pull my head in.  But I woke up this morning and I knew straight away.  I knew the date.  I thought about ignoring it but then my sister in law posted something on her FB page.  I miss him too.

I am not going to cry tears of sadness today.  Today will be a beautiful day.  Today will be a day of happiness and good memories not traces of sadness from years before.  There will be no talk of grief or of death.  No talk of cancer or pain.  Just happiness.

Today I will dream.  Today I will wish.  Wish for just one more day with my Dad.  One more smile.  One more joke.  One more chance to say I miss you.  What would we do?  Anything.  Nothing.  We could sit on his old patio overlooking the creek and laugh about something ridiculous.  Or we could have a steak at the pub … and laugh about something ridiculous.  As long as we are laughing then everything will be fine.  And we would be laughing because my Dad was fecking hilarious!

Let me introduce you to my Dad – with a happy story.  Maybe two happy stories.  Maybe more.

He was a great guy.  He was a smart ass.  He used to make me laugh.  He still makes me laugh.  When I told him I was pregnant his reply was, “Well that’s what happens when you have sex.”  When he walked me down the aisle on my wedding day he whispered, “Good job staying a virgin.”  I laughed out loud at that one as Daughter was carried down the aisle two minutes earlier.

He was not my biological Dad but blood does not make you a father.  Love makes you a father and he was the best one that a girl could ever hope for.  Sure he would get angry too, really angry.  He would yell.  He would punish my brother and I.  He had a belt and it didn’t just hold up his pants, it kept us kids in line too.  Once he threw the cheese knife at me – boy I would bring that incident up whenever I could.  “You tried to kill me,” I would cry.  “Next time I will try harder!”  Excellent smart ass reply.

In 2003 Daughter and I spent a week with Dad in Rome.  We visited all the usual tourist spots, did museums, galleries, went to Capri for a few days.  We ate delicious food and built wonderful memories together – father, daughter and granddaughter.  This is one of my favourite photos of Dad.  We had sat down for an early dinner as my flight back to Turkey was later that night and he ordered a beer.  When this pool sized beer arrived he laughed.  “A challenge!” he said.

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He blitzed that challenge.

Today will be a beautiful day.  A day of happiness.

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I am officially a rock star!

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Those of you who know me know that if I have had a few glasses of red wine I morph from mild mannered (scoff) Janey into a Madonna-esque power ballad diva.  I love nothing more than I sing very badly at the top of my husky (read that as croaky) voice.  I want you to know that I do not sing like Madonna, or Beyonce or anything in between.  I sound like someone has dropped spoons down a garbage disposal or maybe Axl Rose on crack (isn’t he always on crack?).  Regardless with a few glasses of red under my belt I really don’t give a feck.

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Saturday night Daughter and I went out to dinner with Capt Awesome, his girlfriend, his brother Vito Jr and Mrs Vito.  Yes Switzerland is working on bringing the family together and it seems to be working.  Incidentally and also with a few wines under my belt I announced at dinner that Capt Awesome should be re-named Prince William with Vito Jr being Prince Harry.  William, the sensible one, the one to carry the family to glory and Harry drinking raki and preparing for a huge piss up.  At this point Capt Awesome’s girlfriend pipes up, “Well that makes me Princess Kate.”  Good on her for keeping up with the international news I say!  Anyway I will dwell on re-naming the family later, back to the story.

The night started sedately enough.  A great dinner, a couple of glasses of wine poured by a waiter who really should know not to fill a beer glass with wine – it tends to make the customer tipsy or in my case pissed as a fart.

After dinner it was decided that we should go to Pozcu to a few bars.  Ummm?  OK??  We wandered down the waterfront before we found a likely looking bar.  It was packed with young, attractive Turkish people . . . and me.  I really am too old for this shit.  I had another glass of wine (this time a more sensible sized glass was provided but unfortunately the damage was already done and I was smashed).

Daughter spotted a karaoke machine on the small stage.  She started jumping up and down although I know she would never, ever hop on stage and sing anything.  Within minutes the first singer jumped up and started the night off with a rendition of “Let It Go” in Turkish.  How many times do I have to hear that song?  How many times do I have to watch that movie?  Damn you Disney, I am in a bar in Turkey for goodness sake!

Next came a young Turkish girl who sang a Turkish tune.  She was out of tune, everyone clapped along and gave her the confidence she needed and she finally made it to the end giggling all the while.

Princess Kate got up with William and they sang a love song of unknown origin (am guessing it’s Turkish).  Ahh, the romance.  Ahh, the look of love in their eyes.  Ahh, “Get a room”!

The night continued with a few more drinks.  Daughter was dancing on the dance floor having a great time (yes kids are allowed in the clubs if they are with their guardian) and then I had an idea.  I had a plan.  I got up.  And.  I.  Sang.

“Like a Prayer”.

It was bad.  It was deplorable.  It was not filmed thank God.

The whole place went wild as I was singing in English.  They sang along with me.  There was cheering.  I felt like I was Madonna.  I even did a few vogue moves.  I am beyond embarrassed.  Daughter was beyond mortified.  William and Kate were dancing along.  Maybe I AM Madonna?  I am not sure where Harry disappeared too – we lost him along the way and Mrs Vito remained seated watching and no doubt analysing my behaviour to discuss later with others.

Daughter has made me promise that I will never, ever do that again.  A cross your heart, hope to die promise.  Being in another country tends to allow you certain freedoms, allows you the liberty of doing something I would never, ever contemplate doing back in Australia.

I also will never drink again.  OK, look that last bit was a lie.  I think we all know it was a lie.  I am sorry for lying.

The Village

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I have now been living in the Village for 10 months and have decided that it is not really a köyü (village) it is more of a şehir (town), in fact that way that it has been growing you could even say it is a suburb of Mersin proper, an outer suburb but a suburb nevertheless.

When I first started coming to the Village 13 years ago it really was a köyü.  There was more farmland than houses, more farm animals than people but in the following years the urban sprawl that is Mersin has spread and, like a disease, taking over the quaint köyü and turning it into part of a spreading metropolis.

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Although we are still surrounded by farms the view of the sea has disappeared behind apartment blocks 5 stories high.  There are still farm animals but they are a rarity now (except for my damn nemesis that lives behind us) and what was once grazing land just west of us is now streets full of little houses (and some not so little) being built at a speed that astounds me.

It is lovely and warm now (in fact I would go so far to say it is hot) which means I spend more time going on walks or riding my bike around in the köyü (or şehir).  I did not realise just how big the Village is.  To ride my bike around the whole köyü would take me a good hour or two and walking would probably take me a full day (taking into consideration stopping for chats).

I often ride my bike from Atasyolu to the north right around to the deserted beach east of the Village.  The Turk and I sit at this beach and dream (well he dreams and I lie on the sand and enjoy the sunshine).  He wants to win the lotto and buy the land here, turning it into a resort (so, you know, adding to the urban sprawl).  The beach really is exquisite, so clean and the sand is like soft, white snow.  This beach could give some of those resorts on the west coast a run for its money.  Again anyone who does eventually get their hands on this land (assuming we don’t win the lotto) would definitely be onto a winner particularly if the Council start to realise just what a beautiful spot it is and utilised the potential instead of squandering it by allowing industrial filth to be built there.

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Honestly just look at this beach!  It could be Fraser Island – in fact here is a photo of The Turk on Fraser Island a couple of years back.  Amazing!  This beach east of the Village is pristine beach.  Unpolluted.  Unsullied.  A dream come true.  The Turk and I can sit on this beach for hours and not see a soul.

Not Turkey I repeat not Turkey!

Not Turkey I repeat not Turkey!

 

Frankly it is a little sad that the modern world has caught up with my quaint köyü and tainted it (slightly) for me.  But such is life is it not?  If you don’t keep up you will only be left behind.

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Girl on Fire – making sarma

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I think you guys already know that I am a terrible chef.  In fact chef is a word that really should not be used when describing the food that is plated up by me at any time but over the past few days I have had the opportunity to learn a few other recipes that I hope I can make by myself over the coming weeks.

With my sister in law right next door the sound of my name “J-j-ja-a-a-n-n-e-e-e” calls me to drop what I am doing and come next door.  It is a win-win situation as I learn something and I eat something.  I prefer just to eat but learning something is good too.

Songul was preparing hundreds, literally hundreds, of sarma (stuffed grape leaves) for a school excursion and needed help with the preparation.  Honestly I was not really sure that I would be doing anything useful but I have now learned that if you do something over and over . . . and over again, you get pretty good at it.

The first part of my lesson was stealing vine leaves.  Yes I was sent on a stealth mission to pilfer vine leaves from the neighbour’s vines.  Up and down the street I went with My Hurley Dog and Songul’s 4 year old to grab vine leaves under cover of taking the dog for a walk (stealing vine leaves is a big sin here as everyone loves their sarma).  After collecting 3 bags full we returned home and started separating the leaves and collecting them into groups.

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Making the dolma is actually surprisingly easy.

Ingredients –

Vine leaves, 2 bags of rice, diced onion, grated tomato (which included part of my hand unfortunately), Nene’s chilli paste (not hot), parsley, sumac, cumin, salt, pepper, dried mint and lemon salt (mincemeat optional)

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Lemon salt is an excellent invention I had never heard of before.  I actually brought some at the market quite by accident, put it in my salt grinder and nearly vomited.  As salt it is filthy but Songul puts it in water for 5 minutes and it becomes a strong lemon juice equivalent without wasting a precious lemon.  Aahhh so that’s what you do with it, shame I threw mine out after the first disaster.

First things first.  Boil some water and drop the vine leaves in it for mere seconds.  This will soften them.

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Mix all ingredients (sans vine leaves) in a bowl and you are ready to roll (literally) and once I got started I was cracking at the rolling.  Really simple.  Vine leave, small handful of mixture, roll ‘em up.  Get in time with the Turkish music that’s blasting in your ear and you really have the motion.

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Now remember that we had to make hundreds of these things so I spent the next 3 hours on the floor rolling vine leaves.  As a fine art I could whip out two a minute.  Every 10 dolmas I would wrap in string and place in the pot.  Once the pot was full it was filled with water (maybe 1 cm above the top sarma) and boiled for 30 minutes.  We ended up filling 4 pots for the school excursion the next day.  I was told that the sarma was excellent (of course) but that mine were particularly sensational (I know they were just being kind).

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I often wonder why I never did a cooking course or why my mother never taught me to cook (although she too was no chef – I didn’t really know green beans were green before I moved out of home as they were always brown *sigh*).