It is easy not to waste food if you live on the countryside. Take our Sapanca farmhouse. If something is not eaten it will be put on the table next day or re-purposed. If an ingredient has been around for a while my mother-in-law would turn it into a tasty lunch. If a cooked dish has been in the fridge for too long it goes into the dog food and if something has perished - it will be composted.
In a city it is harder to be so thrifty. The households are smaller so less enthusiastic eaters for the food leftovers and who wants to eat the same meal again if you can go out or order in; dogs eat premium packaged food and composting may be a dream. Yesterday after I cleaned the fridge and freezer at my kitchen in Istanbul I felt like a sinner: despite all of my efforts and consciousness I had to throw away a few things. Yet fortunately I managed to re- purpose a few of them too, which made me feel a bit better. We, urban dwellers, have a lot to learn from the people living closer to their land and food. So here are five lessons from our countryside food waste management that can surely be applied at a small urban household.
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The first time I was admitted to Marina’s kitchen it became clear I was dealing with a food snob. There are people who love eating and appreciate a broad range of foods; they are called foodies. Yet certain individuals are so meticulous about their food they would be looking down on you indulging your store-bought hummus or - God forbid - hummus made of unpeeled canned chickpeas. The said individuals are food snobs. Like Marina. Or like myself. I often talk about how spending time with my mother-in-law cooking top-notch Turkish food in Sapanca has made me such a demanding eater. But it is hanging out with Marina in Istanbul - over food, food shopping, cooking or eating - that has shaped me as an ultimate food snob.
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Being a vegetarian on the road can be challenging especially in certain countries, and thank to its reputation as a kebab motherland Turkey may seem frightening to many vegetarian travelers. However, all those frightened could not be more mistaken. The abundance of fresh produce in any season makes Turkish cuisine one of the richest depositories of the vegetable-based dishes. And here is the guide that can help you discover and enjoy the vegetarian side of Istanbul food. [click to continue…]
Sunday feels like a middle of a working week. The borderline between weekend and week days has been blurred for me. Because I don’t work in the office I can stay back at home and do some work on Sunday to avoid the weekend crowds, however hard it is with the windows open in the middle of Moda. I then can choose a quieter day during the week to rest. This rhythm is in sync with my family, and you understand me if you have ever worked in the hospitality.
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I rarely stress the fact I do not eat meat because I find that vegetarianism is a corrupted concept even among vegetarians themselves. My choice of not eating meat is not ideological: I may pity the slaughtered animals but I understand there is a natural order of things, and it’s logical that man domesticated some animals to secure the supply of extremely nutritious food. I have never preached to anybody about following my lead because doing so often comes from your own insecurity about your choice, and I feel strong about mine.
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Recent shopping for a camera cable got me into yet another enlightening conversation I always find myself having with the locals – on the matters of Turkish food. A few days ago I came back to Istanbul from Sapanca and realized that I had left the camera cable at our countryside place. Getting a new one would be a major undertaking in many cities I have lived in but not in Istanbul. A few minutes after the realization I was already in Kadıköy at one of those han (little business center) packed with electronic stores. I found one selling cables of any possible kinds and could even be customized as appeared from a man fussing with a rather complex adapter system including many cables, cutoff points and such. I was immediately handed out the exact cable I needed.
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I knew I had to make kerebiç cookies since the first time I saw the molds. There was a strange familiarity in these wooden beauties carrying geometrical messages carved on their shaping cavity. Some of those carvings had a clear reference to the cross, an archetypal sign that for any Christian including myself has am important religious reference that I would least associate with the South-East of Turkey where the cookies are coming from. Also, kerebiç molds remotely resembled gingerbread molds used in Russia to make pryaniki, or what outside of my home country goes by the name of Russian tea cakes.
Clearly, kerebiç cookies had to happen, and I bought a few molds. Little I knew back then how this purchase would bring me to the discovery of endless cultural, religious and culinary bonds between so many countries.
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