Tag Archives: Provincetown

Peynirli Poğaça: Karagöz urges me to get baking and forget academia

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Those puppets, well, they are at it again. They are always nattering on and on, sometimes up to no good, sometimes up to good, scheming with the best of intentions and the worst at times – and discussing things that are going on in my life.  And while I am sure it is all for the greater good, sometimes I do tire of them despite the fact that I am secretly in love with them and the way that they allow me to see more clearly how I am thinking and feeling about the life I am steeped in.

Karagöz came to warn me about what the little chorus of dancing ladies (one of whom traditionally always starts up a Karagöz play) were up to as I was furiously following the Write-a-matrix’s demands to finish at least ONE of my manuscripts for publication while I was in seclusion down in Provincetown. The Write-a-matrix, as you may recall, is my internal whip-cracker, who only wants me to do academic writing – not my personal writing that I am getting back to after a hiatus of many years.

The Write-a-matrix does NOT care that I am not feeling well, nor that I am overwhelmed by my job’s demands to the extreme, or by the fact that I sometimes worry I am losing my mind as a result of this job.  She doesn’t care at all.  She is the pure academic writer who wants me to produce IMPORTANT commentary on IMPORTANT topics about the populations who “fall between the cracks” of the U.S. disability services and other systems.  She is true to that personal commitment that I made when I left direct care social work. “Never forget!” she screams, cracking her whip on the table to the left of my keyboard, “Never forget what you saw!” and I hurry back to writing even though I know that not many people will ever read my work and that it probably won’t make much of a difference anyway.

The dull ache in my stomach re-knots itself, a bit tighter this time, resulting in the internal version of a sharp whip crack, and I know that my endometriosis is coming back in full force – it has been a couple of years without this pain.  Perhaps it is my upset at this realization that indeed I’ll need to head for surgery again.  Perhaps spurred on by my response to the pain in my side, I shoot out some angry words her way, saying “Write-a-matrix – damn you – isn’t this really all for naught? And seriously, I took that ‘never forget’ oath before I had family responsibilities and a job like I do now. I mean, seriously, how am I supposed to balance all of this – much less balance this while I am not feeling well? I wish you would leave me alone. I wish everyone would just leave me alone.”  Ignoring my rant, that Write-a-matrix, she just kept cracking the whip – never breaking eye contact with her hypnotic stare.

Somewhat oblivious to all of this, Karagöz sauntered up just about then, full of his usual vim and vigor and oppositional behavior.  He was as drunk as a sailor on land leave for the first time in months. On the way over to visit me (from one end of the table to the other), he pushed the Write-a-matrix off of the desk in the midst of a sloppy dipping curtsy.  Seeing that the Write-a-matrix’s leather whip lay in wait, I wondered how long I had until the puppet battle really began in earnest.

“You see!” Karagöz said, pointing his swooning finger high into the sky above me, “those dancing ladies, they are on a mission (hiccup)- a mission I tell you!”  Turning my head to him at the completion of a sentence in my manuscript I was frantically trying to finish, I looked at him as if to say “make it snappy, I have no time for this.” Taking one sludgy step further, Karagöz smirked at me, saying “and that is just the problem, m’lady, you need to make time for more than this, that is what those little lady puppets are arguing, you need to make time to be a good wife – and a good Turkish wife at that and you know what that (hiccup) means, don’t you?”  Raising my eyebrows to indicate “no” in Turkish body language parlance, I just pursed my lips, tapped my keyboard, and waited for my drunken puppet friend to continue his inevitable rant, thinking “just what is this “Turkish wife” stuff, anyway?”

“Well, it means, you see, that you need to BAKE.” Standing tall with conviction, Karagöz exclaimed “you need to bake some Turkish pastries to show your husband that you love him and that you love his culture – if you are really so serious about cross-cultural life. Look at you, here you are on spring break from the university, slaving away, away from your husband, working at all hours of day and night on your academic papers. That Write-a-matrix be damned, you need to go home to the city and bake something good – and I vote for Peynirli Poğaça (pay-near-lee/ poh-ah-chah).

Pronouncing the ps in the Turkish name of the cheese-filled pastry with the ultimate alliterative allure, Karagöz fell over with the power of his own words. From his splayed-out position, Karagöz continued his rant even further ” in case your less-than-rudimentary Turkish fails you (and you NEED to get to studying that m’lady, now that you have tenure) – that means those feta and herb-filled savory buns that C. Teyze always serves when you come for tea.”  The pain in my stomach twisted a bit tighter, joining the mental pain of my guilt about all of the above.

Sighing at the tawdriness of Karagöz’s raw emotion oozing out as a result of being three-sheets-to-the-wind drunk, I heard the grumblings of a truly enraged Write-a-matrix as she climbed up the table leg, refusing to leave her job unfinished. I did feel guilty about being away from home and M. It is made somewhat easier by the fact that M. is fine with this – eating his organic chili from a can that he heats on the stove – something he cannot do when I am around. You can read more about that here - see the photo at the end of the article. Soon, Karagöz was dodging the Write-a-Matrix’s whip and the two were locked in mortal combat – yet another puppet battle in my life.

As the melee ensued, I thought about M., who was happy at home with his canned chili.  I thought about how he was 200% supportive of my academic career – although he does often say he wishes I was not so tired and overwhelmed by it.  I thought about how he was fine with me being away – as a couple married later in life – this has never been an issue for either of us.  And then I thought about my new e-friend Rosamond.  Raised in England, she is married to a man with Pakistani origins – and moved by the spirit, she converted to Islam when she married him. We have e-met and bonded recently through this blog – and I am ever grateful for her support and insightful comments.

I thought about all of her delicious-looking cooking posted on her blog entitled Food Glorious Food from Rosamond’s Kitchen.  I thought about my stepmom’s good advice about sometimes the best balm to heal an argument rift in a relationship is a good, home-cooked meal.  I thought about how nice it is to sit across from M. and have dinner together at the dining table.  I thought “I need to go home, and try out some of Rosamond’s recipes.”  The endometriosis-infused twinges in my stomach still continued, but the mental ones eased up a bit.  Taking the bull by the horns, I began to pack my bags for the trip home.

As I prepared for the trip, I just put Karagöz and the Write-a-matrix on mute and instead, I thought about Rosamond.  In truth, I feel as though this trail-blazer in the cross-cultural marriage club (40 years of marriage and counting) is in my corner – she has given me great advice and she inspires me about not letting anything get in the way of loving my M.  This is the best of what the blogosphere has to offer, this kind of e-camaraderie.  In any case, Rosamond popped into my mind for a reason – and Karagöz knew this – in addition to being the fabulous woman and wife she is, she has embraced the joys of cooking dishes from around the world – and hosts an interesting blog that is the very epitome of the best that globalization in situ has to offer.

Several weeks ago, Rosamond shared her recipe for peynirli poğaça - but she often has treats from many origins – from Polish cheesecake in honor of her father’s roots, shami kebabs from Pakistani or English almond pastry mince pies and beyond. I am grateful to her for these English-language recipes – and for the fact that she puts out recipes that she herself has tested! Please check out her blog for some no-nonsense, clear and super-yummy recipes!  So, while I am in process on balancing my personal life and my professional one, I think I might just have time to try Rosamond’s recipe! I’ll report back on that – but for now – check out this Turkish guy making peynirli poğaça with his kids!

Rosamond’s recipe for Peynirli Poğaça

There are many different types and shapes of this popular bread,bun or pastry as its called.This is very popular in Turkey for breakfast but it can be seved any time of the day. When my husband and i had our holiday home in turkey my neighbour used to send them round to us some mornings. I liked them so much i translated her recipie which i have included in my book.

Ingredients

  • 237ml   whole milk
  • 2 eggs, whites and yolks separated
  • 1 tbsp cooking oil
  • 4 tbsps granulated sugar
  • 1 tsp salt 800g plain flour
  • 2 tsps dry yeast
  • Cheese filling:
  • 225g     feta cheese crumbled
  • 4 tbsps  finely chopped parsley
  • For decoration: 3tsp  black sesame seeds

Procedure

  • 1 Add 2 tbsps of sugar in milk and stir to combine. Heat the milk in microwave for a minute or so. 2 Sprinkle dry yeast over milk and put the bowl in a warm place for 30 minutes. I usually leave it in microwave.
  • 3 After it has risen add 2 egg whites, the remaining sugar (2 tablespoons), oil, salt and gradually add flour while you are kneading the dough.
  • 4 Knead it until combined. Leave dough in a warm place to rise. It usually takes an hour to double in size.
  • 5 When it rises, take some dough the size of a golf ball and make it flat and round in your palm. 6 Put 1tsp cheese filling in it and close the edges of dough and make sure they stick to each other, it must look like letter “D”.
  • 7 Prepare an egg wash with 2 egg yolks and brush one side of each “pogoca” and sprinkle some black sesame seeds.
  • 8 Place them egg washed side up onto the greased baking tray/grease proofed sheets and pop them into the 180 C pre-heated oven and bake for about 20-25 minutes or until golden brown. 9 Serve warm with tea or any drink you like

Oven Temperature: 350f/180 C/Gas 4/5

Recipe Tips · You could also use 8oz cooked mince, salt and pepper, spices according to your taste instead of feta cheese.

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The Writematrix Makes Her Presence Known (even Karagöz is cowering)

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The Writeamatrix returned on a dark and stormy night - in an old fashioned ship - and she is pissed! (Image thanks to this link)

It’s about 3 a.m., the wind is blowing fiercely outside.  I can hear the ocean from here – even though it is across the street.  The waves are crashing on the sea wall.  It is a comforting moment to feel the warmth of my bed, the wind railing over the head – and most importantly – on the other side of the roof.   I feel the warmth of my dog on my feet and remember that I am visiting Provincetown on Cape Cod without M. to do some business later today.  I feel relaxed, as, after all, I have made it through my tenure hearing.  And then I remember all of the work that I have to do to get ready for the semester.  And then I hear the crash.  It makes my heart lurch in that “is this finally a heart attack” kind of way…

The dog jumps up off of my feet and starts to bark.

Karagöz is fomenting riot.

Yehuda Rebbe is trying to get his yarmulke on straight in case we have to evacuate.

Hacivad Bey is remaining calm, but looking around furtively

Esma is trying to calm the chorus of dancing lady puppets who are tumbling out of the purse.

Kenne the Queen of manners and maintained order is reading the evacuation plan out loud to no avail – she is calling for the ladies to don their robe-du-chambres so that they will be able to maintain their honor in the middle of the night.

Zenne the nervous nellie is literally a bowl of jelly.

Mercan Bey is gathering up his spice stash so that he does not lose his livelihood.

Generally, the entire troupe of puppets are in a jumble – screaming and pushing eachother to get out of the house (they think it is another earthquake – even though they are far from Turkey these days, they are still connected by a spirit thread to their homeland, and feel the pain of winter in Van this year after the earthquake).

Bebe Ruhi is strangely quiet, this usual questionner, but soon he poses a question – “do you think SOMEBODY caused that crash to get our attention?”

And I stop and think, as my brain catches up with my adrenalin in the deep dark night light and soon they, and I, and the dog, realize that this is not an earthquake, and it is not a crash from the wind in the attic – it is – well – it is SHE.

Who is SHE you may ask?

Here is my writeamatrix - she looks an awful lot like The Corporate Dominatrix, who you can read about here - note she is carrying a briefcase (image thanks to The Corporate Dominatrix at this link)

SHE is the writeamatrix – the intoxicating academic whipcracker who has been on vacation in the Tierra del Fuego conducting research about the hardships of Magellan’s voyage and how these might be applied to torturing me into producing more scholarship.

She has entered the house through the kitchen vent in the roof.  I later learn that she blew in from Provincetown harbor and directly into the attic – using her magically strong whip to push the removable panel in the closet onto the floor, thus the crash.

And then the whip began cracking on the floor, and cracking, and cracking louder and louder until she worked her tiny self through the closet, into the living room and up into my bed.

“Hacıyatmaz, you had better get your roly-poly self out of the way.  I don’t want to hear one squeak from you.  Enough of this ‘creative writing’ crap that you encourage m’lady to engage in.  From here on out you are not m’lady anymore, you are slackerific to me, nameless and worthless.  As I have just returned from vacation, I will have mercy on your slackerific self.  You may sleep until sunrise, at 7:03 a.m.  You may then get up and walk the dog – return and make a to-do list.  You will eat breakfast and make your work with your contractor and CAD designing as fast as possible.  I will not tolerate long, dawdles on this front.  There will be no beach visit with the dog in the afternoon.  You will go STRAIGHT to work.  You will not go home until you have produced the final syllabus for Spring 2012 and finished that manuscript on suicidal foster youth (so much for M.’s hope that I might move towards “happiness studies” in the posts-tenure phase).  Got it?  I want to hear nothing more about Rumi and writing and likening that to tripe-washing.”  She glowed in the dark in a creepy way – she is, you see, made out of glow-in-the-dark dominoes, representing something about the quantitative data analysis I do as part of my academic work (e.g. numbers).  Her weird domino skin is akin to the artwork of David Machs (see this link)

A dominatrix made of dominoes - the writeamatrix's skin looks like this, by the artist David Machs (see this link for image attribution)

Meekly, I mustered a “yes, miss, I mean, Miss Writeamatrix, I will do it.”  My heart raced until my dog came and curled up next to me, making an M. replacement, and eventually his warmth lulled me back to sleep, until 7:02 a.m. when the little chorus of dancing ladies made a chain from the kitchen to the bedroom and delivered a glass of çay to me, just in the nick of time.  She’s back…but I have a feeling she is going to be in for a run for her money (and her whip) as Esma is eyeing her with a great deal of defiant skepticism.  Instead of roses and jasmine flowers exuding from her ears (which happens when she is happy), she is shooting out sharp, tropical ginger flowers and birds of paradise.  She’s not messing around either, this little hippie poet.  Hold your horses ladies and gents, we’re in for a hippie-writeamatrix battle.

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Moving from Madonna to Meditation and Myths

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Here is Esma, the only member of the Karagöz shadow puppet troupe that wasn't uber-fashion-obsessed and was willing to take a walk with me!

These days, my internal Karagöz puppets are more like internal Karagöz demons – fashionista demons obsessed with what to wear to the Sultan of Nutcracker’s ball in Provincetown.  In order to get some solace from the fashion madness – and the fact that Madonna’s “vogue” is on repeat in my house, I sat down to meditate on the bay beach along with the one little puppet who would leave the house with me – Esma.

We sat, lotus-style, and meditated to the waves, embracing and then ignoring the chilly air that made its way into our clothing like chilly octopus tentacles sneaking in on a cold night.  The light blue winter sky was wan and the sand a pale silvery golden hue.  Esma broke the silence, saying “deniz çarşaf gibi!” (Here is how you say that: deh-neez char-shaff gib-bee, and it means “the water is as flat as a sheet”).  My dog ran around like crazy and finally settled in to rest near to the waves – seeming to sense our need for meditation.

The bay beach across from our place

As we sat there, trying to meditate, all I could think of was the lack of water back in the house – and then about how surprised I was at the behavior of my internal puppets since we had arrived in Ptown.  They were busting all stereotypes about Ottoman era shadow puppets so far today.   Eventually my mind stopped thinking and I started to notice my breath and just notice the sounds, taking them in, not counting them.  It’s been a long path between me and learning to meditate properly…yavaş yavaş (slowly by slowly) I am getting the hang of it.

Provincetown monument - and our dog in the foreground - on the bay beach

When I came to, I opened my eyes to see the only tall tower in Provincetown – the monument.  But the first image that popped into my mind was about the “myths vs. realities about the Republic of Turkey” slide show that our twelve year-old niece S. made this past summer when she visited us on Bozcaada.  Lately, S. and I have been re-working her list for a presentation in her school in the States.  Esma, being the mind-reading puppet that she is, heard everything that I said…and started to roll around in the sand, laughing her way mercilessly close to the waves…so much for meditating.  “I think we need to do a myths and facts list for the other puppets, m’lady,” Esma let out, in between chortles “you know – about this place, how do you call it, P-town? And about America? Let’s do it!” So, do it we shall…but first, for a change of pace – I thought I would share it with you today…catch some of the wry comments and picture them being made by the queen of deadpan, my niece S.  Feel free to correct anything or add your own, too!

Myth 1:   Men are allowed to marry as many wives as they wish in Turkey.

Fact 1:    Turkish law say that men are only allowed to have only wife, unless for some reason, their wife died. This law is strictly enforced.  People ask my Aunt if M. has multiple wives, and it upsets her a lot.  M. tells her to say she is the 5th one and he is looking for more.

Myth 2:  Americans thick that because of the country’s name, Turks eat a lot of Turkeys.

Fact 2:    You turkey! Most commonly eaten meat in Turkey is lamb and chicken.

Myth 3:  Turks drink a lot of coffee

Fact 3:    Turks don’t drink very coffee at all, they drink mostly tea.  Coffee is more for after dinner and special occasions.   Men here drink tea all day in cafes but ladies probably drink it in their houses.

Myth 4:  Islam is the law and religion of the land.

Fact 4:   Many Turkish citizens are followers of Islam, but Turkey is not bound by religious law and it is not a religious state.  It is a “secular” state.  That means not-religious.  You should be respectful when you talk about religion so no jokes here.

Myth 5:  Camels are everywhere in Turkey.

Fact 5:   There are some camels in Turkey for tourists (probably imported from other countries), however my Uncle told me that wild camels are not native to Turkey.  He had also never heard about camel wrestling, but apparently that happens a lot.

Myth 6:   Everyone in Turkey speaks Arabic.

Fact 6:    Turkish is Turkey’s official language not Arabic, although the Turks used the Arabic alphabet to sound out Turkish words until 1923.  Turkish is from the Ural-Altaic language family.  Arabic is not part of that language family, it is part of the Semitic language family. Don’t ask my uncle if he is sure that Turks don’t speak Arabic, he might get grumpy (he did once, in a supermarket).

Myth 7:   Every Turk is a Muslim.

Fact 7:    Even though Islam is the predominant religion in Turkey, there are followers of the Jewish and Christian religions (including Gregorian Armenian and Greek Orthodox religions among others). There are a few different types of Islam – Sunni, Shia and Alevi, for example.  There are also Sufis in Turkey, but this is a lifeway, not exactly a religion.

Myth 8:  All Turkish woman cover their hair with a scarf.

Fact 8:   Not all Turkish woman wear veils and many, many do not.  Some wear veils for religious reasons, but some women in working in fields wear veils to keep cool or to be modest due to cultural traditions that have nothing to do with religion.  Like Mosques, Catholic churches once expected their woman to wear veils as well, but this tradition is not practiced as much now.  My Aunt’s grandmother wore a veil to church in Spain where she was born and also in Massachusetts when she went to church, for example.   Lots of people ask my aunt if she has to wear a veil or if M. makes her wear a veil and she says “NO!.” I tried on a veil to visit the mosques on Bozcaada and it was no big deal.

Myth 9:  Turkey is an Arab country, as is the rest of the Middle East

Fact 9:    Turkey is not an Arab country, as many people think.  Most Arab countries are located on the Arabian Peninsula with others in North Africa and other parts of the Middle East.  Not all of the Middle East is Arab.  Turkey is a Middle Eastern and European country, but not an Arab country.  Same point as above, don’t ask my uncle about this in a supermarket or he might get grumpy.

Myth 10:  Turkey, like the rest of the Middle East, is one big dry desert with hardly any rain or snow or cold.

Fact 10:    Contrary to American popular beliefs, Turkey is not one big giant desert.  There is a lot of variation, as in the United States.  Most people in the United States think that Turkey has only two seasons, but this is not true, Turkey has four seasons, as does the rest of the world.  There was a lot of snow in Istanbul last year.

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