May has already been financially satisfying. I have made it to the breakeven - given my visa runs to Russia last year and ridiculously high rent I am paying right now in Istanbul. Which means I can give legitimate answers to the persistent questions my friends and parents still ask about the financial viability of my food career.
As Özge has started helping me with the food tours I can focus more on the cooking classes which I have been giving a lot recently. I have also had two big groups and piloted my idea of taking people to our countryside for cooking and food. Good busy times.
What’s next? What comes after the financial security is achieved again, 2 years after I quit my job? 5* vacation? A plan to conquer the rest of the world? Well, in my case it’s going to the countryside house, washing some dishes as our helper is away and then spending half a day to harvest nettle and making dry pasta. How is that for a reward?
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I thought I solved the problem of dressing properly in Istanbul a while ago. I have figured how not to get unwanted attention yet stay true to my own style in the city where with equal odds you will see a woman in long trench coat and head scarf and a lady with go-go girl make-up in a shape-flattering dress, lace stockings and long heels.
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I spent Saturday rolling paper-thin phyllo dough, or baklava yufka how we call it here in Turkey. Some twenty baby versions of the giant sheets my mother-in-law rolls out. With that long-long thin-thin rolling pin which could as well be an instrument of torture but serves as a kitchen utensil instead.
This is what I call a higher purpose. I am always looking forward to that rare free day in Istanbul when the break between my food tours and cooking classes is to short to go back to the farmhouse. I picture myself experiencing the delicious sheerness of Istanbul, savoring and exploring. Only that I stay in my flat most of the time: experimenting with new recipes and going out only to get a bottle of sun-flower oil from bakal downstairs and latte from Starbucks. Me, a first-rate foodie who is supposed to shop only from Kadikoy market and drink nothing but the Fazil Bey’s roast.
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On Tuesday we expected no guests and parents were gone to Istanbul. After my yoga session in front of the open window I ran out of the house wearing a t-shirt and crocs. What a difference from the past week when I still had the snow boots and a few layers of clothes on me. Since the spring showed up at our hilltop this Sunday it was making up for its delay with due diligence. More ground and even occasional flowers revealed after the snow melted and wild crying cats that have occupied our farmhouse.
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Two hours and one tart crust down I concluded, “Who really needs this effort in Turkey where you can make almost any baked wonder with yufka dough, or Turkish phyllo!“ French have butter so they make tarts. Turks have wheat and water so they make yufka dough. Which is more egalitarian by nature. Butter-loving individuals can still brush their yufka dough with butter and savor that delicate flaky pastry. Less aristocratic folk will simply season their yufka with the mix of sunflower oil, yoghurt and egg to get a substantial meal.
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We have had a turbulent week here in Sapanca. On Monday we witnessed a family drama of a Georgian helper whose daughter did not pass an entrance exam to the university she wanted to get into so the girl was about to take a veil. On Tuesday Özgür’s Blackberry reformatted itself and deleted all the contacts - all of them. On Wednesday parents’ furniture arrived from Istanbul and the house got filled with boxes packed with memories, five male movers bustling about and a sharp smell of their sweat. On Thursday one of the dogs broke the chain and went wild around the estate. On Friday we went to Istanbul to rewind over great food and drinks and meet a few friends: too much rewinding is worse than turbulence, let me tell you. By the weekend it felt only right to withdraw myself from much of the public life and resort to reading and catching up with family over skype.
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