I love traveling off-season. Alaçatı, an upscale resort town on the Turkish Aegean coast, that overwhelmed me during the family trip last fall, looked much more promising this April. I did not mind that our hotel staff was busy installing doors at the rooms upstairs, that the nearby restaurant folks were painting their chairs “Aegean blue”, that you could hear the sound of a saw and hammer everywhere, that on Thursday night only a few places were open for dinner. None of that could cancel the blossom on the lemon trees, kids playing on the streets, air filled with anticipation and the carelessness one could feel only on the seaside.
Every spring in Turkey I set aside time to get to know the seasonal vegetables I still consider foreign: artichokes, fresh fava beans, asparagus, unripe almonds, green plums, blessed whistle and such. I find the spring guys tricky: they either play hard to get (think peeling artichokes or shelling fava beans) or require extra work to unleash their flavor (think unripe almonds). This year I have made a significant progress with artichokes. I eat them every week, and I have learned to peel them myself, a big achievement for an Istanbullite: every greengrocer happily offers peeled artichokes, and dedicated artichoke carts roam around the city neighborhoods in season.
Two weeks ago I did a spring detox. There is a good reason why the 40 days of the Great Fast fall on the spring, time of new beginnings. Maybe because I was born in spring, this is when my year starts. I don’t care for the New Year resolutions, but every spring I take stock of what I am up to; my thoughts take shape, and new directions become clear. Some people undertake a major house cleaning, some remember that bikini season starts in a short while. Me, I make big decisions in spring.
My first Ayurveda consultation was like the sound of the starter pistol. When I returned home, I took the slightly dusted jar of organic extra-virgin coconut oil (precious as gold in Istanbul, present of my friend) and turmeric, and made myself a most satisfying red lentil soup. Next morning I put on the sneakers and went for a walk along the sea. I had got all the ingredients I needed to kick off a healthier lifestyle. In fact, I was at the start line for a long time: I pitched a tent, made myself comfortable and forgot that I needed to get running. Until I heard the starter pistol.
The moment an Aeroflot flight attendant handed me over their “Asian vegetarian” lunchbox I knew my culinary deprivation started. I regretted not packing any snack in my carry-on and none of the essential Turkish pantry in my suitcase. This New Years I was traveling ultra-light. I still had a fever. To endure a flight, the Moscow metro and an overnight train journey I packed nothing but the presents and my mountain skiing clothes: not that I am such a skier, it was the warmest gear I had.
My mom as usual reassured me I did not need to bring anything. She made a shopping trip to source some red lentils (they are not so readily available in Russia) and chickpeas, my favorite proteins. Still, a week without pekmez, tahin, yogurt, home-made tomato paste, kekik and all looked gloomy.
My first trip to the organic market this spring was a revelation. I regularly shop from farmers at the Friday market in Sapanca and have gotten to know producers that sell at a handful of weekly markets in Istanbul. So I though I was very close to getting the kind of food my grandparents used to grow in their beautiful garden. I was mistaken. Ah, the Turkish agriculture developments.. I have almost forgotten that beets come in whimsical shapes and have greens, that carrots don’t mean intense orange color, that artichokes are small and come unpeeled in all their formidable beauty, that leafy greens are not the size of a pillow case and that baby spinach is not an oxymoron in Turkey.
