Tag Archives: Turkey

A morning routine

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Breakfast is apparently the most important meal of the day.  I used to skip breakfast a LOT when I lived in Sydney.  Or it was a healthy breakfast of coke and cigarettes – yes really!  Then I found out I was Type 2 Diabetic and I pulled my head in and actually learnt about eating healthy.  I still have a lot to learn but a good breakfast and my early morning jog to the deniz is a good start.

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Now living in the Village breakfast is the first of many delicious (and healthy) meals I eat every day.  I love that everything is organic.  I love that the bread is delicious and costs the equivalent of AUD$0.25 for a loaf.  The eggs are huge and when cracked the yolk is so yellow, scrambling them is a sin!  Cucumber, tomatoes,olives and my mother in law’s cheese (https://janeyinmersin.com/2013/10/) all washed down with a glass of cay to complete our Turkish banquet.  Yesterday we made borek (lightly fried pastry with cheese) and if we make it to the market we also buy Turkish sausage (although I recently read an article in a Turkish newspaper where someone suggested that the sausage could possibly be made from horse meat.  Eeek!).

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Daughter and her cousins have already left for school by 7am so generally it is just us girls (and now, of course, The Turk) sitting in the sunshine enjoying this delicious banquet.  Actually now that The Turk has arrived we also must have corba (soup) for breakfast.  He loves his Spicy Red Lentil Soup (which I made last night) and he believes that a good breakfast is not complete without corba on the table.  The Turk also suggested this morning that I learn to make Tripe Soup but THAT is never going to happen!

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Now if only I could find some bacon . . .

Land Down Under

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We all know the song and we sing it loudly when in a pub whether in Oz or anywhere else in the world.  If it comes on, you sing it loudly.  To an Aussie it is an anthem, to some more than Advance Australia Fair has ever been.  Back in Sydney during the 2000 Olympics I had a conversation with a bunch of tourists who were telling me how they were sick and tired of hearing Advance Australia Fair (jealously maybe).  I suggested Khe Sahn (thank you Don Walker and Cold Chisel) but they really couldn’t understand what Barney was saying let along what they unceremoniously called “caterwauling” by the lead singer!  Bastards!  During this conversation it turns out that everybody knows “Land Down Under” so it was agreed that evening at the pub that when an Aussie wins (which we did over and over again) then we would sing Land Down Under for the rest of the night!  I lost my voice!

For those of you who suddenly feel the need to sing I present –

Anyway coming from Australia I am now living in Karaduvar which is NOT the Land Down Under, it is the Land Of Confusion.  This morning my frustration with the language, with the everyday difficulties and with the sheer stupid is doing my head in!

The Turk has been here a week now, just one week.  Certainly not long enough to have made himself comfortable in his new home however within days (nay I mean hours) of arriving he has decided that our balcony is not large enough and he promptly instructed builders to start work to increase its size.  Oh and he also wants the garage changed.  Fuck!

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This morning I find myself making a butt load of cay (as part of your job as the property owner is to supply copious amounts of tea and water and anything else that the builder may desire (including extension cords and in this case a drill!).  I am listening to The Turk shout instructions to anyone who will listen and watch him feel very important.  I look out the window at the electrical wires that are mere metres from my outstretched arm.  With the balcony being widened I have suggested that these should be moved but have been told to “not touch them”.  Huh?

I cannot listen anymore.  I cannot question why they are using a jackhammer on my walkway nor why I keep losing electricity every 10 minutes (which is making this blog page interminably longer than necessary to complete).  I find it is better not to ask these questions.  I flip open my ipad and search through for a particular play list.  “Australia tunes” – there it is!  Glancing down at the list I find what I am looking for, hit play and wait for the chorus so I can sing at the top of my lungs:

“Do you come from a land down under?

Where women glow and men plunder?

Can’t you hear, can’t you hear the thunder?

You better run, you better take cover!

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/11/18/daily-prompt-confusion/

Juicy

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A friend on mine is a great artist and prior to leaving Australia I purchased one of her paintings to hang in my new home here in Mersin.  Her painting is called “Juicy” and I do not think she will mind that I re-post it for my blog today.  You might want to check out her amazing work –

http://www.celartworks.com/

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Last weekend was the Mersin Narenciye Festivali  (Citrus Festival) in Mersin.  It seems that Mersin and its surrounding area is well known for its oranges, lemons, grapefruit, apples and any other type of fruit that you can think of.  This is a very popular weekend here in Mersin and what a great way to promote both industry and tourism to the city and yes this really is a festival not some dodgy political meeting like the one I was dragged to a couple of weeks back.

The seafront was full of orange and yellow stalls, flags and balloons.  There were exhibitions, fruit for the tasting, wares to purchase, music to dance to and even a parade.  This Festival had it all including a warm autumn day.  I saw on the internet that it is pouring rain in Sydney yet here we are in November enjoying gorgeous weather.  Nice one.

The Turk has promised me that it will get cold and that I will be whinging “like a bitch” (his words) but right now I will enjoy myself while I can.

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Meet the In-Laws

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I am sitting on my balcony listening to the sounds of The Village.  Below me the most prominent sound is that of my in law’s shouting at the top of their lungs.  I wander downstairs to see what today’s issue could be only to find them sitting happily in the sunshine warming their old bones.

My mother in law, Refika calls me over, “Gel. Otur”.  Come and sit.  I sit by them and pour a glass of cay (which, to their constant horror, I put milk in).  It is quite nice in the sun but you can feel that winter is not far away and it was bloody cold this morning when I took Hurley for a walk.  I wonder if Refika invited me over to put an end to their squabble.  No, it was definitely continuing with me right beside them.  I watched them argue back and forth and although I am no expert in the Turkish language I quickly realise that the argument was about who ate the last yumurta (egg).

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The Turk’s parents have been married for over 50 years.  Happily?  I just couldn’t say, they appear resigned to the fact that they are married to each other (I feel that way about The Turk most days as well).  I look at my mother in law’s face.  Deep wrinkles may line her face and cloudy eyes are tired but she still smiles despite her illnesses.  Her scarred and callused hands tell me that she has worked very hard over her years and for probably little reward.  Hursit on the other hand is looking jolly and starts talking animatedly (and loudly due to his deafness) to me despite the fact that I can understand little of what he is saying.  Now retired his day is a repeat of the day before – a trip to the Jokey Club to place a bet on a horse, followed by long (an no doubt philosophical) debates with his friends and neighbours at the local tea house before returning home to his dinner which has been prepared by Refika before removing himself to watch either a horse race or the news on television.  If his horse has won he will sing the night away İyi akşamlar which is no doubt his favourite song.  Give him a few wine or rakı and you will hear that freaking song until dawn!

Watching Refika and Hurşit happily argue has made me realise that The Turk and I are exactly the same!  Every conversation that we have is basically an argument (which is what happens when you mix a Turkish man with an Australian/Italian woman) and I am the first to say that I would divorce him in a heartbeat to anyone who will listen!  Does this mean that The Turk married his mother?

Oh dear!!

Everybody needs good neighbours

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I am going to have a little rant, just a little one.

I have never been a part of a very large family.  I am adopted and no I am not crippled with issues about being adopted.  I had a happy childhood with my adopted parents and brother.  They are my family.  In case you are wondering, yes I have met my natural mother (who is lovely) and my three natural brothers and sister.  I have been very lucky with my upbringing however it was and is a very small family.  I did not have cousins to run around with and family gatherings were always a very small affair.

Now I am part of a very large family with sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, distant cousins – I could go on.  Not only are they my family they are also my neighbours.  Next door is a three storey house with The Turk’s parents (at the rear), his older brother and family on level 3, his youngest brother and family on level 2 and another (estranged) brother on level 1.  It is the estranged brother on level 1 that I will have my little rant about now (thankful that he cannot read English I might add).

In Turkey military service is compulsory for all men aged between 20 and 40 years.  For those men without a university degree the service is 15 months and for those with a degree it is a six month service.  On Sunday night The Turk’s nephew was leaving home to spend the next six months to complete his conscription.  Like most Turkish families they threw a party and invited their nearest and dearest.  There was a lot of music, drums and dancing.  It was most likely a wonderful evening and I say most likely because we were not invited to this shindig and nor was anyone else in the family!  Frankly I was shocked at this blatant rebuff.  Daughter could not understand why she was not invited so she dragged me downstairs to watch the frivolities.  I stood with Hurley (should anyone ask I was waiting for my dog to pee) before moving to the shadows only to find my mother in law behind her gate standing alone watching her grandson dancing.  It nearly broke my heart (and it made me pretty darn angry).

The next morning I rang The Turk and yelled down the telephone at him.  Why would his mother not be invited to the farewell?  Actually why was no one invited to the farewell and while I am at it why have they not spoken to me since I arrived 8 weeks ago!  The Turk’s reply was simple but was definitely not an explanation, “Fuck them!”

I am sitting here thinking of my mum and dad, wishing I could just give them one more hug or talk to them just one more time and here is a family who have no idea just how lucky they are.

“Fuck them!”

Well no thank you.

 

Let’s talk about cheese

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My love of cheese is legend – wait for it – ary!  Legendary!  I will eat cheese anytime, anywhere and in any manner.  I will have it for breakfast, as a snack, as a main meal, hot, cold or even as a cake.  Cheese.  Peynir.  Nom, nom nom!

Last week I was called by my mother in law down to her kitchen.  Bubbling on the stove was a huge pot of milk (which I subsequently learned was in fact yogurt).  Once boiled she strained the yogurt (separating the whey) into three parcels wrapped in clean cloth, tied it up and let it hang in the kitchen.  Cheese!  She made cheese!

I returned to her kitchen yesterday afternoon to find her mixing the cheese with red pepper paste (which we had made a few weeks earlier), dried thyme and a butt load of salt.  She rolled the cheese into balls, placed them on a large metal plate and put them in the sun on top of my garage where they will stay until they dry.

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If I ignore the flies that are constantly congregating over the cheese at the moment I am sure it will taste delicious when ready.  This spicy cheese is usually eaten in the morning with ekmek (bread), domates (tomatoes) and a drizzle of yağ (oil).

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My mother in law tells me that she has made this cheese for The Turk as it is his favourite.  Yes the prodigal son will return to her next weekend and she is very excited!  I guess I am excited too.  Daughter is currently indifferent but will probably change her tune when he actually gets here.

It’s hard to get that real good feeling about festivals sometimes

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On Sunday Daughter and I were invited to a “festival” to celebrate Cumhuriyet Bayramı (Republic Day) which takes place on 29 October of each year. I have been to my fair share of festivals over the years however upon arriving at Mersin Stadium I couldn’t help but think that my sister in law and I had differing views on what a “festival” actually was. 

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After going through security (which included a pat down which I would normally reserve for the bedroom) I looked around at the “festival” that was just beginning as we arrived.  Yes there was a stage but I still had a niggling feeling that this festival was going to be slightly different – but hey, when in Rome.  Perhaps it would just be music (just as the festival gods would have intended).  I looked at the stage for instruments but these were also lacking. 

Oh dear.

Daughter did find fairy floss so all was good in the world of 11 year old girls but for me I started to think that perhaps this was going to be unlike any festival that I had been to before.

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The place was packed.  People were everywhere waving their flags and talking excitedly amongst themselves.  I mean these people were looking forward to whatever was about to happen so we sat down with my sister in law just as the Turkish National Anthem began to play.  Everyone jumped to attention and sang along – even Daughter knew the words having been at school now for nearly two months.

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The first speaker came on stage to speak.  Fair enough.  I mean it IS Turkey and I guess they really do like their speeches.  When his speech ended and the cheering dissipated another gentleman came on and gave another speech.  Then another.  And another.  What type of crazy arse festival is this?  Moreover I looked over at my sister in law and wondered what type of person would call THIS a festival?  This was no festival!  This was a political meeting and it did not look like it was going to end anytime soon.  It was a hot afternoon in the sun and thankfully I dozed off (which was a real skill considering the amount of cheering and flag waving around me).  When Daughter woke me I found out that I had been snoozing happily for about 2 hours and it was time to go home.  Thank goodness! 

I guess attending a political meeting in a Muslim country can be officially ticked off my Bucket List now . . .

Got milk?

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Yesterday afternoon I found myself searching fruitlessly for fresh milk or sut as it is known in Turkish.  Milk in Karaduvar is generally sold on the shelf (UHT) and it is rare that I can find a bottle of fresh milk in the cold aisle of the local supermarket so when I saw a display of ice cold bottles of “white gold” my heart skipped a beat.  I swung on my heels towards the milk nearly wiping out a little old Turkish lady who was skulking a little too close to my prize.  I slid to a halt next to evil granny and grabbed 2 bottles exalted knowing that tomorrow morning’s Cornflakes were going to be coated in fresh, full cream dairy milk.

So last night when Daughter asked for milk before bed I ceremoniously poured her a glass and placed it lovingly before her.  “How is it?” I asked with a grin.

“It’s milk mummy,” came the reply with a roll of the eyes.

“No, it’s more than that.  It’s fresh milk.  From the market.  It’s not from the box.  They had fresh milk at the market today!”  I found my voice rising in desperation, rejecting the notion that for Daughter it was merely milk and not the precious commodity that I believed it to be.

She finished her milk and placed the glass in the sink.  “Milk mummy.  Milk”.

With that final remark she hugged me, said goodnight and left the room.

I stared at that empty glass wondering if a punishment would be going overboard.

Sitting down to breakfast this morning I had my Cornflakes and, yes, I covered them with my prized milk.  Daughter entered the kitchen and, spying the Cornflakes box, grabbed a bowl and sat down next to me.  I watched her pour the milk over her flakes.  She turned to me, “Mmm good eh?”

It took all of my will power and motherly goodness to not roll my eyes at her and say, “It’s milk Daughter. Milk”.

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The Truth about Dogs and Cats

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As many of you know we couldn’t move to the other side of the world without bringing The Turk’s two favourite family members.  Hurley the dog and his best friend Kedi the cat.  There have been many times that Daughter and I have discussed the fact that The Turk loves his 4 legged family members more than the human variety.

When The Turk originally moved to Sydney he told me that I he hated animals (particularly cats) and that I had to “get rid” of my old boy Cosmo.  I promptly replied that I would be getting rid of him before I got rid of my old boy and over the years he grew somewhat affectionate towards Cosmo which accumulated into real tears when he passed away a few years ago.

Fast forward to now and we have Kedi and Hurley who have flown over in first class luxury and definitely not worse for wear (a big thanks to the staff at petfly.com.au).

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Hurley has settled in really well.  You can see his boisterous enthusiasm each morning knowing that there is so much to do with strange new things to sniff, strange new foods to taste and lots of new friends to meet.  As happy as he is being here I can see by the look on his face – he has an issue that cannot be resolved and that issue is – STRAY CATS!

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My mother in law tends to feed all the stray cats and she has accumulated 8 regulars that live in her yard.  My father in law likes to walk down to the fish market and purchase the left over fish and then brings them back for the strays (yet he, like The Turk, is the first to scream at the cats if they get under his feet).  So Hurley now has 8 cats to chase which initially was fun however the cats have banded together and started a systematic assault on Hurley.  If he doesn’t watch what he is doing, or where he is walking, or sitting, or sniffing, then a cat will throw itself kamikaze style at Hurley and the yelping by the poor dog would no doubt be heard on the other side of the Village!

Obviously a counter assault needs to take place however I do not think Hurley could undertake that by himself.  Even the neighbour’s dog is afraid of these monsters so . . . I think that counter assault is some time away.

And if you are wondering how the cat is?  Well the bloody thing spends his day sleeping wherever he may choose and then comes out at night where he makes as much noise and cause as much chaos as possible.  More than once I contemplated throwing the cat outside and let those crazy Village cats have him but, of course, I could never really do that even when its 4.00 a.m. and he is knocking all the glasses off the kitchen bench.

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The Art of Being Sick

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I should have realised that this was coming.  There were warning signs after all.  The hot days had become merely pleasant and the light breeze had become blustery. A couple of nights ago I was woken by a storm that came crashing over The Village and when I awoke the next morning could see the light scattering of snow that announced the change of season.

Yes, I should have realised that this was coming but I didn’t . . . and now . . . it’s too late!  I am sick and I am grouchy.  I have lost my voice and I have a runny nose.  My throat hurts and my headaches.  I have chills and they are multiplying (although I am yet to lose control).  I have named this concoction of evil – the Turkish Lurgy.  I have it and I am crabby. The Turkish Lurgy is ravaging my body and I am certain that I will never recover.

“Nasilsin?”  How am I?

Well, frankly I am shit!  I look like shit and I feel like shit!

Normally in Australia, I would fight through the shit (sick).  I would soldier on with Codral and go to work, drop Daughter off at school and get on with life (spreading germs as I go).  Now, in The Village, I have reverted to my alternative personality known by many as Princess Janey.  This particular personality rarely presents herself these days however if she does make an appearance people shake in their boots and run for the hills.  Daughter has lived through Princess Janey before so has sensibly decided to ignore me and went to her cousin’s house.  Hurley is sneaking around for fear of upsetting the person who feeds him and even Kedi has retreated to hiding in my wardrobe while I recuperate.

I am currently in bed surrounded by tissues and propped up by pillows.  The Turk’s mother has taken over my house and is whispering demands to family members who scuttle off to carry out her instructions post haste.  I can hear the sounds of my vacuum humming, my washing machine washing and I can detect (even with my stuffy nose) the distinct smell of chicken soup simmering on my cooktop.  Unfortunately, I am finding it increasingly difficult to be gracious, surrounded by all the kindness and it is just making Princess Janey even more grumpy.

I spoke with The Turk on the telephone, “I just want to be left alone”.  “No darling, they do this because they love you.  It is the Turkish way.”

Hmph!  And so I push Princess Janey back into the recess of my mind and I smile at my mother in law when a tray is placed on my lap.  I smile at my sister in law when she hands me some Turkish syrup with instructions to take it 3 times a day.  I smile at everyone who pops in to ask me Nasilsin? and I am thankful that they do not know the word “shit”.

I think I will throw my duvet over my head and hide under here until they leave.

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Why didn’t I realise this was coming?