Tag Archives: Whipcracking

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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Occupy the Writeamatrix: A failed movement, for the moment

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So, after making it through the sandstorm-poop-a-thon writeamatrix beat down walk on the beach this morning now that the writeamatrix is back from vacation, I made it through the day of legitimate meetings with our contractor and CAD expert – mapping out our future home, but not without hearing the occasional whip-crack on the floor behind me.

SHE, meaning the writeamatrix, my academic writing whipcracker, did NOT want me to forget her presence – and the need to get things done. The wind on the roof, the sand in the front yard and the waves crashing across the street all added to her fury – or were they as a result of her fury?

In times like these, M. always tells me that I need to take a more eastern approach to life – relax more, live life, not worry so much.  “Easy for him to think,” I often mutter under my breath, “he’s a Bohemian with a capital B and an artist and has always marched to a different drummer.  I am trying to prove that I can have a career even if I started late and had a somewhat misspent youth that I have to make up for.”

As I closed the door on our contractor and CAD lady, the dog was literally dancing, as if to say “please, please, please take me for a walk, it loosk SO fun out there!” and in case I didn’t get it, the puppets also began an advocacy campaign akin to their Occupy movement a few months ago when they wanted some new music and got me to buy the discovered Ottoman records CD.

Today, however, it was about Occupying the Writeamatrix. “We are the 99% of you, and we want the writeamatrix out! They say banks got bailed out – we got sold out? You know? Well in this case, you bailed the tenure out, are we going to get sold out? You know, the 99% of you – and, DUH, M.? What about him? Please, m’lady, please,” they cried, “please just take the damn dog for a walk at the beach! It will be good for  you both – she’ll get over it if you don’t get RIGHT to work on your academic writing.”

The sparkles that almost captivated me away from the Writeamatrix at the Provincetown beach today

Feeling the pull, I quickly slipped out to the door.  When we reached the beach across the street, the waves were furious, white-capped and frothy in their fervor, my dog wanted none of it.  The air was invigorating – wild and wooly and wet and free and I felt as great as the sparkles all around me.

But the dog pulled me away, afraid of the mayhem.  Determined to give him a good time, I hopped into the car to take him to the Ocean side of the town – Herring Cove Beach – but the writeamatrix caught up with me there – projected through the droplets of sunlight on the seawater – but projected to larger than life, riding Poseidon‘s wave-horses onto the beach – splashing all over the cars watching the mayhem.  It wasn’t long before I got the heck out of there and back home, to work, on…….the……….article…….and……..the……….syllabus.

Esma, the tiny hippie puppet, still exuding ginger flowers and sharp birds-of-paradise flowers in her anger at the hegemony that is the Writeamatrix, with whom she is in an epic battle, just spent the evening sitting across from me, shooting her flower darts my way, saying “why are you 3 hours away from your husband on a Friday night? Why don’t you let it go a bit, let it step down, let your life come back in now that you have tenure? I don’t care if there is a windstorm, we are the 99% of you, and we miss M.  You need to go home first thing in the morning!”  Nodding, I decided to redouble my efforts to at least finish the syllabus tonight, and then go home for the weekend – just with M.

“Don’t forget, m’lady,” Hacivad Bey reminded me late into the night, “we are the 99% and while we may have lost this battle, we ARE going to win the war.”

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Return of the Writeamatrix (who compares Turkish and U.S. academe)

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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)

I quickly slurp down my cay, anticipating the whipcracking Writeamatrix to crack me up any moment now.  As you may recall, she is the academic dominatrix in my head who wants me to, in no uncertain terms, GET BACK TO WORK.  Before I know what has hit me, I feel the sting of her whip. “Not in your head, slackerific, right here in your face!”

I expect (hope, wish?) that Karagöz will hop up with a “talk to the hand” or some such in-your-face-back remark, but all I can hear is some muffled sniveling in the corner of the closet.  The writeamatrix has trapped him there, underneath the floor-washing bucket, and he is at risk of smelling oh-so-pine fresh if he is in there for much longer.

“Get up and get going!”  she says, her whip making the tone change unnecessary.  I hop up, and before long am hustling an even-sleepy dog (which is unusual when the beach is nearby) out the door and down the stairs in the middle of a windstorm. Clearly, it is time to walk the dog!

My dog running around on a poop-a-thon during a sandstorm on the Provincetown Beach

The wind is fierce and sand is getting in my eyes and nose as the writeamatrix walks me across the Provincetown Beach, bootcamp-style.  “Productive academics MUST get exercise and you are so slackerific you hardly do that anymore – this explains the reduction in your PRODUCTIVITY.”

With this last word of proclamation, she cracked her whip harder and harder, my self-esteem crumbling, thoughts of anxiety medicine and antacids racing through my head at breakneck pace.  I didn’t know what to say to her.  She, however, knew JUST what to say to ME.

“Last year this time, you had 7 manuscripts under review – and what do you have now? One piddly, pathetic one that you think will get rejected anyway.  What about what matters? What about all of those suicidal foster kids that nobody has talked about before,  YOU have to rise UP! YOU have to write about them! YOU need to draw attention to their plight!  Walk, yes, you may walk now, but you need to do this so that you are ready to SIT DOWN and WRITE.  Do you remember the AIS phenomenon that your mentor told you about?”

A whip cracked

Image via Wikipedia

“Um, the AIN phenomenon? I’m sorry, writeamatrix, I have forgotten” I say, cowering a bit.  “ASS-IN-SEAT as the famous Dr. JC used to say.  That is what gets the job done.  You use to be really good at that – but not anymore.  You think that now, because you have tenure, you can slack off? Not so!”  In addition to cracking the whip, she pushed me forward with her boot – or was it hte wind? “Yes, of course, writeamatrix, how silly – I mean – how STUPID – of me to forget about that.”

“Stupid? Stupid is a KIND word. You American academics, you have it easy.  In Turkey…(“Oh,” I thought, “I didn’t realize the writeamatrix was Turkish?”)…don’t interrupt me!  In Turkey, you slave through the doctoral process, and you have MANY more stages to go through with MANY more requirements than you have here in this inferior nation.  Turkish academics are the BEST in the world.” I am beginning to realize that the writeamatrix is not only Turkish, but she is like the set of characters I meet who are over-the-top pro-Turkish, you know, the Turks make the best (fill in the blank from food to rockets) and the Turks invented the first (fill in the blank) and the Turks do (fill in the blank) better than anyone – it is a definite type.

All of a sudden, here on this sandy Cape Cod beach where I am picking up poop in turkuaz-colored bags, I realize that the writeamatrix is not only Turkish but is also channeling the voice of my sister-in-law, who is famous (to me) for asking “when will you become a REAL professor?”  I always felt hurt when she said this, answering, “um, I already am one?” to which she would inevitably reply “you have only just received your doctorate, you don’t even know what you are getting into – mwah hah-hah-hah (think evil witch-ish laugh)!”

Of course, is my sister-in-law (or the writeamatrix, for that matter) an academic? Well, I know my sister-in-law isn’t, but that doesn’t stop her from repeatedly explaining to me that in Turkey, first you are an asistant doçent, then a yardimci doçent, then a doçent and finally a profesor – all of which involves six or so years of work to achieve each status, exams, papers to be defended and the mastery of one language other than Turkish before reaching the final level…clearly a tremendous amount of work.  In my world, tenure brings me to the “associate professor” level, akin to doçent (if Wikipedia’s commentary on the topic is to be believed) and I have only been at it for 12 years…and only partial conversational language capabilities in Spanish, my best aside from English.  What I have, though, is the freedom from the allegedly nepotistic-extraordenaire Turkish academic system, where you are sunk without major as in MAJ-AH contacts…of course, we have elements of this phenomenon in the U.S., but as I have chosen a teaching university, I am somewhat protected from all that as my life is not driven by the gerbil-wheel of grant dollar seeking.  But still, I want to be good enough, to good enough work, respectable enough work – and not slack.

So, when my sister-in-law launches into this, or when the Writeamatrix appears, it is easy to feel not-good-enough, something I always wrestle with anyway (see Peggy McIntosh’s work on the academic imposter syndrome that women experience).  It’s a constant battle and I am trying to get a foothold on just being satisfied enough.  Not that I am trying to live up to my parents’ academic and research careers or anything…but I am putting it on myself, not them on me.  The Writeamatrix is mine all mine, a creation of me, I suppose.  Whether I like it or not, I have to deal with her.  Hopefully, the relentless Hacıyatmaz will help me to balance her out.

So this was how my morning walk went, the Writeamatrix hassling me as I ran after my dog who was having a poop-a-thon on the beach.  Meanwhile, Hacıyatmaz was rolling and rocking his way along, insistent on helping me fight fire with fire, not giving up on me as he seeks to find a different kind of balance between my academic and my personal writing.  But for now, the Writeamatrix is winning out, as is the poop.

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