Spasibo Babushka

We came to Alaçatı in the evening of Republic Day. Public holiday may not have been the best day to move and according to our lawyer even impossible to start the rental agreement on. We arrived in our rented Doblo filled to the rim. I spent the 600 km journey with the pot of aloe vera over my knees and a bag of organic cleaning detergents under my feet. First things first. It was the second aloe vera that I smuggled from Russia: the first one did not stand the flight, and it took the second plant to put roots. Organic detergents are self-explanatory: I was getting away from the civilization. Only to discover a huge store of the premium supermarket chain carrying anything you may need as you holiday at the upscale resort, including organic cleaning detergents.

As you can imagine, my husband has got many virtues. One of them is tons of tolerance. Another one is his ability to organize anything. I still don’t know how Özgür could fit us into the not so small, but not infinite Doblo given we carried two dogs, professional grade dishwasher, a few cases of tableware and kitchen utensils (the restaurant kitchen startup pack mom sent from Sapanca) and remaining (but still abundant) belongings that I wished I had enough discretion to send with the boxes that the team of movers took the day before. The Republic Day meant the entrance to the main square of Alaçatı was closed. And so was the alternative way blocked with a pile of sand in front of a construction site. I took the dogs out to pee. Sasha and Chorny pulled me sideways as they crawled and hungrily sniffed the grass on the lawn. It was there on the lawn when I understood we have moved to Alaçatı. All of a sudden the move became real as I observed our two dogs trying to make sense of the new surroundings. These guys trusted us enough to stand the day long road trip next to the dishwasher, the nausea and still restrained from peeing on the boxes and eating the other half of the plastic wrap covering our belongings.

Meanwhile Özgür got in touch with the landlord who arranged for another local living by the square to come out of the house, press the button on the remote control and open the access to the square and hence to our house. Özgür asked me if we should tip the helping hand. I gave him a puzzled look, “Are you from Istanbul?” and I promised myself to bake cookies for the kind man with the important remote control.

From our first visit to the house we rented I remembered it stuffed as a hearty dolma; after all people had lived for a few decades. Sofas and carpets came in particular abundance; each room had a few. On the evening of the Republic Day I thought we entered the wrong house as we arrived the vacated property with lonely floors and walls stripped off anything that kept them inhabitable for all those years. As we had been renting a furnished apartment in Istanbul, we arrived to Alaçatı light-weight only with clothes, books, kitchen supplies and two dogs. Our new house had no furniture besides two old coaches that became our bed for the first night. We topped our professional grade dishwasher with the wooden table for rolling yufka to make a dining table. Two bar chairs became good friends with the newly appointed table. As we were unpacking and settling I did feel tired and horrified a slight bit by the leap we had just made after leaving our fully furnished and equipped flat in Moda, buzzing neighborhood of Istanbul, for the empty place with basic comforts in a small village. And yet I could not stop thinking how much I was in love with our new house. Özgür agreed, “You know why I love here? This place makes you dream, makes you imagine what else you can do”.

While cleaning and having a closer look at the details it occurred to me, “This is such a grandma place”. We agreed with Özgür that this house transported us back to the happiest time of our lives - childhood at our grandmas’ houses. One storey building with a garden, small rooms, wooden flours slightly cringing here and there, low ceilings, also wooden, heavy wooden doors painted white and wooden window frames longing for another layer of paint and maybe how my grandparents did it, a layer of cotton pushed in the cracks to keep the house warm in winter.

No hot running water unless you turn on the wretched boiler that heats the water running through it without accumulating how modern boilers do. Taking shower felt like a special occasion when my granddad fired the heater with wooden logs to provide supply of hot water and then the family members took turns to bath. I loved seeing everybody emerging from the sauna wrapped in numerous terry towels to the freshly made herbal infusion from the medicinal herbs my granddad foraged and brewed that went so well with the grandma jam of strawberries from her garden.

Our grandmas had long ungraded their houses, much to their pride and our disappointment. I remember coming back to the revamped grandma’s house and finding a remote version of the place I grew up at. Grandma said, “When people come here to see me off on my final journey, I don’t want to be ashamed”. What could I say having abandoned the house, the town and even the country many years ago?

And still both for me and Özgür who also grew up in his grandmas house our new home brings back the memories of the safest place and time in the world, memories of the women that unconditionally loved us, the oldest kids in the family, spoiled us beyond reason and patronized (unlike the parents) even if we were getting too naughty. Our grandmas commanded many aspects of the extended family life, one of them being food. As a kid I learned that the one who cooks makes decisions in the family. No wonder that no one was allowed in the preparation of the signature dishes meant to preside special meals or nourish the hungry and tired.

As a tribute to our grandmas, our mothers that hopefully one day will become grandmas too and the whole lineage of women that I am proud to belong to, we decided to cultivate the grandma feel of our house and the restaurant to be. All of a sudden my Moroccan rugs and Turkish copper pots became a natural part of the interior rather than just an exotic decoration. Few days later we followed advice of my mother-in-law and bought a rustic looking kuzine, a wood-fired heater that also acts as a stove and an oven. “It will keep the house warm, and at the same time you can brew tea, make börek and poğaça,” mom told me on phone referring to the primary concerns of a good wife and woman, babushka or not.

And so we thought to call our restaurant Babushka meaning grandma in Russian as a thank you to the women who brought us up, to what we have become and what we are longing for - life without fuss, watching dogs as they chase the garden frog, drinking tea under the pomegranate tree, cooking lots and sharing our stories with dear guests.