The Ozsarac Clan

We've Moved!

2011-03-04T05:05:00.000+01:00

This blog is no longer easy to access in Turkey, so go to this page http://ozsaracclan2.wordpress.com/

to read the new blog. I will leave this space indefinitely and stay at the new one over at wordpress.

See you there!

The Blog Post That Never Was

2011-01-27T14:01:00.004+01:00

I wrote the following piece for a local restaurant review blog. The foodie bloggers called for people living in Istanbul to write about a memorable restaurant experience and I jumped at the chance. However, for whatever reason, they didn't publish my piece, so I will do so here. I am sure they had their reasons, as there are many good places to eat here, no feelings hurt. I enjoyed writing the piece, regardless of where it might end up.

I am off to London and then Ft. Meyers Florida for the next two weeks, so this will be the first and last post for the month of January.

Unsal Balik—The Best Fish Soup Around

My love affair with a particular fish soup started six years ago, when I started frequenting Termal, a steamy thermal spa across the water from Istanbul that dates back to Roman times. Good friends of ours stumbled upon Unsal Balik in the seaside town of Yalova, and with one taste of their fresh fish soup, a winter weekend tradition was formed.

Unassuming it its design and location, this co-op fish place is just on the banks of the Marmara Sea, and only a ten-minute walk from the ferry port. Upon arrival, you are greeted by chirpy waiters who guide you to the display of abundant fresh fish caught by local fisherman. After making a selection, you are whisked away to a table where the food arrives prompt and fresh. Our good friends, who have since moved back to their home in Nova Scotia—people who know fish—were regulars before our first meal there. Me pregnant with twins, and all of us hungry after a long soak in the Termal hot springs in wintry weather, we welcomed a steamy bowl of fish soup. Delicate and brimming with plump, snowy-white fish meat, topped off with a squeeze of fresh lemon, this soup is worth crossing the Marmara for. In fact, this soup is so good, one time I went minus my husband but was sent with a thermos to be filled to the brim with this heavenly concoction. The waiters were tickled and dutifully filled the vessel with piping hot soup for my koca.

Eating there is always a joy, especially once they started to know who we were, and most importantly, why we were there (the fish soup of course). Warm, smiling faces greet us on our approach, followed closely by the question: “fish soup?”

You can of course, also order a whole fish, and fried calamari, which we usually do. If you catch them on the right day, they serve a tasty shrimp stir fry in a sauce that beckons the fresh, pillowy white bread piled high in the basket. The salads are as alluring as the fruits di mare, green and vibrant and sometimes sprinkled with fresh Marmara shrimp.

In addition to a delectable fish soup, expertly grilled whole fish, crunchy calamari and crisp salads, they serve a signature dessert--baked cinnamon and carrot topped helva. On one visit there with aforementioned friends, at the end of the meal we ordered dessert, and the waiter smiled saying, “I put it in the oven when you arrived.” They know fish, and they know their customers.

So it isn’t only the fish soup that keeps us coming back. The service there truly is service with a smile, quick and efficient to boot, and the price is right. In fact, those dear friends who found it years back, have made several pit stops to Istanbul on their way to Syria, and guess where they go each time?

This is a restaurant not to be missed.

Reverb 10

2010-12-31T05:23:00.012+01:00

In my morning perusing through foodie blogs over coffee, I came across an interesting writing opportunity called the #reverb 10 project. I only found it today, on the last day of the year, but it came at a good time.

I bent the rules a little and decided to pick one that spoke to me instead of answering the question of today. The is the one I chose: "Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?"

The word that would sum up my 2010 is without a doubt the word growth. The year 2010 offered up to me many opportunities for growth in the form of challenges and loss. This past year I decided to change my mindset and look at challenges as opportunities to grow. Now that the year is over, I feel a change deep within that really feels good, and solid.

As for this time next year, I hope that my word will still be growth, because life will always throw out challenges, and my new perspective is still a work in progess. So maybe it would be more apt to say that the word(s) I hope will define 2011 for me are continued growth.

Take a minute, even if you don't write it down, to think of your response to this question, or any of the other questions really. It is a good way to end the year, and start fresh with the new.

Happy New Year.

Pork, Leeches, Beavers and Burgers: Christmas in Istanbul

2010-12-25T05:55:00.033+01:00

Christmas in Istanbul is nothing like it is back at home. In some ways it is a good thing, the commercialism and greediness of the holiday can be disheartening. However, I do miss the decorations, treats, piped Christmas music and festive feeling that lasts all month. In Istanbul, the Christmas tree and decorations have morphed into a new year tradition, so we still see lots of Christmasy type of stuff especially with the grocery stores full of imported chintzy Christmas decorations. Starbucks doesn't carry the Christmas drinks, but they have a Christmas blend, and all of the take away cups are red and cheery. Every now and then we will even hear the faint tune of a dancing Santa. So even though St. Nick was actually from the south of Turkey, it is kind of like bizarro Christmas over here.

The week leading up to the 25th, the neighborhood seemed abuzz with holiday cheer. We were busy with caroling, winter solstice yule log burning, and cookie baking. The big event for the boys was the faculty Christmas party; with all of the talk of a gift-bearing Santa Claus, who could blame them? So even though we had to work, it didn't take away from the merriment of the season. Having the boys at the sweet age of nearly five, the Christmas spirit was full on this year. Our house has been deep in holiday cheer all month, decorated with all the usual fixings, an overload of twinkly lights, and even a homemade advent calendar. With little ones, Christmas is all about the magic and story of St. Nick, as it should be.

On Christmas Eve, Koray and I got out for the day to buy some Santa gifts. Our main goal was to buy a Wii for Ali and Omer, but an e-mail from a friend quickly set me on another path: a Greek butcher in Istanbul. Greek means Christian, and Christian means pork, well in my logic at least. After a phone call and some e-mail exchanges with other pork loving expats, I narrowed down the location of this pork butcher. Christmas Eve was looking even better.

We found the place quite easily. Upon walking in, we were greeted by friendly faces, a display case full of pork, and little pig figurines all over the place. Bacon, sausages, prosciutto, sliced ham, even pork chops were laid out in front of us. Sampling this and that before deciding, we walked out of the joint with a bag bulging with fresh pig meat and were happily on our way. The Christmas dinner menu changed quickly from sweet and sour chicken to pork chops.

The next stop was Nisantasi, the shopping district in Istanbul. All outdoor shops along tree lined streets, Nisantasi was hopping with holiday cheer. Most of the people out were gearing up for the New Year gift exchange, so the steep, curvy streets were bedecked with decorations and lights. The main street was draped in bright red bolted down AstroTurf. Every tree along the cobbled red road was decorated with fairy lights and red, glass ornaments.

While Koray set off in search for the gifts, I took an hour and had a pedicure and manicure at the California Nail Bar an uber cool shop owned by an equally cool American lady. Soon after I was primped and polished, Koray met me for lunch. Ambling down the busy streets laden with a Wii and its paraphernalia, we headed into a diner called Egg and Burger. Being an American who knows and loves burgers, I have been disappointed one too many times by the promise of an American style burger. I was skeptical. Don't get me wrong, I love a good islak burger or kofte, but it is always a bummer when my taste buds gear up for the unencumbered taste of beef, sauce, lettuce tomatoes and bread, and the burger doesn't deliver. Being on a pork-buying high, I wasn't sure I wanted to risk exchanging that for pseudo-burger disappointment on Christmas Eve. But this place had all the signs of a good burger joint: silver round tables, red bar stools, retro coca-cola ads, and cooks decked out in white paper cook hats, slinging burgers just next to the dining area, so I decided to throw caution to the wind. Much to my delight, the burger delivered, and was even tastier then some of the burgers I had eaten back in Washington this summer.

Bellies full and wallets empty, and after a thorough search for a toy beaver (more on that later) we headed home to get ready for Christmas Eve dinner (leg of lamb) and small presents.

Christmas morning started for us at 5:45. Ali got the monster he asked for and Omer got his beaver sanctuary, minus the beaver. He asked Santa for "a beaver house, next to a river with an apple tree." He mentioned it several times after writing his letter to Santa, so I knew it wasn't a passing fancy and also knew it really would take Santa Claus to produce this unique request. I looked all over here, as did Koray when he was in Sweden, but nothing even remotely close could be found. We gave up, settling on plan B. But as Koray was walking out of a store on Christmas Eve, he spotted a tree house and immediately snatched it up. We spent the rest of the day on a fruitless mission, trying to find a toy beaver to live in the sanctuary. Luckily I had bought some beaver stickers and we put those on the "beaver house" in hopes it would work.

After it was all said and done, everybody was happy with their gifts from Santa. We feasted on a Turkish breakfast after cleaning up the shredded wrapping paper, and then headed into the city on another mission-- this time in search of leeches.

Eminonu, a part of the city perched on the Golden Horn, is home to the Egyptian Spice Bazaar and well as the animal bazaar, which sells amongst many other odd and exotic animals, big jugs of leeches used for medicinal purposes. As the man fished out five leeches with his bare hands, Ali and Omer squealed "we're getting a pet!" After that idea was quickly squelched, we meandered through the crowded streets before heading home.

(Why leeches? We are teaching Stand By Me to the 9th graders and I thought I would maximize the abhorrent leech scene by bringing in a bucket of leeches and getting them to write a poem about it. I can almost hear the shrieks now.)

So, even though we only had three days, this Christmas was a good one. I feel full in all senses of the word.

I hope yours was just as good and merry.

Those Fleeting Moments

2010-12-12T12:39:00.031+01:00

This is my 10th year here in Istanbul, and even though it has become home and the newness worn away many years ago, this city still enamors me, especially when I get a weekend away in it with my husband.

We technically do not live in Istanbul, but in a developing suburb with fat-tailed sheep roaming in the village-dotted hills. And because we have full lives raising Ali and Omer, as well as full-time jobs, more often than not Istanbul the destination eludes us.

Istanbul is an amazing, beautiful, pulsing city, which I feel is even better experienced from its heart, Beyoglu. For the four of us, we usually enjoy Istanbul from nine am to about noon, and on the weekends. We do this because of the traffic, which starts getting heavy around noon, and to avoid the painful experience of being trapped in gridlock traffic with two active pre-schoolers; you can only listen to so many Curious George or Skippy John Jones audio books that melt into a seat-belted wrestling match in the back seat, followed by a series of empty warnings and threats (what can you really do in a car stuck in traffic?) before you start to go a little crazy.

Needless to say, we miss the pulsing beat of Istanbul by night.

But this weekend, Koray's childhood friend got married, so we decided to take full advantage of doting grandparents and the beautiful city whose far reaches we inhabit.

Once the grandparents arrived, we kissed the boys and happily hopped in the car, reveling in our newly found but limited freedom. The weekend started off with a monthly meeting I try to attend of professional women living in Istanbul. The snow flurrying outside distorting the view of the gray Marmara Sea, I sipped a cappuccino while talking and listening to a group of interesting and innovative women who have made their way here in Istanbul. It was a good start to a weekend that enabled me to re-charge and remember who the person is that sometimes gets buried under the identity of mommy and teacher.

As soon as the meeting was over, we made our way across the Bosphorous Bridge to a historical hotel in the heart of Pera. With a few hours to kill before the wedding, we treated ourselves to a Thai lunch. Soon thereafter that I indulged in a warm, sudsy hamam. Freshly scrubbed and refreshed, we headed into the old city for the merriment. It was the ride across the Galata Bridge that I was struck for the hundredth time--which always seems like the first time--as to how beautiful Istanbul is.

There is something about this city that cultivates a love-hate relationship with its inhabitants. The traffic, the over-population, the crazy drivers, all make me yearn for a quieter life back in North America. But then there are moments, or weekends, like this, and I wonder if I can ever go back to a life without the glitter and intrigue of a city like Istanbul. The sky line, the vibrancy, the city's texture and warm, lively people, it wins my heart over and over again.

So this is all this post is really about, that single moment in the weekend that I was struck by the beauty of this city reminding me that my wildest dreams of living abroad come true time and time again each time this magnificent city reveals itself to me.

December 5th--Still Series: Installation Uc

2010-12-05T15:54:00.008+01:00

The End of Poverty. Period.

2010-11-28T08:01:00.013+01:00

One of the many things I love about being a teacher is that I am constantly re-evaluating what I know, how I do things, and sometimes, who I am. I also love the privileged opportunity we have as teachers to the precious relationship with young people. But the thing that I love the most is that I learn as I teach. Students have a lot to teach me, just as I have a lot to teach them. The way I see it, teaching is the much sought after fountain of youth.

I knew I wanted to be a teacher in my senior year of high school. Each year at my school the 6th grade students went for a week to Camp Wooten, a quintessential school camp, dotted with cabins full of bunk beds, nestled deep in the Blue Mountain range of Washington State. The counselors were always 12th grade students, chosen by the high school teachers. The year I was a senior, I badly wanted to go, mainly because all of my friends--all stellar athletes and good students, obvious choices for role models--were chosen to be counselors. I was so desperate to go that I offered to go even as extra help in the kitchen. I don't know who, but someone decided that I would go, and not only that, that I would get a cabin full of chirpy 6th grade girls. I was thrilled. And it was this event that set me on my career path as a teacher. By the end of the week, it was obvious to me that I found joy in working with young kids. Leading them, guiding them, talking with them, I dug it all. Soon thereafter, I enrolled in education courses in college, setting the wheels in motion.

17 years later, and I still love that relationship. While my 9th graders are squirrelly and drive me nuts, my seniors suffering from senioritis, I still enjoy being around them and listening to what they have to say, helping them to navigate this complicated world as they unknowingly help me navigate mine.

Which brings me to the inspiration for this post, poverty. Our goal in grade 12 for the month of December is to define poverty, understand why it exists, identify why some people can't get out of it, help students to know ways that global poverty can finally come to an end and what they can do to make a difference.

The UN has set a goal that by the year 2015 extreme poverty will be eradicated from the world. Currently, there are 1 billion people sharing our world who suffer from extreme poverty. Extreme poverty is defined as not having access to the basics like food, clean water, shelter, basic clothing articles, let alone health care and education. At present, the world is producing enough food for each person to have 2, 224 calories a day, each day. But because people do not have a access or means, the food is not being distributed evenly. In Sach's book, I read about a mom in Malawi, who has a family of six, and when asked by a visitor what she will make for her family to eat, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a bug infested handful of millet which she will take and mix with water to make a porridge to feed all of them. Roughly, a handful of millet is about 450 calories, divide that by 6, and that is how many calories a day she and her family will be eating.

So when I set out this past weekend to plan for my lessons this week, I was hurrying since that evening Koray and I were attending the Teacher's Day party, a lavish event thrown by the school each year to honor teachers. I had been eating carefully all week so that I could wiggle into my shiny new purple off-the-shoulder party dress. And then I read about the mother in Malawi, and it stopped me in my tracks.

In a season where we are thankful for all that we have and eat our way through November and December, consuming thousands and thousands of calories, followed by a strict regime to shed the holiday weight, I suddenly felt very, very aware of how very lucky we are. I am a grateful person, I am grateful for all that I have, and I think about it often, even when it isn't the season to be grateful. But this information made me see my fortunate life in a different light.

I felt moved to do something. But what? What could I do to stop a global problem? Stop shopping at the Gap? Stop overeating? Donate money? Eat leftovers? Stop worrying about the pudge in my waistline? What?

At the very dinner celebrating what we do as teachers, sitting amongst whirls of waiters carrying bright white plates full of artistically stacked food, sparkly glasses brimming with fresh water and wine, another teacher and I were asking ourselves this very question. Racking our brains, we concluded that what we could do to make the most difference was to teach young people. Helping them to understand the multi-faceted nature of poverty and giving them solutions was our only hope. It is a hope that at least one of them will be moved as we were and go out there and make a difference. And this makes me feel hopeless because I wish I could do more. But if everybody did what they could do within their power, maybe the problem would come to an end. In fact, I am sure it would make a difference.

What I have learned is that over-shopping, and overspending, and all of the cheap clothing and items I love to buy actually do contribute to the problem of poverty. I have learned that charity isn't enough, that micro-loans are better since it gives people the empowerment to better themselves. I have learned that we are close to the UN's goal of eradicating poverty and that there is hope, but we all must do our part.

There are many ways to give back out there, but two of my favorites are Oxfam and Kiva.org. These are organizations where you can buy capital in the form of goats, cows, or seeds, or give a micro-loan to an entrepenear. Through kiva.org I loaned some ladies in Nicaragua the rest of the money they needed to buy some chickens for their butcher shop. The cool thing about Kiva.org is that you can loan as little as 25 dollars and once it is re-paid, continue loaning to another person. 25 bucks. Nothing. Click here to watch the dynamic lady who started this amazing program.

There are also many resources you can look into about poverty. "The Story of Stuff" shows us how consumerism is directly linked to the exploitation of poor countries, which directly contributes to poverty. The United Nations web site on the Millennium Development Goals shows a road map for how they plan to eradicate poverty. For a film, check out The End of Poverty? (with punctuation) by Philippe Diaz and for reading, The End of Poverty (no punctuation) by Jeffrey Sachs, of which Bono wrote the forward.

So, after all of this, am I taking a vow of poverty, giving up the lifestyle that I lead? No, I am not that good. But what I will do is be more aware of my impact on the earth and try to change what I can, and try to teach youngsters, including my own, that we do not live alone and are responsible for each other.

I also hope this this post will inspire you to give back this holiday season and help those less fortunate.

If you do, drop me a line, I would love to hear about it.

An Ode to Tuna

2010-11-23T16:36:00.011+01:00

For those of you who know me, know that I love to eat and that I love to cook. Koray mentioned once that since he has known me, I have rarely repeated a recipe twice. And this is true. I love combing web sites for new recipes, or pouring over my favorite cookbooks for dinner. Sure, I make the staples over and over: lamb chops, roasted chicken, meatloaf, grilled cheese, brown rice risotto and dal, but otherwise, I like to try new things. However, there is one recipe that I keep going back to. The star ingredient isn't really a star at all, but mixed with basic ingredients like eggs, cheese, and onions, your run-of-the-mill can of tuna fish is transformed into a delicate and delicious meal with a fancy french name: bouchons au thon.

The recipe comes from the first food blogger I came across that began my foodie blog obsession, Molly Wizenberg's Orangette. She also published a autobiography/cookbook that was a joy to read, and one that I highly recommend picking up. Based in Seattle, Molly has lived in France, hosts a radio blog, owns an uber-cool pizza restaurant in downtown Seattle and publishes this great foodie blog that I follow religiously. She has an honest, funny, self-depreciating sense of humor and is down to earth. My kind of gal. My good friend K. went to a book signing in Seattle and got me a signed copy of her book. Yep, I am that obsessed. But once you taste these tuna treats, you will see why.

These savory morsels of heaven are a show stopper. From finicky four-year-olds to a hungry post-PEI crowd, bouchons au thon will feed the masses and make them swoon. I usually serve them with a simple salad of thinly sliced red cabbage tossed with fresh garlic, lemon juice, olive oil, Parmesan cheese and a sprinkling of salt and freshly ground pepper. This is a delectable combination. This week I made it with Molly's French home-style carrots; also a good combination.

So, if you are looking for a tasty, easy main dish to make, check these out. You won't be disappointed.

note: you can use yogurt in place of the creme fraiche, sour cream would also probably work. I use any kind of cheese I have on hand, and these still turn out delish.

Still Series: Installation Iki

2010-11-19T11:52:00.012+01:00

Koray

2010-11-12T05:10:00.020+01:00

Recently it was the death anniversary of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, known to Turks as the father of modern Turkey. Every year on November 10th, the country comes to a halt for a moment of silence, cars stopping on the roads, students in auditoriums standing tall and proud, shopkeepers taking a minute away from bustling commerce, all to mourn his passing and remember what he did for Turkey. He is important here, and from the biggest cities to the smallest villages, you can find a bust, statue, or picture of Ataturk. His image graces every classroom and business in the country and his face adorns all of the money.

His death day is also the reason why Koray and I were brought together. Nine years ago,the death anniversary fell on a Saturday, so the entire school gathered for an assembly to commemorate the day. Some mutual friends threw a party the night before, and it was there that Koray and I locked eyes. The rest is history.

This post is kind of two fold. It is about something Koray did the other day at school, which also ties in very closely to why I love him.

As I mentioned previously, on Ataturk's death day, schools across the country gather for an assembly where the national anthem is sung, speeches are made, poems recited, music played and the students sit quietly in the audience. This has been the practice for tens of years. A similar scene also happens for the six or so other mandatory assemblies the ministry of education requires of all schools in Turkey.

But this year at our school is different.

Koray and the deans decided that things needed to change. We are educating our students to be critical thinkers who question and interact with the knowledge and content present in our curriculum in hope that they will bring this skill out into the world with them. This doesn't match with the passive ceremonies conducted year after year. So it was agreed that the ceremonies would change from the students sitting passively, to something where the students are more active in the process.

So as the head teacher, Koray decided to conduct the last passive ceremony by giving a speech that spoke to this very sentiment.

When he first told me about the idea, I admit I was initially nervous. Saying anything but positive statements about Ataturk is frowned upon, and ceremonies that celebrate the man as a hero is the status quo. Koray of course wasn't planning on saying anything derogatory, but what he planned to say was something that could be open to misinterpretation. Koray assured me that he was drawing on the core of Ataturk's principles, saying something that was a long time coming. Once I saw the look of determination in his eyes, I knew that this was something he needed to do not only for himself, but for the students at our school. Whatever happened would happen; it needed to be said and he needed to say it.

When Koray gave the speech, you could hear a pin drop in an auditorium of 1005 teenagers. I was proud and inspired by him.

I will witter on no longer and let Koray speak for himself.

Here is the transcript of the speech:

Good morning,

It was 72 years ago today that Mustafa Kemal Atatürk passed away and we are here to remember him and voice our appreciation and respect for him. However in this year’s ceremony there will not be the traditional sequences of the usual ceremonies, like poems cited or documentaries to be watched. If you allow me, relying on your good reason and conscience, I would like to tell you some things that my reason and conscience dictate. I have been almost regularly attending these ceremonies since 1979 and I feel it is time to share a few notions of my Ataturk, if you like. I hope I manage to say what I mean and I hope you find them appropriate and meaningful and I hope this officially becomes the last ceremony in which you are passively involved.

The year must have been 1981 because I remember being in 3rd Grade at a 10th of November ceremony. Hundreds of us were lined up in the long but narrow courtyard of our school in the neighbourhood. At around 09:05, the hour that Ataturk passed away, the school principal called all of us to attention and a moment of silence started, accompanied by the wailing of the sirens. That’s when it got a bit messy, especially for me. On one hand there were the little first graders who started crying and calling for mommy because they were probably scared by the sirens, on the other hand a group of teachers hurried away to calm the little ones down, at the very expressive facial commands of our principal and the worst of worst things happened.

I started giggling and laughing.

I don’t exactly remember what I found funny but I do remember seeing our principal staring right at me and I knew I was in trouble, a state I was quite familiar with. Later on after the ceremony, as the principal was slapping me quite hard on my head, he was yelling “Do you think Ataturk founded the republic for punks like you? What would he think if he saw you, what would he think?”

That very question has never left me ever since; what would Ataturk think if he saw these ceremonies we were running? What would he say? What would this man, who spent most of his life fighting with dogmas and struggling for individuals’ and peoples’ right for self-determination, see in these ceremonies? What do you think he would think about the expectation laid on students of memorizing bits and myths about him, as a leader who did away with sultanate and caliphate because they base their power and authority on an unquestionable divine source?

Seriously, what would he think?

These ceremonies in the way they are still performed have a set structure and ironically, even though some of these ceremonies are for days which are called “bayrams” (festivals) the structure still does not change. The connotations of bayram like celebration, getting together, having fun somehow never make their way into the discourses of these ceremonies. It is hard for me to be convinced that a leader like Atatürk, who dedicated two national days for children and for the young with the hope of them understanding what he and his principles stand for, would necessarily be happy with what he would see. You see, the Atatürk that I like and take as a role model at times, is very different from the Ataturk my principal tried to bang into my head, literally.

I was told a lot of things about Ataturk and was asked to memorize a lot of things about Ataturk throughout my school years. However, I have a personal understanding of Ataturk based on things I figured out by what I have read, watched and as well as the conversations I have had with people, in whose conscience and reasoning I trust. The most remarkable and essential quality of my Ataturk is that he was a man of action and inertia was not an option for him. Standing from our present context and reality, it is rightfully possible to be critical of some of his practices in his own time and realities. Even when doing so, it is fair to realize that we are talking about an individual who did not accept status quo, a person who actually did something about what he was not happy with.

Many of us today are driven to live lives where making a difference and taking a stance are regarded as out-of-date dispositions and maybe we have good reasons for that. But how honest and consistent is it to seemingly pay our respect and show our appreciation 4 or 5 times a year in exactly the same kind of ceremonies for someone whose portraits and pictures are everywhere we go, whilst refraining from exhibiting the very quality of him that I believe has made all the difference? A question for all of us to take a few seconds to ponder:

“When was the last time you took a risk in order to make others’ lives better, even when you knew what you did would have no direct benefit for you?”

I do not mean to say we all have to be Ataturks, we all have an essential obligation of being ourselves for ourselves and others. My point is that as opposed to paying lipservice in these ceremonies, it is more important and valuable to notice his determination to be himself against all risks and odds. Otherwise, organizing and attending these ceremonies exactly like we have in the last 30 or 40 years run the risk of standing in the way of developing our own unique and individual understandings of such an important man and of creating a lack of response and sensitivity, through mindless repetition.

One example of such confidence is very visible in a letter Ataturk wrote to his mother, as early as 1919, at the very beginning of the movement he started.

“Dear mother,

Ever since I’ve left Istanbul, I know I could send only a few telegrams and I can guess that you are worried. In order to do what I think must be done I have had to take my uniform off and start working as a civilian. That is what I did and I am starting to get results. Soon, the whole world will see the results. Do not worry and let me know if you need anything. Please send some clothes with the person who’s brought you this letter. Do not worry over things you hear. You know very well that I know what I am doing. Had I not been sure of its results, I would not have started this movement.”

One of the surest ways of avoiding these risks would simply be to work harder and meaningfully in our areas of impact. Ataturk’s main approach to laying the foundations of a new identity for a brand new nation was simply formulated with the following advice of his:

“Be proud, work hard and have self-confidence.”

It is of utmost importance that we check our understanding of this statement. Maybe it is now time to spend more time on working harder than on being proud or bragging, in order to have the kind of necessary confidence in ourselves, in our identities and in the main principles of democracy.

While reading the memoir of Hasan Riza Soyak, Ataturk’s personal assistant, one comes to a very profound realization. When we take away the very human qualities of people like Ataturk, or anyone for that matter, not only do we develop a misconception of the person but we also throw them in the pangs of loneliness and depression. Below are Ataturk’s own words, describing his state of mind in 30s, long after having established the republic:

“It is almost like the life of prisoner. I am alone during day time. Everybody’s away attending to their work but I do not have anything to do to fill an hour, let alone a full day. That means I either have to sleep or read a book or write a few things. If I feel like a change of air, maybe I will take ride into the city in the car. And then? Then I will return to this prison, where I will try to kill some more time playing pool maybe, waiting for dinner time. If only dinner time brought about a change…same faces, same names, same words over and over again. In a nutshell, I am fed up.”

Maybe I am wrong in what I am saying, maybe you would disagree. However, one disposition which I have based largely on him as my role-model is to stay true to what my mind and conscience dictate and then to take action.

So at this point, I would kindly invite you to a moment of actual silence, unaccompanied by sirens. During this minute, I encourage you to think about how we can make our ceremonies and celebrations of national days more meaningful and effective in terms creating a better understanding of people like Ataturk and the values and principles they operate with.

Finally I have two people to thank.

First one is to the then principal of the elementary school I went to. I don’t think I learned whatever he intended me to learn but he made me ask a very important question at a very early stage. By the way, this does not imply that I suggest my dear colleagues use the same strategy as his to raise individuals who ask questions.

The second person is Mustafa Kemal Atatürk who has largely provided me with the freedom to speak these and other words and who has also been a role-model for me to speak my mind and take action as my mind and conscience dictate.

May he rest in peace.

Still Series: Installation Bir

2010-11-05T05:23:00.023+01:00

I have decided to shamelessly copy one of the mommy blogs that I follow by adding a wordless blog every now and then. The purpose of the wordless blog is to give a glimpse into our life by the use of images, and your imagination. So this will be the only wordless blog installation, with, well, words.

I hope you enjoy it.

Spiderman and Batman Meet the Customers

2010-11-02T11:59:00.018+01:00

All Hallows' Eve was a big hit this year with the boys. Last year they were still a little unsure about the whole thing, and the year before they wanted to stop trick-or-treating, mid treat.

The kres has been talking about fall and Halloween lately, so Ali and Omer were fully ready and amped for the holiday this year. Decked out in a Spiderman pajama set and a Batman rain jacket, they were ready for the onslaught of sugar and Halloween fun.

Some of our cool neighbors on campus organized a low-key, yet fun event for the little ones that started the week before with pumpkin carving. The event ended last night in a meet-n-greet, check-out-my-costume twenty minutes of fun and giggles before the herd headed out into the inky wet night in search of free candy. Parents following dutifully behind for crowd control and pictures, the lojman gang invaded the doorways of those brave enough to leave their lights on. All told, there were 16 houses giving out the goods.

Ali and Omer were troopers, running usually in front of the other kids, eyeballing the bright porch lights in search for more "customers" handing out candy. Their spoils were plenty.

The evening concluded with a kid-friendly ghoulish movie at the social center where parents scarfed down black and orange sprinkled cupcakes and speculated on the insulin levels surging through the childrens' bodies surmising what it would do to sleep patterns that night.

I know mine had lots of sugar pulsing through their veins, but after a bedtime story of Stone Soup, they were out like lights.

It was a sweet and precious evening.

The Weekend

2010-10-24T07:24:00.022+02:00

This weekend has been a good one. Nothing over-the-top or glamorous, how can it be with twin four year olds? But we spent some much needed time together as a family. And it was great.

A tradition has emerged in the Ozsarac household that is both healthy and tasty, and has nothing to do with my Catholic upbringing, really. On our weekly trips to the grocery store, Koray is lured by the siren song of the fish monger and ends up buying a tasty sea bass or mackerel. Since this shopping trip usually happens when school is out for the week, Friday nights have turned into "family fish night" and it is something we all look forward to. I get to kick back, usually with a glass of beer and watch Koray maneuver around the kitchen chopping this, salting that. We missed our family fish night last week since Koray and I were both gone, and Koray has missed a number of family dinners with trips to the capital and abundant after-school meetings, so a fish feast was well overdue.

This Friday Koray had to work late again so, so instead of fish from the monger, we ordered dinner from the new fish restaurant in the village up the hill. Even though it arrived late (8:30), the fish was tasty with a hint of the smoky coals it was cooked over and accompanied by a "we're sorry" salad, fresh, crispy and vibrant with the abundant greens and vegetables of the season. To our surprise and delight, the price was better than when we buy and cook it ourselves. The opening of this restaurant is timely as busy days are far from being behind us.

Another fun event was family movie night. Our new convertible couch transformed our living room into a swanky home theater for a viewing of Toy Story 3. Tucked in and snuggled together, we whiled the evening away warm and happy.

The cherry on the sundae, or the kaymak on the quince, was the delivery of a huge winter squash by our ultra-cool and thoughtful neighbors. I squealed in delight when I saw it emerge from the back of the trunk, orange and bumpy in all its winter squash deliciousness. I will spend some time today to cut, cook and freeze that bad boy to use for all things that are fall and fabulous. Curried squash soup and spice bread are on the dinner menu for tonight.

So, all in all, it was a great weekend, and we have a lot to be thankful for.

Chocolate Induced Ruminations

2010-10-17T15:16:00.018+02:00

I am not trying to turn into a foodie blogger, really I'm not. Everything I cook is a rip-off from someone else and I don't have a knack for taking pretty photographs. My second-in-a-row food focused post is due to the fact that nothing has struck me recently that is really substantial enough to write about. And niggling the back of my mind is that I have at least two groupies who look forward to my blog, which I appreciate, though I think it is only because they are genetically obligated. Nevertheless, I don't want to disappoint.

The past week has been pretty low key and usual. We did spend a night away from the boys for a team-building work function, which was great fun and well worth it (I work with some cool people), but still work. Koray has been working with the ministry of education, something that makes me admire and respect him even more, and is making headway, but nothing conclusive just yet. So work is work, still loving working with surly teenagers and the teaching gig and A and O are growing and thriving. I will mention a fun installation in the series of O's mis-pronunciation of "L." The current obsession and nightly battle over who will wear the the lizard jammies led to a question and answer session in which we cajoled O to say "yizzard" over and over without him knowing that we were trying to get him to say it. It really is cute and since we have heard him pronounce a proper "L" sound we aren't worried about it and are therefore relishing the final and precious remnants of his baby boyhood. Yobster, yoyipops, syug, pyay, yeech, yike, ayi, yambchops, yasagna...the fun never stops.

So the only substantial thing to dedicate this blog to are these amazing dollops of chocolate goodness that I whipped up today. They are from one of the real food blogs that I follow religiously. Named chocolate chocolate chip cookies, they come from a blog titled "Savory Sweet Life" written by a cool Seattle mom who has some great recipes that we have enjoyed eating on many occasions.

These cookies are show stoppers. And if you add some instant coffee (I use the Starbucks variety, it really is the best out there) they become even more over-the-top deliciously spectacular. I have witnessed them silence a room of chatty teachers for at least two minutes. They are that good. I made them last year with mint chocolate chips. Words cannot describe how good those were. But I cannot get those here in Turkey, so today's batch consisted of regular chocolate chips, and they were still simply amazing. I do have one more cookie recipe that is a universal hit, but I will save that for a post during the Christmas baking season. Ginger and spice just doesn't seem right when the weather outside isn't cold and frosty.

So make these suckers, they are wicked good.

Afiyet Olsun!

When Not in Rome.

2010-10-06T18:53:00.015+02:00

I have been dreaming of the pizza Koray and I gorged on during our weekend work trip to Rome last spring. I have tried to re-create that orb of heavenly-garlicky-tomatoey goodness, and have failed. Each time. But it wasn't from lack of knowledge or ingredients. I searched into the bowels of the internet to compare the best recipes to recreate the Roman pizza pie. I even found some pork salami at a specialty shop in Istanbul and made a pizza sauce any Italian grandmother would coo over. But I just couldn't get it right. The pizzas we ate were tasty, no doubt, but nothing like the crisp, clean taste of a rose-golden weekend in Rome.

Letting go of the goldfish, I have vowed to stop chasing the elusive Roman pie. Instead, I have opted for something entirely different: a barbecued pizza.

It ain't Rome, but is it ever tasty.

I added a new foodie blog to my reading repertoire last weekend and found a recipe for barbecued pizza. Too be honest, it wasn't the first time I had seen this type of recipe, and in the past it never really caught my eye. What was different about this particular one was her secret step of brushing the grilled pizza dough with fresh garlic and olive oil before adding the pizza toppings. I realized at that moment I had stumbled onto something.

As I sit here with a belly full of BBQ chicken barbecued pizza (A and O couldn't quite get their heads around that name)I will admit that not having a pizza peel did make the process a little sloppy, but on the second crust I worked out a system that included two spatulas and a cutting board which worked. My timing and the heat of the grill left a lot to be desired. I managed to burn a couple of black crispy spots onto each crust, a rookie mistake easily remedied with a good pizza cutter. I will also admit that I used my bread machine to make the dough, so the process was quite easy. The result? A delicious can't-wait-for-husband-to-get-back-from-his-meeting-till-I-eat-this-thing mixture of chicken, red onion, smokey BBQ sauce and fresh cilantro heavenliness. Finally putting an end to my obsession, this pizza pie has managed to fill the void of the crusty, delectable Roman version.

And she was right about the garlic and olive oil base layer, it did rock that pizza.

So, if you are interested in this recipe, go here. You can use any toppings, but I think the BBQ Chicken Pizza is spectacular.

As for the other pizza, I guess we will just have to go back to Rome, which wouldn't be so bad.

Autumnal Yearnings

2010-09-24T17:33:00.021+02:00

I love living in Turkey. It has been my home now for going on ten years. I love my job, the food, the travel opportunities, my friends, my students, the shopping. For most of the year, I never really think about the fact that I "live abroad" or that I live in a "foreign" country, but when fall turns, my yearning for the home of my childhood and early adulthood is strong and severe.

Lately all of the foodie blogs that I follow have been including recipes that are autumnal in their origins, commencing my three month lament over not being back in my homeland for fall. One of my oldest and closest buddies taunts me every year (it has become a funny tradition) where she, on e-mail, takes a break to have a "sip" of her pumpkin spice latte, and even adds a "ahhh" before getting back to her message, leaving me in the throws of fall withdrawal. Starbucks is all over Turkey, yet they don't do the seasonal drinks that the states has. When I was home last fall, she promptly put a pumpkin spice latte in my hand and bought me a Starbucks gift card, carefully tucking it into my bag when I wasn't looking. Upon finding it at when reaching into my wallet to buy some coffee, I was so touched by this gesture that I threw my arms round her right there in front of everybody. Every time I reach for my original Starbucks mug, loamy brown in its color, I am whisked back to that brisk fall morning at Pike Place Market with my oldest and closest friends.

Soon after we were married, Koray went to Philadelphia for a conference in October and was mesmerized by the vivid reds and oranges that blanketed and painted the campus. He was finally able to see for himself why fall has such a special affect on me. Knowing I was missing this seasonal splendor, and much to my joy and surprise, he brought back a grocery bag full of bright red maple leaves and threw them all over. The earthy smell made me dizzy. I framed a few of the leaves to display when it finally turns brisk and golden here in Istanbul.

It was just about this time last year that my yearning for a North American fall was at its peak. I couldn't stop taking about it and thinking about it so Koray encouraged me to book a ticket to spend a week back across the Atlantic. The draw of the seasonal change was unbelievably strong last year and through my dad's illness I was brought back to my homeland and reunited with many people that I love and hadn't seen in a while and I was able to experience my beloved Washington fall. Being back in the US for Halloween was a bittersweet treat on its own. The colors were seemingly technicolor in comparison to the muted yellows and browns of an Istanbul fall. The air was brisk and people were bundled up, leaves blanketed the streets and I was home again. The crisp, clean, cold Seattle air invigorated my lungs and helped to clear my head after spending days with my dying father in the hospital. For the earth, fall is the season of shutting down and hibernation, last fall was for me a season of connection and growth, regeneration of spirit and of healing old wounds. In fact, it always has been something to me. It is my season.

And my season isn't here yet. Summer still lingers and heavier layers still wait upon the shelves in my closet. The nights, though, are chilly, and I did see the harbinger of fall, the white crocus, shooting up in our front yard today, and fresh chestnuts are beginning to make an appearance, so I do have peace that cooler days and re-birth are not far away.

If you are in North America, send fally thoughts my way as you kick through the sanguine splendor of the seasons' glory.

The Golden Days of Late Summer

2010-09-18T06:12:00.014+02:00

It is September but summer is still in the air here in Istanbul. The weather has been holding steady at about 24 degrees in the afternoon and the salmony-pink golden evenings have been delicious.

This streak of good weather has played an important role in my afternoon adventures with A and O. This week a colleague of mine reminded me about the terrapins noting he had seen at least twenty, and a baby duck. This tickled me because I was sure the pond had been bull-dozed by all of the construction on campus and I knew A and O would be up for a turtle-seeking adventure. The next day, on an afternoon walk with the boys and our neighbor friend C, I asked them if they wanted to go and see the terrapins. To my delight, they squealed and chortled at the idea and then stopped and asked, "but what is a terrapin?"

"Well, it is a turtle, but it lives in the water."

(insert long pause and far off looks)

"Ya! let's go see the terrapins"

So we made our plan that after C asked her parents for permission, and if they said yes, she would be at our door as soon as she changed out of of her school clothes the very next day.

So the terrapin adventure began promptly at 4:35 with a definite knock at our kitchen door. We geared up and headed out.

It had been about 5 years since I had seen the terrapin pond, and there are new roads being built, so I wasn't sure where to go exactly. Unfortunately, we went to the wrong water run off which was murky and overgrown by cattails, so even if there were terrapins living there, we couldn't see them. Much to the kids' disappointment, we had to head back with only a view of the diggers and dump trucks doing digger and dump truck things. A way up the road we tried for about ten steps to walk across the field, but O 's leg got scratched with blackberry brambles, so when giggles turned into tears, I decided the terrapins could wait for another day.

And another day was the next day. Soon after school was over on Friday, we again put on our shoes and headed out in search for the water dwellers. After going down another wrong road, and answering two dozen variations of the question "but where are the terrapins?" we finally laid our eyes on the much sought after, and talked about, terrapin pond. In the inky water we saw black pointy heads poking out of the water, ducking under each time one of the littles shifted in the grass or made a noise. I got a good work out from lifting each of them up to get a better view and they were satisfied with finally seeing the elusive terrapins.

On our way back, ensconced in the golden-warm summer evening, we nibbled on wild blackberries, chased butterflies and chatted about our favorite animals, foods and colors.

It was a good adventure with some cool little people.

B's Zucchini Relish

2010-08-30T17:48:00.008+02:00

School has started, for teachers at least, and I have been as busy as expected. But with good things. And because all of those things have been so good, but busy, I need some time to process it all. But I will say that the year is off to a good start and I am looking forward.

But to look backwards for a moment, I want to write about my maternal grandmother's zucchini relish, something I mentioned in my last post. It has been quite a hit with the people I have shared it with so I figured it was worth mentioning here again.
This isn't your average relish, one that is reminiscent of a dill pickle. This is a heavenly concoction that is sweet and sour at the same time, that goes on just about anything you are whipping up for dinner. We recently ate it with grilled burgers, but you can also put it on chicken, mix it with cream cheese for a tasty spread for crackers or fresh bread and you could even use it for curry, which I think I will try this week.

I don't know where the recipe originated or if it goes back any more generations than my grandmother. What I do know is that it is tried, true and tested, year after year, by my mom's family to be a tasty recipe worth making in the hot summer months. I don't have any special memories of it really, but it has always been there in the fridge, ready to dollop on this or that. This summer it was a nice surprise to discover it again, next to the fixins' for a burger (which included the most delectable sweet onions) at my aunt and uncle's house in Lebanon, Oregon.
And that is really all I have to say about it. It is damn tasty and I encourage you to make it as well because the recipe is a cinch to make, especially if you have a Cuisinart or mandolin (which I don't). The recipe here is not for canning purposes, but you can easily can the relish after it is cooked. The recipe follows.

B's Zucchini Relish

10 cups of grated zucchini
4 cups onion, grated
1 red pepper, grated
1 green pepper, grated
3 tablespoons of salt

Combine in glass bowl and let sit over night.

Drain in the morning and add:

2 1/4 cups of apple cider vinegar
4 cups of sugar
1 tablespoon mustard
1 tablespoon nutmeg
1 tablespoon turmeric
1 tablespoon corn starch
1/2 teaspoon black pepper

Bring to a boil then simmer for 40 minutes. Taste for salt and spices and adjust to your liking. My mom says cinnamon, garlic and celery seed can be added as well.

Enjoy!

August Back in Istanbul

2010-08-15T07:29:00.013+02:00

Having been back for a week now, we have settled into a summer routine that will luckily continue for another week before I have to go back to work. It has been good and surprisingly restful after a busy summer.

The weather has been unbearably hot and humid, but I think we are finally acclimated to it. We toyed with the idea of getting air conditioning installed, but it would take at least a week's wait to have it installed as we aren't the only ones with the bright idea, but by then, we would all be back at work and school, where we have air conditioning. So we decided to have it installed in the off season in order to arm ourselves in the event next summer is a steamy as this one, and get it at half the price.

So, how do you stay home all day in the heat with two four-year-olds? A schedule. The first thing is breakfast followed by a trip in a gloriously air-conditioned car to the store, or the nursery for flowers, or Starbucks. Then we come home for some quiet toy play, followed by lunch and then a nap. Then the fun begins with water play. Take two boys slathered in sunscreen armed with two buckets, throw in a couple of bath toys, turn on the hose and you have at least an hour of water fun. Ali and Omer have also been enjoying an afternoon glass of chocolate milk, made excitedly by their own little hands. We also whipped up some popsicles, a summer treat that is always a big hit with the under five crowd. When the day slowly turns into a cooler evening, we enjoy an alfresco meal, something grilled with a salad and Ramazan pide. Each meal is followed by a trip to the park for some twilight swinging, then a hose down before the bedtime ritual begins. Then is starts all over again.

On my end, I decided not to have the cleaning lady in for the two weeks I will be home, so I have taken charge of all the domestic tasks. Going back to basics has been good and character building. It also makes me appreciate more the ladies who are usually here doing these jobs. I tackled the mountain of laundry, which was followed by a mountain of ironing, in the evenings after the boys went to bed, when the temperature dropped to a slightly less steamy 27 degrees. This week it will be the floors, changing the sheets and cleaning the bathrooms. I have also been going through all of the closets and drawers and purging the house of items we haven't used in over a year.

Food has also played a role in my domestic holiday. Our neighbor brought over a huge zucchini from his garden and it had "relish" written all over it so I whipped up a batch of my grandma Prince's zucchini relish. This summer part of my mom's family and I feasted on burgers with this relish, something I had forgotten existed. One taste and I was transported back to her 100-year-old kitchen in Gold Beach, Oregon where one summer my mom and aunts made a winter's supply. I was surprised at how easy it was to make. The color was a little more caramelized than the original version since I burned the bottom (gas stoves can really kick out some heat) but the taste is still the same. Another tasty dish comes from a blog that I just found titled "Kiss My Spatula." You can find it here. She has a recipe for zucchini crudo, an ideal summer dish because it requires no cooking. Perfect. For this weekend I will attempt to make zeytinyagli dolma, or stuffed vine leaves, a cool, cinnamony, lemony dish that is actually pretty easy to make. Iced tea and ice cream have also made repeat performances in my attempt to keep cool and the cooler evenings are always celebrated with a cold, crisp glass of beer.

So, that is what I have been up to. School starts on the 23rd, and I am sure the expression "hit the ground running" will apply. I will no doubt miss the lazy dog days of summer with the boys.

Friends, Family, lobsters and burgers

2010-08-09T10:46:00.004+02:00

The title refers to what I was focused on most of the summer, which went by too quickly. I wish I could say I was feeling less busy and had more free time, but traveling with twin 4 year-old boys is many things, and relaxing isn't one of them.

We just arrived in last night from our trans-Atlantic flight, from a cool and pleasant, and often chilly and foggy, Nova Scotian summer to a steamy Istanbul summer. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, and luckily there is a breeze to cool the beads of sweat that form on my upper lip. At least the sweating will help me to shed some of the eating I did over the summer.

We were all awake at 2 am today, so we feasted on the leftover airplane snacks like blueberries, chocolate covered granola bars, gummy bears, and 30 Rock. Luckily, we did fall asleep and got a decent night's rest. Koray is back to work today, so Ali, Omer and I are at home re-adjusting. There is literally a mountain of suitcases waiting to be sorted through, but that may wait until tomorrow.

So, with all of that to do, I will write more about our North American holiday at a later date and post some pictures. At the moment, I have a date with two little boys and a family of teddy bears.

Enjoy the rest of summer.

Calamari, Beer and Istanbul Views

2010-06-19T08:12:00.005+02:00

I don't have a lot to post today, because it has been work work work, but last night we got out of the house, leaving A and O with their grandparents, to do some shopping in the old city.

Shopping made me hungry and thirsty, and the weather last evening was so vexing in its rosy golden glow, so we found our way to a breezy spot under the Galata Bridge and sipped ice cold beer and nibbled on mezzes and fried calamari. Delish.

What is it about cold beer on a summer evening?

V Day

2010-06-12T21:14:00.012+02:00

Even though I have been so tired lately that I have thrown in the intellectual towel, putting that ambitious book list aside opting instead for zoning out by watching episode after episode of Seinfeld, I did manage to find a book that has sparked my interest, even after 8:00 p.m.

The book is titled I am an Emotional Creature: The Secret Life of Girls Around the World by Eve Ensler and it is really interesting. It reads like a journal, but it is actually fiction. After Ensler's celebrated The Vagina Monologues became a sensation, she went traveling the world again meeting with young girls from all walks of life. I haven't finished her book yet, but it is an engaging read because she gives voice to so many silenced and voiceless girls in countries around the globe, including the U.S.

Ensler celebrates women's sexuality and condemns its violation*. Her message to stop violence against women and to encourage women and young girls to embrace who they are as emotional creatures is admirable, moving and crucial.

I came across Ensler on a Ted Talk, 20 minutes of video I highly recommend checking out. The passion and humor she brings to the table was engaging and inspiring. She speaks candidly about the ways in which so many women are viewed and treated. I was so captured by her presence that I bought the book not only because I am a woman but because I come into contact with so many young, impressionable girls as a part of my job. She covers many topics in the book, but they are all connected by the plight of being a young female in today's world. It transcends culture, even though parts of the book are culturally specific.

I wish that all young girls and mothers and fathers of young girls would read this book because it is important.

Check out Eve's work. She is a cool chick for sure.

*paraphrased from the amazon.com book review

Gibbled

2010-05-30T14:41:00.007+02:00

Due to the end-of-year craziness I mention below, I haven't had the time or energy to write a full blog post, but two half posts. I have been trying to spend what free time I have hanging with my three boys as much as possible. It has been grand. So this is a short one, and probably needs more time to rest since it feels a little stiff, but the nagging guilt of not writing a post in a while has gotten the better of me. Hopefully after school is out I will have more free time and energy to write something more cohesive especially since this summer is shaping up to be quite a lovely time seeing lots of people I have missed all year.

Until then here is the most cohesive of the two posts.

______________________________________________________________

May 19th, 2010

The end of every school year is filled with the excitement of summer just around the corner and a little bit of crazy. This year is no different in that sense, however, this past week has had an added element, teary farewells.

This week we have had to say farewell to three people who mean the world to us. And even though one of them is moving just up the road to work for neighbors and the other two we will see in just over a month, the good byes were weepy.

The first heart breaker was to Leyla, the wonderful individual who has been here with us since the day after we brought Ali and Omer home. She has helped us raise our boys into the neat little individuals that they are and when they went to kres (pre-school) she was the lady of the house, looking after everything from the laundry to picking up the boys from school to organizing my closet. We listened to L's sage advice and kept Leyla on for this school year, and we are glad we did. Since dad died, it has been a tough go and having Leyla around to pick up the slack has been a life saver. Lucky for her though, a neighbor who is ripe with twins has snatched Leyla up, so she will still be around campus and in our hearts, just not in our home.

The next day we waved farewell to a yellow cab that whisked Roger and Lorraine (Rogit and Nan) away through Ortakoy on its way to the airport, and back to Halifax where more people we love are waiting for them. R and L have also been in our lives since the birth of A and O, before even. They were here and in Syria for just about three weeks, the second time since they moved back to Halifax that we have been lucky with a spring visit.There are too many things to write here about why they are so special to us, as the list is long. Their second son, JE said it best. In his blog, he wrote about the way they focus their attention on he and his wife saying, "We describe it in terms of a deeply loving embrace that guides toward increased awareness of what we are trying to communicate." At a meal after their departure, Omer also said it well when he said, "Rog and Nan are part of our family because we love them."

I couldn't have said it better myself, nor could I agree more.

Lucky for us, these special people will not be very far away as they will always be in our hearts.

p.s. One of the photos is of Rog and Omer doing "Rock a Bye Baby" something he has done with them since they were little, which they still love and insist on him doing. The other is Nan and Ali giggling about something on the beach.

Sleep Deprivation and Bribery

2010-04-30T17:36:00.013+02:00

Just over four years ago, Koray and I made the decision that I would nurse Ali and Omer. It was a joint decision, because in order to do so, we had to feed them every three hours around the clock from cups just a little bigger than a thimble for a month, which meant I had to pump every three hours for a month in order to keep my milk in. Ali and Omer were too little to nurse for the first month, but we decided it was what we wanted to do, so we did it and we don't regret it.

In order to nurse twins, and keep myself at least partially sane, we decided that co-sleeping would be best. So for the first part of their lives A and O slept with us every night so that when one roused hungry I could nurse one while still sleeping, and then roll over and nurse the other. It was the only way we saw that we could survive this thing called twin babies that descended on our life, changing it forever.

And up until seven days ago, we have been paying for it.

"It" being the decision to co-sleep because at the wise age of four, Ali and Omer have been co-sleeping for some time now. But the game has changed because no longer are they vulnerable little lambs, unable to roll over or argue or fight with their sibling regarding who gets to lay face-to-face with mommy stealing all of her oxygen. These are big boys, taking up space, who have a certain way they like to sleep, who wake up as soon as mommy gets up, even it is 5:00 a.m. to tip-toe downstairs in an attempt to get some alone time.

But the other day, after talking to another mommy about offspring and sleep issues, I realized I needed to crack down. I talked to Koray about it and we were a united front against two little boys who love to sleep in their parents bed. A united front, armory, and full on bribery was our strategic plan. We knew going into it that the troops would protest and try everything they could to keep the status quo, but we were determined and had a secret weapon: an ice cream party.

Ahh, the beauty of bribery.

We knew we had to have one tasty carrot because the tactics of the opposing team are fierce and calculated. The strategy you ask? Wait until you hear the gentle pat of a book hitting the bed side table, the click of the lamp and then waiting patiently until the mommy unit is asleep. Then attack, being careful to tip-toe, tip-toe into the room and stealthily slip under the covers, being extra careful not to rouse said sleeping mommy unit (the baba unit is usually crashed in front of the tv on the couch downstairs).

I only know this happens because a. I wake up every morning with two baby boys curled around my neck and legs not having any idea when they came in, and b. on one night of insomnia, I was awake and witnessed the stealthy attack. At first I thought we were being robbed again, but then the moonlight revealed a Thomas the Train pajama clad tip-toer, and I knew we had been beat. Koray and I are heavy sleepers and they had designed their war plan around this well-established fact.

One of my clever teacher neighbors suggested that I do what I would do in my class and teach them to stay in their beds, since after all, I am a teacher by trade. At first I thought that I couldn't make the leap since I teach teenagers who are a different animal than two four-year-olds. But I thought about it for a while, and realized that behavior modification through an incentive program might just work. So we made a chart with five boxes for each day, the last box colorfully decorated for the last morning where a 5th X means an ice cream party. Putting the X in the box each morning really seemed to up the ante. The first night, they each came in three times. Amazingly, my subconscious must have had it as well, because as soon as the pitter of pitter-pat hit the bedroom floor, I woke up and ordered them out of the room. The next night, they each only came in once, and for the last three nights they peacefully slept in their own beds. I have been feeling well-rested, more alert and on my game. I also realize I have been sleep deprived for way too long now.

So they made it five nights in a row of sleeping in their own beds, and we celebrated with ice cream sundaes.

The next carrot is a pair of bikes. Wish us luck.

Mardin

2010-04-09T13:32:00.021+02:00

Growing up as a Catholic who went to parochial school, studying about Mesopotamia and the Tigris River evoked a sense of wonder and mystery within me. They were far away places that I never dreamed I would lay my eyes on. Upon seeing the two for the first time recently, I have to say that they were as magical as I always wondered them to be.

This spring break we hopped on a plane, rented a car and traveled to a small town, perched atop a hillside in southeastern Turkey. We were closer to Syria and Iraq then we were to home, and it was fabulous. It was like being in another country at times, for one, when strolling through the narrow streets and markets, which are different than anything I had ever seen before, you do not hear Turkish as Kurdish and Syriani are the lingua franca there, though everybody speaks Turkish as a third language. The monasteries, churches and countryside in and around Mardin are spectacular. Looking at the city from the yeni yol (the new road below, Mardin is built on a hillside) is like looking at a Turkish carpet; your eyes are continually drawn to the many textures of the city, each time seeing a new building or detail on a window that you hadn't seen before. There we saw churches, monasteries, mosques, ancient buildings, vibrant life, poverty, wealth, serenity, life.

Another highlight was the kebap joint we frequented three nights out of five. Koray's keen "where the locals eat" radar quickly picked up on this unassuming hot spot, named Rido, and we quickly became friendly with the waiters and cooks and enjoyed the tastiest kebaps this side of the Tigris. Served with a simple salad of tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, sumac, a drizzle of olive oil and a heaping amount of flat bread, we were in lamb fat heaven. The other tasty spot was the Cercis Murat Konagi a restaurant run by a woman from Mardin, and the only licensed restaurant in town. Here they serve up a more fancy fare that we didn't find anywhere else in Mardin or the surrounding cities. I am not sure what the mezzes and main courses were called, but they combine common items like eggplant, chickpeas, bulgar, pomegranate molasses, yougurt and garlic into some of the most delectable dishes of yumminess that I have ever tasted on this side of the world.

Yet another highlight was our last day. We drove around the Tur Abdin plateau in search of ancient monasteries tucked away in tiny villages. The last stop was the most amazing, the Meryem Ana, Mother Mary church, built at the beginning of the calendar. The "dirt rain" was looming in the distance, carrying sands from the deserts, giving a apocalyptic glow to the seemingly deserted space. Ali and Omer were fast asleep in the car, so I ran into the church through a side door, and was instantly transported 2000 years back in time. For a glorious three minutes, I stood in the courtyard in awe, without a soul around until the local "guide" came to open the church sanctuary for me to see.

Even though the town itself was wonderful and bustling, our hotel beautiful and tranquil, the food tasty and abundant, the ancient sites truly other worldly, my favorite moments were the evenings we drove up a rocky dirt road to a seemingly far away space to watch the sunset over Mesopotamia. We propped the car doors open, turned up the iPod, cracked open a couple of beers, set the boys loose and lounged around on a carpet we had bought near the Tigris. The boys frolicked like the goats and sheep in the distant hillsides, and we just were.

Maybe it is because the spring wheat was vivid and abundant, and almost everywhere we went we saw lamb in some form, be it the real thing grazing in the lushness of spring, kebaps or lamb pelts, my mind kept wandering back to my dad. As my eyes searched the vast fields we drove by on the way to another far away site, I knew my dad would be able to recognize what was growing there and I wished I could have taken pictures to show him. And I knew he would enjoy seeing the exuberant little fat tailed lambs and goat kids that dotted the hillsides and fields. This trip gave me extended moments to do a lot of thinking about this fall and winter, the time surrounding his sickness and death. It was therapeutic to let my mind wonder and meditate on these events. Our lives are so busy and full that I haven't had the chance to really think about it now that a few months have passed and life has moved on.

Our trip to Mardin was a journey on many levels, and I will carry those precious moments with me always. Mardin and the Tur Abdin plateau is an amazing area that is not to be missed.

Poetry

2010-03-26T09:57:00.021+01:00

For the last unit of the year, the grade nine English teachers at The Koc School where I teach English, take their students through a six week long poetry unit, the culminating activity being an awards ceremony. This isn't just any awards ceremony, this is the Golden Rams, a spin off of the Oscars complete with the People's Choice Award and of course, an actual Golden Ram. Well, as you can see in the picture it is more of a silly sheep, spray painted gold, by me and the art teacher. Koc, by the way, means ram. The presenters, a male and female English teacher, dress to the nines. Mr. Fulton who has presented every year to date, dons a black tux, and the lady presenter, who changes each year, dresses in a decadent black feather boa and sparkly evening dress (I did it last year). It is great fun, with corny jokes to boot.

How do the grade nine students win the coveted Golden Ram? Well, they film and edit an animated poem. Essentially, the students choose a poem, analyze it, deconstruct it and figure out how to represent it visually. Billy Collins has some professionally filmed, and worthwhile watching, animated poems on youtube that you could check out if you are so inclined. In order to get the kids warmed up to working in groups and using film techniques, we set the grade nine students out on a scavenger hunt during lunch time. Their assignment is to film as many of the tasks as possible in a 40-minute period. The tasks include singing in a public space, doing leap frog, playing air hockey in the common area, serenading a teacher (though I think we took this out, it was awkward in some situations), capturing wild life, etc. So each spring we set loose 155 grade nine students to run amok on campus, with cameras in hand. It is quite a site, and a warning e-mail to the school community always precedes the event.

I am the unit leader this year for the poetry unit, and in preparation, I started reading a great book on teaching poetry to high school students titled Poetry of Place by Terry Hermsen . The author teaches poetry in unconventional ways in order to get students as excited and interested in poetry as their geeky English teachers are. One of the many ideas that he writes about that I will use is the poetry night hike. The grade nine boarders have no idea what is coming their way.

I am only a quarter way through, but already I have been inspired to write some of my own poetry, something I really don't do. However, I like to do the tasks myself that I will assign to my students, mainly because it helps me to work out any kinks, but it also gives me more insight into how to teach something. So yesterday, for my senior elective English class with a young lady who plays a 100-year-old harp and whose poetry writes circles around me, we headed outside into the brisk, new spring air. There I found inspiration to write four short poems, three of which are riddles. I shared my poems with the tux guy, and feeling inspired, he wrote one as well.

Let's see if you can guess the answers to the riddles. The first three are mine, then David's, then one published in the aforementioned poetry book written by a member of the Kuyukon tribe in Northern Canada.

Yellow-bellied clusters of white stars.

Cutting off heads, growling and gaining speed.

Snowy pale, delicate lace in a sea of green.

A congress of black robed
solicitors sit in high judgment
and squabble over the littering
of squawking students.

Far away, a fire flares up.

And for this one, the assignment is to just write about what you see before you. Very Zen.

Lesson in the Afternoon
Hop hop hopping,
picking through the green shoots and autumnal debris,
scarcely seen birds forage.
Like bells, tiny birds twinkle in the tree tops.
A blue lady appears,

beings silence, and disperse.

I will sign off with a couple lines from a gazal poem, written by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, that I feel captures what spring is like in Istanbul this year.

It's still distant, but there are hints of springtime,
some flowers, aching to bloom, have torn open their collars.

Busy Times

2010-03-22T18:00:00.011+01:00

I can tell from how Monday went that this week is going to be a long and busy one, so I am going to throw in the towel. In lieu of a proper post, here are some images from the boys' birthday celebration at the kres.

The good news is that in two weeks time, we will be overlooking Mesopotamia from a quaint little hotel in Mardin, where I hope it will be sunny and warm. And soon after that our good friends R and L will be here and in Syria visiting from Nova Scotia. After that, it is a downhill slide into summer vacation.

Until next time.

Happy Birthday to Ali and Omer

2010-03-16T07:45:00.008+01:00

March 16, 2006

Dear Ali and Omer,

Yesterday, the day before your birth,

I stepped into a room where your

mother lay, your father was sitting,

and Lorraine was also sitting.

I heard a beat, a rapid beat, no actually

two beats, one slightly echoing the other

and my feet moved, small steps to either side,

moving to the sound, your sound.

It was your tiny hearts beating, a

rhythm in the room, that we danced to

in the small tappings of our feet, in

our phrasing of conversation, our

gesture. It was your sound, your

separate hearts, their fast single

beats, their shifts in tempo, in

pitch, that defined our day,

surrounded us with the pulse of your life,

your lives. We talked, we drank tea, we

kissed and we hugged, and your parents

and you waited, hearts pumping

the blood of your lives, beating

as they must, waiting for the day,

for today, this day, your birth day,

when you will first see the world

you will take your first breaths

and cry your first cries as your tiny heartbeats

subtly shift to carry you forward

into and through this world of air

we will all inhabit together.

Roger Field

April isn't the only cruel month

2010-03-06T06:18:00.025+01:00

Wow. What a week that was. Even though I slept in until 7:00 today, and took a nap with the boys in the afternoon, I am not sure if that will do the trick. I don't know what made last week so long and tiring, because nothing out of the ordinary happened; no extra duties at work or long meetings.

Maybe it is March madness descending upon campus with the plants and trees budding green, yet the air remaining winter like. And even though I love cold and gray weather, I also look forward to the loamy smell of early spring, and slightly warmer days that are, at least here, the harbinger of spring in Istanbul. On a walk yesterday, we noticed the grass crowded and nearly bursting with beautiful white orchid flowers waiting to open wide their petals in celebration of the first warm ray of sun. Upon noticing them I said to Koray, "but it doesn't smell like spring." And it doesn't. It doesn't smell or feel like spring. I surely don't feel like spring. This lack of sprightliness is embodied by an avocado waiting patiently in the fridge to to be incorporated into a California roll. But I don't feel like cooking or eating cold foods just yet. Instead, I want to make bubbling sweet potato soup, cinnamony-warm rice pudding and carrot fritters; winter food.

It could be that I am forgetting what spring is like in Istanbul, since I feel like I am always too warm here. And maybe I go through this every spring, thinking that it is too cold for the trees to be budding and tulips to be breaking out of the wintry earth, when really, this is what early spring is like here. But seeing the dancing heads of daffodils in my neighbor's yard the other day stopped me dead in my tracks and made me think that the weather is just not right, that the natural balance is just slightly off.

Checking out the Besiktas fish market today, I was chilled to the bone, and found myself counting the minutes on the ferry ride back to our car. And I love the ferry. Sitting on the outside deck is something I do in all seasons, and always have since I arrived here. When we finally got home, for once I appreciated the powerful heating system in the lojmanlar, and after warming a mug of chocolate soy milk, I snuggled under our down comforter, accessorized with socks, a fleece, and a pashmina wrapped around my neck. This is winter behavior. But not really, because I felt hot all winter and slept with the windows open as much as Koray could stand it, usually clad only in a tank top and pajama bottoms (house pants). So I can't figure out what is going on other than my mind is having trouble navigating mother nature's mixed messages.

Koray just came in from fetching fresh bread from the firin (bakery) up the hill, and he reported that it was snowing. Snowing!

So, I will leave it at that and hope that the green, gold buds on the hydrangeas are a promise of warmer days.

I have posted some images from our visit to Ayasofya last weekend and the fish market from today. The purplish, beet looking things are purple carrots which turn a beautiful shade of deep purple when peeled and cut .

The Lightness of Being

2010-02-25T05:27:00.028+01:00

I love my boys. I love them from the tips of my toes to the top of head, a love that makes me talk in silly voices and do things I never thought I would do, but my evening out alone this week was fantastic.

As soon as school was over, I hopped in the car, set the ipod to John Mayer, rolled down the windows and hit the road. My destination was Istiklal Caddesi, Beyoglu, known as Pera in earlier times, a bustling hub of coolness and light. The gods were kind as my trip in was surprisingly easy, with little traffic and a wrong turn that was easily remedied. I was set to meet a group of ladies to talk about books, and I had two hours to kill. So I did what you do on on Istiklal: I walked.

Istiklal is a long street, lined with shops, cafes, bookstores and restaurants, with music blaring, street musicians busking and people chatting. It is cool, a place Koray and I used to frequent often when we were Ali Omer siz. Koray went to high school there and with his blues band Istanblues, played gigs at the various bars and nightclubs into the wee hours of the morning, so it was he that initially introduced me to this place. His wooing strategy was to show me all of the interesting and obscure places hidden away in the maze of neighborhoods connected to Istiklal. And it worked, hook, line and sinker. With the arrival of the boys, we stopped going, because when I say bustling, I mean teeming with thousands of people, not a great environment for two people dazed and confused from new parenthood. The first time we went back after the birth of our boys was on a New Year's morning. We strapped the boys on and ventured out when we knew the Beyoglu types were fast asleep or sipping their last bowl of iskembe, a soup notorious to be a hang over cure. It was empty and lovely. And big. The street, minus the sea of people, was unbelievably wide and for once, I was able to look up and soak in the beautiful architecture that towered above the streets.

So yesterday I parked the car, and hit the pavement. At first I felt like I had left something behind, and kept checking my bag, paranoid that I had dropped or forgotten something, or worried I had been unknowingly pick-pocketed. This reaction to traveling light comes from the fact that when we travel, we travel as an entourage. So the lightness of my sparsely packed bag combined with my free hands and mind was, is, a feeling alien to me. Since I didn't have to navigate around the thousands of people with a little person at my side, I found that I was remarkably swift and stealthy in the sea of people. I made it to Tunel in no time at all. On the way down, I noted shops and art galleries that I wanted to pop into on the way back (which I did), and made my way to a favorite restaurant, tucked away in a quiet alley. It was glorious. I ordered Thai vegetable soup and Vietnamese spring roles, and dined at a leisurely pace, reading my book and not thinking about game plans or refereeing dinosaurs and trains.

Something I noticed when I was walking back towards Taksim was how even in a crowd of thousands of people coupled with all of the noise from the shops and cafes, to me it was beautifully quiet. My mind wandered where it wanted and I just was.

I spent the rest of the evening talking about books and drinking coffee. I didn't get home until 11:30, and for those who know me well, know that this is about three hours past my usual bed time. I paid for it the next day. Regardless of when I go to bed, the days start bright and early with the pitter patter of growing feet followed closely by a running commentary that ends when the doors of the kres (pre-school) swing shut. But, I had plenty of good coffee to keep me awake and the experience of being alone for an evening was well worth the lack of sleep.

Expat Explorations

2010-02-19T17:19:00.041+01:00

The term "third culture kid"refers technically to kids who live in a culture outside of their own long enough that they incorporate elements of that culture into their lives. My beautiful and smart cousins Kirsten and Shannon are third culture kids. My aunt and uncle raised their girls in Cairo, while keeping an American culture within the home. Even as an expat myself, it is curious for me to see them post on Facebook from the states that they are "going home" for the holidays, home being Cairo, Egypt.

I have been thinking about this topic quite a bit since I started reading this blog and was asked some expat mommy questions for this blog. To be honest, I really don't think about my expatriate status, since my life is pretty normal, well, at least I consider it to be. I get up, go through a typical routine of getting the boys and myself ready for school, head off to work, come home, whip up dinner, spend time with the family, hit the hay and do it all over again. We mix it up on the weekends, but the day begins and ends in the same manner, seven days a week. Taking the term from my friend L's shoes, a pair of Keen hybrids, I have been calling my boys hybrids for some time now, but that was more of a joke about the state of their parents. Then I saw A use the word hybrid as a term to describe people living on the crossroads of culture, and I began to think about it.

Our boys aren't third culture kids, they are half American and half Turkish: hybrids. Which means that we have a hybrid household. Both English and Turkish is spoken in our home and while my Turkish still leaves a lot to be desired, we have a hybridized way of communicating. I didn't realize this until recently when my Turkish classmates were in stitches as I was trying to explain the traditions of winter solstice to our Turkish teacher. I couldn't figure out what was so darn funny, but I soldiered on only to elicit more giggles. The gigglers later explained that I would insert random English phrases into Turkish sentences like it was normal. I honestly didn't even know I was doing it. But then I started paying attention to the language spoken in our home, and realized that that is what is normal for us. I almost always say, "are you bitti?" when asking the boys if they are finished with something. Ali and Omer sometimes mix the rules for pluralizing words (s for English and lar, ler for Turkish) Can I have my eldivens please?. Or they speak in English, but use Turkish words like, "mommy, can you kes this?" or "The abis took it." When somebody compliments me on my cooking, I always say afiyet olsun. It is the same with gecmis olsun and I can't imagine not saying these phrases to a compliment on my cooking or to someone who has been sick.

We have a way that we do things in our home that goes beyond language that isn't necessarily American or Turkish. It is something new we created, a third culture really, something that is special and unique to our family that our families of origin might only vaguely recognize.

Another component that shapes our hybridity, is the expat community that we live within. Expats are a different creature that retain their home culture, yet morph with other cultures. This influence seeps into our home culture by means of ethics, politics, words, food, traditions, humor, music, travel, etc. It is pretty cool when I think about it, as we have some pretty interesting people in our lives.

On the day-to-day running of things, I still don't feel all that different than what I imagine my friends back in North America feel. I remember my first week in Guatemala, as a young, green teacher newly out in the world, I asked a colleague what it was like to live in Guatemala. She told me that it really wasn't all that different on a day-to-day basis than the life she lived in Canada. She got up, went to work, came home, hit the gym, made some dinner, maybe hung out with some friends, and was right back at it the next day. As a keen, but naive budding expat, I thought to myself, how lame, I am going to make so much more of my time here. But she was right, my life was and is pretty routine, and I do a lot of the same things people are doing back in North America. Sure, we can hop in the car and 40 minutes later be strolling around ancient Constantinople, or catch a ferry in Asia and a glorious sea breeze refreshed 20-minute trip later, we are in Europe. We can also hop a 55 minute flight and be on the Mediterranean coast, but that is normal here, and normal for the people who have always called this land home.

I think a part of why I don't feel like an expat is because I have made a life here, outside of my home country. This past fall I felt more like a foreigner when I was in Washington State, the homeland, where I hadn't been for quite a few years. I stopped living in the US when Clinton was in office and the past five summers we have spent in Nova Scotia. I was surprised how the money had changed, products were different, the way of life was different, and even the people seemed a bit different. I realized when I was at the local grocery store check out that it was me who was different. I was rifling around for my debit card, and must have been obvious, or taking too long, because the cashier looked up at me, paused and said, "you aren't from around here, are you dear?" My reply, "well, I used to be." This of course caused confusion, compounded by my revelation that I lived in Turkey. Don't get me wrong, I easily slipped right back into being just another American when I was home, and by looking at me people of course didn't know I had flown 6,000 miles to be there, leaving an entire life on the other side of the Atlantic, but I surely felt it in the small things. I was a different person in the same place, eleven years later.

I often get the question "what is it like to live in Turkey?" and because I have been here so long, I have a hard time answering that question. A truly sad part about living abroad for an extended length of time is the loss of magic. Sure, I still dig the Grand Bazaar and the ancient sites around Istanbul, a city I still find amazing. Yes, I still get excited when we plan a trip to a new place, but it isn't that same feeling of excitement, adventure and wonder that I had on my first flight across the Atlantic. I remember waking up and looking down to see the patchwork quilted farmland of France, or flying over the glorious snow capped Alps for the first time. It was such a magical, amazing feeling. Traveling for us has become second nature, and while I still thoroughly enjoy it, look forward to it and need it, it doesn't have the same enchantment that it did before, which makes me a little sad when I think about it.

So, I have thought about it. Being an expat does seem pretty interesting when I ponder it enough to write this blog post. However, I know that as soon as A and O come in from the yard, covered in mud and hungry for dinner, this curious life I am talking about will be gone from my landscape, only to be rediscovered here. And that is OK. I am pretty content with my normal life.

Yemek

2010-02-14T14:51:00.033+01:00

I love food. I love to cook it and eat it, read about it, talk about it and buy cookbooks to make more. I am disappointed when something I make or order isn't a taste sensation. Particularly for friends just back from the homeland aka the land of var, one of the first things I ask is "what did you eat?" I relish in the opportunity to live vicariously through friends' tales of pork dinners, hamburgers, lobster rolls, tacos and guacamole, spring rolls, ham sandwiches, butter cream frosted cakes, scallops, sweet potato fries, etc. I was talking with a colleague this past week about her trip to Southeast Asia and she noted that the cuisine was one of the top reasons to visit there. This morsel of information settled it in my mind that once the boys can handle a 13-hour flight, we will make the trek over. As a matter of fact, I haven't been to a country that didn't have a tasty local cuisine. Coincidence?

My cookbook collection is quite eclectic, from Nova Scotian fare to Thai, and this weekend I bought three more cookbooks. The first was the Blog Aid for Haiti cookbook, which I bought online and sent to the states, so I may have to wait until summer to read it. So to keep me sated, I bought Martha Stewart's Dinner at Home and Sahrap Soysal's A Cookery Tale, an interesting Turkish cookbook organized by region, with all kinds of notes and anecdotes on the food and people of the different regions of Turkey. Even Koray, who loves to eat, but doesn't read cookbooks, was drawn to this book and I heard an occasional "wow" and "I didn't know that even existed" as he flipped through the pages. My favorite cookbook is The Joy of Cooking, mainly because I use it so much (thank you to Deek for lugging that across the Atlantic). It truly is a comprehensive book with everything you need to know about cooking. A close second is the Moosewood Restaurant: New Classics.

With the boys getting older, I have more time to linger over cookbooks and actually make the meals that I find within. In order to eat healthily during the week, I plan out what we will eat for the work week and buy groceries accordingly the weekend before. I do this mainly because when rushed and tired we tend to order in or just make what is easiest. This past holiday season we hit a low point when the dinner menu consisted of french fries and Christmas cookies. Koray was away that evening for a school function, so he didn't witness the despair. The boys loved it, but I felt like a starch-gorged slug for the rest of the night.

I also plan the weekly meals because it is something I like to do. I enjoy figuring out which protein to pair with which carbohydrate, then deciding upon which vegetable will round out the meal. I also like shopping for food. Buying fresh fruit and veg here can be a feast for the eyes, as the local pazar (farmer's market) is visually stunning and atmospheric. Something else that I have grown to enjoy in Turkey, with the exception of the sporadic stock of cilantro, is that Turkey still has seasonal fresh fruits and vegetables. We are just ending the winter fruit and vegetable season, so we will say goodbye to broccoli, cauliflower, citrus, pumpkin, celeriac, Jerusalem artichokes, beets, etc., for another year. Next up is the erik (tart, tiny green plums) and strawberry season. What this means for cooking is that when something comes into season, it is a celebration, something we look forward to all year and are sad to see go. It also means we try to eat as much of it as possible when it is at its peak, which means creative meal planning. I try to preserve, OK, hoard, what I can like pumpkin since the season doesn't start as early as my yearning for pumpkin bread and pumpkin soup. When I say pumpkin, I don't mean we get cans of it at certain times of the year, I mean we buy them either whole or segmented and peeled of their pale green skin which I then roast or steam for recipes. This is something I enjoy as well, preserving the bounty of the season. Canning isn't common in Turkey as far as I have experienced, so we freeze everything. This year we roasted and froze a couple kilos of red peppers and eggplant that we bought down on the Aegean coast. We have been enjoying the fruits of our labor all winter, and each time I pull a frozen packet from the icy depths of the freezer, I remember those four days of warm-calamari-soft breeze-beach bliss.

In addition to planning ahead, I also like to cook ahead so that all we have to do is come home, heat up dinner, and we have a tasty and healthy meal in no time. On Sunday, before preparing the chicken fajitas for dinner, and after baking the vegan chocolate cake, I whipped up a curried spinach and pea soup, put the lamb chunks (for shish kebap) into a marinade of garlic, mint, red wine and allspice and made sweet congee for breakfast today. I realize that the aforementioned vegan cake is a tad hypocritical with chunks of lamb marinating in the fridge, but really, the vegan cake is basically the same recipe as the wacky cake recipe my mom used to make, a recipe she got from my aunt Charie. The frosting is the really the same as any chocolate frosting, but it calls for peanut butter and water instead of butter and milk. And it was in the Moosewood Cookbook, so I thought heck, why not. I found out tonight that it tastes blissfully divine after sitting for a day. I would snap a photo of this lovely dessert, but I am afraid I will want to eat another piece, so you will need to use your imagination. Or better yet, make it for yourself. You will not be disappointed.

Deep Chocolate Vegan Cake
Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees. Generously oil an 8-inch square or round baking pan and dust lightly with cocoa powder or line the bottom with parchment paper.

1 1/2 cups flour
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoons salt
1/2 cup of vegetable oil
1 cup cold water or chilled brewed coffee
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 tablespoons cider vinegar

Sift together dry ingredients in one bowl and mix wet ingredients (minus the vinegar) in another bowl. Pour wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and mix until smooth. Quickly stir in vinegar (white, swirly ribbons of bubbles will appear) and quickly pour into pan and bake for 25-30 minutes.

Vegan Chocolate Cake and Chocolate Frosting
2 ounces of unsweetened baking chocolate (thanks, Dee)
1/4 cup peanut butter (I used up my supply, so I used creamy hazelnut butter)
3 to 4 tablespoons water
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup confectioner's sugar

Melt chocolate in a double boiler. While the chocolate is melting, beat together the nut butter, water and vanilla until smooth. Beat in sugar and then chocolate.

Spread the frosting on the cooled, wacky vegan cake.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here is the recipe for tonight's soup:

Curried Spinach Pea Soup

5 cups of water
2 teaspoons of salt (though I like to use chicken bouillon)
4 cups of diced potatoes
8 garlic cloves, peeled and left whole
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
4 cups chopped onions
1 1/2 tablespoons grated ginger root
1 1/2 teaspoons turmeric
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 1/2 teaspoons ground coriander
1/2 teaspoon ground cardamon (I didn't have this so I put 2 pods in with the potatoes)
1/8 teaspoons cayenne
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1 1/2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
3 cups frozen peas (I use the Iglo brand here)
4 cups of packed, fresh spinach
1 3/4 cups coconut milk

Basically you boil the potatoes and garlic until the potatoes are tender.

While potatoes are boiling, saute onions and ginger in the oil until translucent, then add the spices, then the lemon juice, and a cup of the potato cooking liquid. Cover and simmer for 5 minutes then add to the undrained potatoes. Add peas and spinach and simmer until spinach is just wilted. Stir in the coconut milk and blend until smooth and creamy (you can do this in parts).

Top with fresh cilantro leaves for garnish (if a store near you carries it weekly--thank your lucky stars if it does).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I also tried another new recipe, Sweet Spiced Congee, from the Moosewood Cookbook. Though I have never been, congee is supposedly served in many parts of China, and is usually savory. The Moosewood has a savory recipe as well, but I thought this one looked like an interesting change for breakfast.

Reaction from A and O this morning, "this is good, can we eat it tomorrow too?"

Congee
1 1/2 cups long grain rice (I used Jasmine)
1 1/4 teaspoons salt
12 cups water

Sweet Sauce
5 apples, cored and diced
5 pears, cored and diced
2 cups of water
2 tablespoons of cinnamon
2 to 3 tablespoons brown sugar, packed
2 teaspoons ground nutmeg
2 teaspoons ground ginger
1 teaspoon allspice

Put water, rice and salt into a pot and bring to a boil. Once it boils, turn it down and let it simmer for an hour, stirring occasionally, until it resembles a smooth, thick porridge.

For the sauce, mix the remaining ingredients and cook until the fruit is tender and the sauce is thick.

Spoon about 1/4 a cup of sauce onto a cup or so of the congee, stir and eat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am already thinking about the food we will encounter on our trip out east this spring and our summer trip to North America.

I will sign off leaving you with a few food blogs that I follow. Maybe the epicurean spirit will move you as it does me.

Afiyet olsun.

Food and Thoughts

Dinner with Julie

Food Bridge

Pictures and Pancakes

Orangette

February 10th

2010-02-10T05:44:00.004+01:00

Lamb is a word near and dear to my heart. Not only do I love to eat lamb in any form, be it chops, burgers, meatballs, shank, leg of, curry, soup, stock, etc., on our drive into the city, I love watching the various bands of sheep frolic along the roadside with their shepards following closely behind. My childhood was speckled with woolly stuffed sheep, sheep figurines, sheep toys, and, actual sheep. Nothing beats wool to keep a cold winter at bay.

My love affair with lamb started in utero. Like his father, my great-great grandpa George Prior, my great-grandpa Archie Prior was a sheepherder on the Horse Heaven Hills, land that is now wine country, as was my dad. When I was born, with a slight green tint, the doctor asked my dad, "well, did you want a sheep herder or a camp cook?" I love the gender stereotyping, but it was 1975, in Eastern Washington. Starting when I was only a few months old, my family and I spent several days each summer in Klickitat Meadows, high country, as the sheep grazed and cavorted on the open green meadow before heading down for the long, cold winter.

A good part of my formative years were spent around the goings on of the sheep business on Taggares Farms in eastern Oregon, where my dad was the farm manager and continued the family sheep tradition. Anybody who knows anything about livestock knows that it can be a brutal, difficult trade. I remember watching the Basque men who worked for my dad castrate yearlings using the traditional Basque technique, a technique where they use their teeth. During lambing time, I learned that in order to match an orphaned lamb with a ewe that had lost a lamb during birth, all you had to do was place the fresh pelt of the dead lamb over the orphaned lamb, and the ewe would think it was her own. These orphaned lambs rode around on the "gut wagon" until they were placed with a ewe, and if not, they were sent to the shed where they were bottle fed until they could fend for themselves in the alfalfa fields. There were always about 15-20 of these tiny lambs, and I loved to go down to visit and feed them from the glass Pepsi bottles filled to the brim with lamb's formula, topped off with a big, black rubber nipple. My dad let me "have" two orphaned lambs, who I promptly named Snake and Black Widow. For some reason, I was never bothered by the fact that the sweet little lambs often became the tasty lamb chops that frequently adorned our dinner table.

Another thing I loved to do was watch the shee p shearers when they came every year. They would come to the ranch for a couple of days, set up their portable shearing trailer and get to work. Watching them shear thousands of sheep was a sight to behold. I loved it when they would let me jump into the suspended tube-shaped burlap bag to pack down the wool, making room for more. You haven't had fun until you have frolicked on a mountain of tightly packed wool bags.

My dad's house always had two or three sheep pelts, or sheep skins as we called them, adorning the floor. I always had one just next to my bed so the first thing my feet would touch in the morning was the soft, fleecy wool of the rug. We even have two here in our home in Turkey, though they have been put away until the snowy white coats are no longer in danger of being forever stained with cherry juice or chocolate.

Today my dad would have been 65. To commemorate the day, I roasted a leg of lamb, taking care that my portion was rare as I love it, and he loved it. I also attempted to make sheepherder's bread. I only wish I had remembered to ask him for his recipe.

With the arrival of this day, I remember back in November a conversation dad and I had about how old he was. He said "65."

I looked at him questioningly and said, "I thought you were 64?"

"Well, in February I will be 65."

With an unknown prognosis of 6-8 weeks to 6-9 months, we both remained quiet for a moment before I said, "right."

My love affair with lamb is strong and deep and it is through this sweet and succulent animal that I will be forever reminded of, and connected to, my dad.

(Thanks to Alexander the Best for scanning the pictures for me)

Can I do it again?

2010-02-07T11:05:00.018+01:00

Today is the last day of the semester break. It has been a good two weeks, even though we didn't do much. But sometimes not doing much is a good thing.

One thing we did do was head up to Lake Abant, a two hundred and thirty kilometer drive up into the snowy mountains of Bolu, for three days of sledding, sleigh rides and frolicking in the snow. On the way (and back) we opted not to take the newly constructed Bolu Tunnel, which goes right under the mountain, cutting driving time by 40 minutes or so. The tunnel bypasses the tasty kuzu pirzola (lamb chop) restaurants that dot the road up and over Bolu mountain. These restaurants are small places that serve a simple fare of lamb chops, soup, tomato and cucumber salad, wood fire toasted bread and the best yogurt you have ever had. They are not to be missed, so we didn't.

After we feasted, we drove the next 45 minutes up to Lake Abant, which was a winter wonderland ensconced in two feet of fresh powder. Our friends, the Kavalas, had a hard time getting up the snowy road and were saved by a helpful villager with a tractor who pulled them right up to the entrance of the hotel. We quickly settled into our room, dressed in a flurry of wool socks, mittens and hats, and were out the door in search of a sledding spot.

After a 20 minute walk up the snowy road bordering the lake, we came to the heycanli kayak pisti (exciting sledding slope), and boy was it ever. The North American in me said "no way are my boys doing that" and we moved on. But after seeing the other sledding area just up the road, a truly hair raising sight, we headed back to the first area, now tame in comparison. After a hop across an icy creek and a short climb up the hill with brightly colored inner tubes in tow, Ali and Omer were in sledding heaven. I think they went twenty times up and down in the span of an hour. Each time Omer's inner tube would slide to a stop, he would immediately yell bir tane daha yapabilir miyim? (Can I do it again?) There was an even bigger slope, for adults only, that took my breath away, and helped me to understand how the term "scream like a girl" was coined.

For three days we walked through the snow, chatted and laughed, sledded in conditions that would be outlawed in the states, took a sleigh ride, soaked in the hot tub and ate delicious food from the lavish buffet meals at the hotel's restaurant. The boys were dead tired each night, as were we.

We had a great time and already look forward to going back next year .

Check out the amateur video at the bottom of this post.

Back on the Wagon

2010-02-02T15:04:00.022+01:00

Relatively recently, a blogger that I follow posted the books she is reading in 2010, as a response to this blog.

As you may have noticed in my first blog, I am back on reading. True, Koray brought me the complete series of The Catherine Tate Show, and true, I have watched a few, but I refuse to get sucked back in and I am determined to hold strong. The fact that the DVDs are zone 2, and my portable DVD player only plays zone1, helps tremendously.

I used to be an avid reader, back in the days when I almost always took a nap or plopped myself down on the couch for a good hour after work, the days that Koray and I now look back on and wonder "what did we do with so much time?" If you know me, you can guess the reason why my reading has dwindled in the past 3 years and 10 months. Granted, this past fall was a record low for the number of books I usually read in a month, but even before then I was not in fighting form. I was reading some books, sometimes even two a night, only they were usually accompanied by colorful illustrations. I am, of course, not complaining. Dr. Seuss and Mo Willems are interesting and engaging, as are the people who like me to read to them.

Now that I have made a commitment to read more, my strategy to keep on the book reading path is to write down, in order, which books I will read. The aforementioned blog has a challenge to read 100+ books in a year. If you just hit the mark and read 100 books, that is roughly eight books a month. I know there is no way I can do that considering I get up at 5:30 and go to bed at 8:30, and the boys get up at 5:30 and go to bed at 7:30. When I say "go to bed" I mean I snuggle down into bed and tuck into a book. Each day is filled to the brim with family, school and Turkish class (twice a week after school), which is why I usually only last about a half an hour before I am sound asleep. Maybe when the boys are teenagers and I am up late worrying about where they are and what they are doing, and who they are doing it with, will I be able to read more. Until then, eight books a month is too ambitious for my current lifestyle.

Instead, I will list here the books I plan to read, putting it out there in hopes this public declaration will help me to stick to it.

Here is the line-up. It is meager in comparison to the 100+ book challenge. Baby steps.

The Piano Teacher by Janice Y.K. Lee (for the reading group I have decided to join)
When You are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris, *and signed by David Sedaris*, thanks Dee! (I actually just need to finish this)
A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg
The Forty Years of Love: A Novel of Rumi by Elif Shafak
The Museum of Innocence by Orhan Pamuk
The Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood
Hunger by Knut Hamsun
It Sucked and Then I Cried by Heather Armstrong
The Sirens of Baghdad by Yasmina Khadra
The Spirit Catches you and you Fall Down by Anne Fadiman
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead by Tom Stoppard
The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri
The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood
The Man Who Would be King: The First American in Afghanistan by Ben Macintyre
A House Unlocked by Penelope Lively
Season of Migration to the North by Tayeb Salih
The New Turkey by Chris Morris
Waiting for the Barbarians by J.M. Coetzee
People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
One Thousand White Women by Jim Fergus
Katherine: The Classic Love Story of Medieval England by Anya Seton

It is wintry and snowy outside and the boys have new Thomas the Train toys to keep them busy, so I think it will be a good day to disappear into a book.

If you are reading anything interesting and engaging, I would love to hear about it. Or if you have already read books on my list, let me know what you thought.

Wish me luck.

"Mommy, there are two moons!"

2010-02-01T05:35:00.013+01:00

I was roused out of a half sleep this morning by Ali announcing this into the 6:07 a.m. darkness. I was half asleep because I too was awakened by the moon shining directly into the narrow bedroom window next to the bed, and into my eyes.

The promise of two moons made me sit up. However, the second moon turned out to be a street light, but I could see how Ali was bewitched; it did kind of look like a second moon.

Ali and Omer's enchantment with the moon started early. Ay dede (grandfather moon) is something they used to say over and over, and over. They saw the moon in everything, from a piece of salam (salami) with one bite taken out of it, to a segment of mandalina (mandarin orange), to a white soccer ball. When we put a yellow moon light in their room, they were over the moon. Ay dede was also the first Turkish lullaby I learned, and not by trying. I had heard it so many times that the words were repetitiously embedded into my subconscience. I can't remember what came first, the moon obsession, or the book Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown that L brought to us from the school's library, but it was A and O's absolute favorite book for a very long time.

Around the first few months after they had discovered the moon, A and O loved to moon gaze, always asking at night "where is ay dede?" As soon as they would feast their eyes on the moon they would chortle in unison "ay dede!" We were acutely aware of the moon's presence back then, and it was magical.

One of the best memories I have of AO and the moon is the night we arrived in Cirali, a special spot down on the Mediterranean coast. With our good friends R and L , we had flown in from Istanbul and driven from Antalya on a chilly December night, on a curvy coastal road, to arrive at a magical place called Arcadia. It was off season, so we had run of the place. Ahmet, the owner, let us nose around in the bungalows to choose which one we wanted. As we snuggled in that night, the four of us looked up from the bed to see a bright, full moon shining in through the sky light directly above us. Ali and Omer, Koray and I squealed in unison "ay dede" and we knew in that moment we had been led to a special place.

Ali and Omer's obsession with the moon has waned a bit, but on night walks before they continue their exploration into the inky night, flashlights in hand, they still stand transfixed when the moon appears from behind the clouds, even if it is only for a second or two.

Before lunch today, Ali said "when the moon comes we will watch the regular Ice Age." This combined with Ali's jubilant observation this morning is confirmation that the moon still has a hold on them.

I hope it always will.

Araba

2010-01-31T11:32:00.011+01:00

I usually don't drive in Istanbul. Koray almost always drives because he is an Istanbullu (he is from Istanbul) and he is good at maneuvering the "flow" of Istanbul traffic. In fact, flow is the appropriate word, as Istanbul traffic moves like water in a stream, or like sand across a desert; all of the available spaces are meant to be filled quickly, regardless of much else.

When I was in the states twice this fall looking after dad, I realized that I too had become somewhat of an Istanbul driver. I had difficulty with the rigidity of the traffic, the lack of flow. I also had a hard time with the sharpness of brake lights. People were actually coming to a stop when the red lights beamed on, and I often found myself slamming on the brakes whilst my heart jumped into my throat. I was honked at more than once as I casually made a lane change, forgetting about the rule that you must see both headlights in your rear view mirror, or something to that effect. When my dad and I were driving over the pass on Thanksgiving morning, with Snoqualmie in all is snowy beauty, I remembered seeing all of the state troopers, and cars slowing when they caught sight of them, that you need to obey the speed limit and that the police are not people to take lightly; they will pull you over and give you a ticket, and you can't feign yabanci (foreigner) to get out of it.

Also on my trip back home this fall, I did a lot of driving solo, at least a hour a day. I relished in the fact that I could listen to whatever music I wanted to, free of negotiations with A and O over which song to listen to or if we should listen to Skippy John Jones or Thomas the Train audiobooks instead. I could, and did, listen to one or two albums repeatedly in the time I was there. One album was Arabic Groove by Putumayo and the other Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King by The Dave Mathews Band. That music has forever sealed into my memory the feeling of freedom in driving alone, of being back home in all of its autumnal glory, and my dad's illness. While this fall was difficult, it rekindled my love for driving solo- it allows you to think. Because driving is so easy back on the west coast, I was able to process the difficult days I spent with dad, watching him succumb to his illness, clutching fiercely to his fiery sense of independence. As I drove and listened to music, I was able to be strong for another day. And when dad was with me on the drive to Yakima, two and half hours through mountains which softened into farm land, we were able to talk about important things, that sometimes weren't really important as such, but now that he is gone, they have become cherished moments, thus important. It was also the first time since I was sixteen that I was driving and my dad was in the passenger seat.

There were some fun moments in driving when I was home. When Kari, Tara and I got up early one morning to head over to Pike Place to hit the market and get a cup of Joe at the original Starbucks, it was like old times again. Listening to The Dave Mathews Band, we chatted and laughed, and mused over how we, for the first time in our lives, felt the aging in our 30+ bodies, and resigned to the fact that it is all down hill from here. We also reminisced over the car accident the three of us were in, in the very same city and highway, only with 18 years between us and that day. Luckily, nobody was hurt. We learned our lesson, and it gave us something to laugh about now that we are "mature adults" who know when, and when not, to make a u-turn.

Since I have been back in Istanbul, my second home, I haven't driven solo, but since Koray has been in London, A and O and I have been hitting the road. Here, I have to be alert and aware of the cars around me, constantly checking my rear view mirror whilst in the fast lane for the ever present speedy driver, going over 140 kms an hour, flicking his lights indicating for me to get over, and fast. I have driven on Istanbul highways enough now to know that the problem isn't so much with the fast or slow lanes, it is with the middle lane. Middle lane drivers in Istanbul don't know their role in the scheme of a three lane highway, and they mess up the flow. I can deal with cars merging into my lane, because I know if I veer over, like a large stone thrown into a brook, the other cars will stream right around me, but those middle lane drivers, who should be in the slow lane, throw off the rhythm. But it is OK, as A and O and I are happy to take more time to get to places. And while I reveled this fall in listening to my own music, going where I wanted to with multiple stops because I didn't have to have a strategic plan to wrestle two boys in and out of car seats and hustle them safely to a destination, listening to Omer hit the high notes on the T the T theme song, and hearing Ali giggle at Skippy John Jones and his ojos, is pretty special in itself.

I am lucky that I am able to experience both.

Cabin fever

2010-01-30T10:01:00.001+01:00

So, I realized that I have been reading other peoples' blogs for some time now, and I really enjoy it. I would even consider myself an avid blog reader, the type that feels disappointed when a blogger doesn't post a new blog at least once a week. I read the blogs of people I know well, but I am also currently obsessed with foodie blogs; and if it is a mommy foodie blog, even better.

I also realized that I have a lot of people on my e-mail list whom I love dearly, but don't have a lot of time to send regular e-mails to. So I was thinking this would be a good way for me to keep others updated on what the Ozsarac family is up to. We get up to quite a bit, which isn't hard considering that two of the four family members are just a month and a half shy of four years old.

What is happening with us? Ali and Omer are keeping us busy, so no rest for the wicked as the saying goes. We just got news of good friends in Manila who just had their first baby girl. We are so happy for them. Summer fun has been scheduled with the PEI cottage booked and ready to go for July. I have been able to read nearly two books in a week, which is a feat in my post-single-person world. Song of Solomon is even better the second time. Last night I lit three candles just to keep reading after the power went out. This is also notable because it has put an end to my autumnal obsession with watching TV series on our portable DVD player, whilst in bed. I knew I was in a bad place when I started watching The Golden Girls, for the second time. A school friend saved me from the depths of despair by loaning me an engaging book titled The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and I have been reading ever since. I am toying with the idea of joining a book group that meets once a month in Beyoglu, at a hip and cool place called Lokal where Koray and I try to frequent when we are bebek siz (no A and O), a place we used to frequent when we thought we were hip and cool. I just need to pick up a copy of the book and get over my fear of driving into the city alone on a week day. The bookstore is on tomorrow's "to do" list, just after the grocery store. Exciting, I know. After Koray arrives back from recruiting in London, we will head to Lake Abant for a few days. It should be good fun.

So, I am not sure how this blog will go, or if it will even go. It might just be me being campus crazy since we have had a couple days of snow-and Istanbul doesn't do well in snow, it looks pretty though-followed by a full day of rain, then a flooded bathroom, then sporadic electricity and then no internet. Plus, I have more time on my hands at the moment, so we will see once the semester is back in full swing.

Omer is trying to use a glue stick as chap stick, and Ali has a twinkle in his eye, so I will sign off. We will see if I get a chance to post again.

Until then, ciao.

I need a better title.