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I have never been a fan of syrup-soaked pastries in the Turkish kitchen. Even growing up, I preferred milk puddings and fruit desserts. The only exception happened when I tasted the şekerpare Suat made in Ayvalık on a bayram day.

Suat was a neighbour, a friend and anyone who knew her would admit she was not what you would consider a …

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This last month I was invited to be one of the panelist in Tomorrow Tastes Mediterranean 2025 that took place in Kalamata, Greece. This international conference of 6 years started as a joint effort of both Barcelona University and Culinary Institute of America and has been held in Barcelona for the first five years. This year, after joining forces with the Captain Vassilis and Carmen Constantakapoulos Foundation, the seminar took place in Kalamata. From now onwards it is being planned to be one year in Barcelona and then other year in Kalamata.

The 2025 edition focused on a series of critical issues focusing on the importance of the Mediterranean Diet from a multi-dimensional perspective, including public health and nutrition, sustainability including biodiversity and the climate crisis, culinary insights and food innovation, behavioural change, technology, emerging business models and more – all from a variety of cross-cultural and cross-sectoral perspectives.

The panel I was invited to take part was Crafting Flavour in the Eastern Mediterranean Kitchen: From Greece and Turkey to the Levant. It was moderated by wonderful Maureen Costura, Professor of Applied Food Studies, CIA; Hyde Park, NY and the other presenters were Kamal Mouzawak, Chef and Food Writer; Beirut, Lebanon and Özgür Taş, Chef and Co-Owner, Arjin Experience Restaurant; Trikala, Greece.

So I thought I would share my speech here on Şemsa’s food per se. I admit it is highly personal and deeply emotional.

Here we are:

I was born and raised in Istanbul — and I often say, I’m one of the lucky ones.

Because the Istanbul I grew up in still had neighbors from every corner of the city’s layered past.

On our street in the neighbourhood of Salacak by the Bosphorus lived many Rum families. We had an Armenian widow living on the top floor making the best mussel dolmas, which she always shared with us bringing down a plate full of them. And I still can’t forget the beyaz peynir (white cheese) fatty and creamy and briny which we purchesed from the Bulgarian grocer on the corner.

The smells on our street changed every day. One evening you’d smell mastika and mahlep from paskalya çöreği (Tsoureki in Greek), another day garlic and vinegar from turşu… The smells always followed the seasons and the traditions of each layer of the society. And you shared the food, you were considerate and showed respect to other’s preferences and life style. Be it Muslim or Christian or Jewish.

It was a world in harmony, respect, humility and affection. I wish it remained that way still. Unfortunately, the world is much different today.

That was Istanbul then. You didn’t just live among people — you lived among traditions, flavours and smells.

It’s impossible to divert the geography from the cuisine. What makes our food traditions are always shaped by the geography we live in, either migrate to or from, we carry the taste with us.

Istanbul has always been a city of movement — of arrivals more than departures.

For centuries, it absorbed people, languages, faiths, and ingredients.

It was the capital of three empires — Eastern Roman, later Byzantine, and Ottoman — and each left its mark on the table.

And as history shifted, so did the culture.

What began as Roman gradually became Greek in language and spirit, shaped by the Eastern Church after the Great Schism.

The Rum (Romios in Greek)— the Eastern Romans — were there from the beginning.

Others arrived in stages: Turks, Armenians and Jews, Albanians and Bulgarians… traders and migrants from all over the Balkans, Anatolia, and the Levant.

Each community brought its own rituals, its own ingredients, its own way of celebrating, its own customs.

From the Balkans came dairy, meat pies, and the habit of fermenting; from Anatolia, grains, pulses, and herbs; from the Levant, spices, tomato/pepper paste, sun dried vegetables

And together, over centuries, they created a sum that’s greater than its’parts.

Istanbul cuisine isn’t a fusion.

It’s the result of coexistence — centuries of shared kitchens, shared markets, and yes — shared hunger.

Istanbul shaped an entire region. Because the palaces of all those empires were there, they affected both as a mirror and an engine — refining and redistributing tastes across the land.

Yet it didn’t exist in isolation. It was also shaped by the empire and by people.

It was the center of distribution — the best produce, the first harvests, the rarest ingredients all found their way there. Also all the migration; people traveling to and from.

With them taste travelled inward and outward.

At the end, not the palace but the reality of daily life and the simplicity of the home cooking prevailed.

That’s how imam bayıldı became everyone’s dish.

Today you can trace the path of an Istanbul pilav or a Albanian börek throughout the region.

Recipes evolved, names changed — but the essence remained.

That’s why, when we speak of the Eastern Mediterranean table, we are really speaking of a single, breathing ecosystem of taste — a geography connected not by borders, but by olive oil, wheat, dairy, produce, and all the sea creatures. All of this is bound by memory.

When I opened Kantin in 2000, I called what I cooked “New Istanbul Cuisine.”

It was an attempt to translate that layered past into the language of today — using local, seasonal ingredients, working with small producers, respecting memory.

Without the tradition we cannot talk about a future of cuisine.

Yet tradition isn’t something to be preserved under glass.

It’s something you live, question, reinterpret.

For me, cooking is the most intimate way of understanding who we are — and where we come from.

Kitchen as a living archive is carried by people —

And it’s carried by those who left or had to leave— taking the flavours with them to another shore.

Migration never stopped.

Neither did the conversation between cuisines.

When I say I am an Istanbulite, I say it with pride — but also with humility.

Because being from Istanbul means carrying all these layers, all these voices, inside you.

It means belonging everywhere and nowhere at once.

And perhaps that’s the true essence of cuisine.

So, when I cook today — whether it’s a humble pilaki or an inventive dessert — I like to think I’m continuing that conversation.

Between East and West, old and new, memory and imagination.

Because in the end flavour brings us together.

Gathering and sharing around a table is our common language in Greece, Türkiye and all of the Levant.

And Istanbul — my Istanbul — has been speaking it fluently for centuries.

Thank you.

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What a joy to see all the fall produce appear on farmers’ market stalls! Ugly and knobbly but oh-so-fragrant celery roots (or should I call them celeriac?), the underestimated Jerusalem artichokes, leeks—thin or thick—their pale greenish white merging into soft green, all sorts of kale, curly or smooth, purple or dark green, Swiss chard with either colourful stems or my favourite thick white stems, spinach with crisp yet tender leaves and roots begging to be braised in olive oil, vibrant Fuji persimmons with their deep orange hue and sweet flesh, apples and pears of varying tartness, shapes, and colours, and the ever-present winter staple, cabbage.

There’s an abundance of salad greens; what a sight! A whole array of lettuce: oak leaf, romaine, butterhead, and Chinese, along with the newer additions of mizuna and similar types, baby spinach, mesclun mustard, arugula, and cress. Then there are the bitters: endive, frisée, radicchio, and, of course, escarole. Late autumn is also an ideal time for foraging. Like in spring, there’s a wide selection of edible wild greens before the real cold kicks in. And then, of course, the foraging for wild mushrooms—always a great idea but only if you’re well-versed in identifying edible varieties. Otherwise, it can be dangerous. So, I’d never recommend mushroom foraging alone—I don’t do it myself, but I enjoy the rewards of those who are in the know.

I must admit, the late autumn-early winter market stalls are my favourite. A splendid display for summer-weary eyes. Personally, I find summer produce a bit boring. I know, you’d probably argue for tomatoes. Yes, you’re right about those, but what else? Just aubergines and zucchini; end of story. Spring is another peak for produce, but not summer—at least not in my strongly held opinion.

Autumnal produce has my mouth watering and my taste buds buzzing with endless possibilities and the comfort of old favourites. This week at the farmers’ market, I could barely contain my excitement when I discovered tiny baby cabbages. They weren’t even properly formed but rather the small offshoots on the sides. There were also garlic chives, the tiniest spring onions, and slim leeks. I pictured them all coming together in a dish: stuffed cabbage with lots of herbs and pork mince—but not the kind from the butcher. I’d already ordered pork cheeks, so I imagined grinding some for a coarse mince at home to use in my cabbage stuffing.

On my way out of the market, I stumbled upon a stall selling the last of their green tomatoes. I could already taste the subtle tartness they’d bring to my stuffed cabbage. Into my wheeled shopping trolley they went.

I set about cooking this dish I had envisioned a few days later, on Monday. The cabbages, not fully formed, loosened as I blanched them, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me from stuffing them. And the green tomatoes, slightly softened in colour but still tart, settled at the bottom of my pot. The final result, while not as visually striking as I’d imagined, was everything I’d hoped for: tart, rich, fragrant, and delicious.

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We’ve seen the last of the season’s ripe tomatoes, and now is the perfect time for the green ones—the unripe tomatoes that are ideal for pickling. While pickling is a great option, there are a few other dishes that shouldn’t be overlooked.

One of those is green tomato pilaki, a dish I wait all summer to make. The opportunity to cook it comes during the very short window from the end of September to mid-October.

In the Istanbul of my childhood, it was natural to wait for certain produce to appear before making specific dishes. It was like waiting for lüfer, the prized bluefish of the Bosphorus, which we consider superior to all other fish caught in the strait. Another example is the first appearance of artichokes in April, when we would rejoice at the arrival of spring. We also eagerly awaited the arrival of spring lamb and sugar snap peas. Some of these ingredients would be available for several months, but others, like sugar snap peas and green tomatoes, were only around for about two weeks.

I remember my family excitedly discussing at the dinner table how a particular ingredient had been sighted, and how we couldn’t afford to miss the moment. Today, this might seem strange to many, but back then, eating seasonally was simply a way of life. We wouldn’t dream of eating tomatoes or aubergines in winter, or cabbage and leeks in summer. Everything had its time, and everything was locally grown. It was the only way to cook and eat.

The excitement around the first sighting of such produce, and the celebratory nature of cooking with them, speaks to a way of life that was intrinsically connected to the land, the seasons, and the community. Many are returning to this approach today, seeking to reconnect with food that is fresh, sustainable, and full of flavor.

Back then, we didn’t use terms like “organic,” “biodiversity,” or “sustainable.” It was simply a reverence for those moments when nature offers its bounty, creating a beautiful rhythm to cooking.

Years later, when I opened my restaurant, Kantin, in Istanbul, I carried this rich tradition, memory, and dedication to seasonal, locally sourced food into my work. It was simply the way I had lived, so naturally, it became the philosophy for my restaurant as well. I didn’t think there was any other way. But in the early 2000s, most restaurants were serving everything out of season because it was possible and available. Families, too, were eating tomatoes in winter, thanks to hothouse farming. No one cared about the seasons, the seeds, or where their produce came from. Traditional farming methods had all but disappeared, marking the decline of agriculture in my homeland.

Because I insisted on using local, seasonal produce, I was initially branded as “the mad woman of the restaurant scene.” No one took me seriously. But over the course of nearly 20 years, the tide turned, and I came to be seen as a pioneer. Not that I set out to be one—I was simply doing what I knew. I wasn’t trying to save the world.

Any vegetable, when grown in its proper season, from heirloom seeds and in organic soil, simply tastes better. Now, everyone knows the saying: Your food is only as good as your ingredients. Back then, no one seemed to care. It was just my lonely quest for real food and quality produce. I was stubborn about the quality of my ingredients not to make a point, but because I wanted my food to shine. And for that, I needed the best ingredients I could find. Early on, I sought out small farmers and artisanal producers, building relationships with them out of deep appreciation. I felt indebted to them.

Today, after the restaurant and my teaching kitchen, I remain committed to real food made with real ingredients. My food reflects my dedication to quality and authenticity. The decline of traditional agriculture and the rise of year-round availability haven’t hindered my constant search for local and seasonal produce.

Now, the short season for green tomatoes has arrived, and I’m celebrating the moment with two dishes: the classic Istanbul Green Tomato Pilaki and a new dish, Pickled Mackerel with Green Tomatoes.

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Recently, I’ve noticed a growing interest in Turkish and Balkan pastries on Instagram. It’s actually quite satisfying to finally see them getting the recognition they deserve. The world of pastry in this part of the world, both savory and sweet, is incredibly vast. Pastries are a staple of daily diets, but some, due to the skill, effort, and time required to make them, are reserved for special occasions like religious feasts and celebrations.

Savory pastries generally fall under the category of böreks or breakfast pastries. Sweet pastries, however, are harder to define within a single category. If you must classify them, you could say they’re either with syrup or without, but even that feels like an oversimplification.

As I mentioned in a previous post, böreks come in many varieties: dough made with or without fat, store-bought or hand-rolled, oven-baked or skillet-cooked. The easiest versions are always made with ready-made filo pastry.

Since all these regions were once under the control of Ottoman Empire, the customs and culinary traditions of different religions and geographies have blended together. The Greek pita, Albanian pastries, and Turkish böreks often overlap, with everyone claiming to be the original creator. It’s human nature what we often forget is that the origin of these foods isn’t rooted in race, but in geography. You cook with what your environment provides.

Over the coming months, I’d like to share some of savory and sweet doughs and pastries with you, today I’ll add one of my childhood favorites Kırma Börek to theses Börek Chronicles.

This idea originates from times of poverty, using a minimal amount of filling to feed hungry members of family, still being tasty, pleasing, and nourishing. With just two or three sheets of filo and a small amount of filling, you can bake an entire oven tray of börek. The richness of this börek comes from a mixture of yogurt, egg, and milk, which are plentiful in the region, even in more modest households. The result is a dish that’s soft underneath and crispy on top—a very satisfying bite.

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When I was a child some restaurants used to serve an unusual börek called “avcı böreği / hunter’s roll”.

Unusual because it was not something it was ever made at homes. Or at least not at the homes I knew. As a child I loved that börek. I had this feeling my mother despised it, not thinking highly of it and whenever I ordered one, she made a face. I felt so disapproved, I would not dare to ask of it to be replicated at home. Yet when I had a chance at a restaurant I ordered it trying to avoid my mother’s stare.

I don’t know why she so despised this börek. She didn’t feel it to be worthy maybe, inferior. Worthy of what, I want to ask now as an adult, but I can’t, can I? She passed away way too early, the best cook I have ever known and my teacher, my master in the kitchen. I still can’t understand her deep dislike of this börek.

All these thoughts were lingering on my mind last week, when I was preparing “avci böreği / hunter’s roll”. At least a version of it. The original as far as I can remember had minced meat in it and covered in a crepe or filo which was drenched in flour-eggs-breadcrumbs and fried. I looked it up on internet and it seems there was fine bulghur in it as well. I don’t have a recollection of such a detail, as a child I was too busy devouring a peculiarly coated deep fried börek. The thing I remember is the texture of it and the mouthfeel.

I was having guests over for dinner and as I was trying to figure out the the menu, I felt a crunchy element was missing and also something of substantial texture to bite into. In a flash, I had a lightbulb moment: what about a avcı böreği? It was substantial enough with the crispy exterior. But instead of the classic, what if I stuffed mussels into my version of hunter’s rolls with a filling packed with onions… Sweetness from the carrots and onions, earthiness from the pine nuts, brininess from the mussels, freshness from parsley and dill, and crunch from the crepe coating. That was the random vision.

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How does a menu cookbook sound?

On December 26th, 2022, I had a car accident. The car I was driving became a wreck, but I emerged totally unharmed—not even a nosebleed. I was incredibly lucky, and so were the passengers of the other car, who miraculously walked away safe and well.

It was one of those moments that made me reflect deeply on life and what I truly want from it. I think that’s when my journey of self-change began. For the next two months, I sat on the couch, staring blankly into space, exploring myself in a new light and realising that I am:

1. a dinosaur, out of sync with the behaviour patterns of the younger generation.

2. someone content with her own accomplishments.

3. without the energy to run a full-time, service-oriented business.

4. someone not wanting to lead or be part of a team.

5. wanting to cook more than ever.

6. feeling envious of the newly published cookbooks by others.

There and then, on that couch I came up with the idea of a menu cookbook—not for grand occasions, but something I call “Small Menus.” It’s a real-life collection of dishes that I believe go well together, dishes that complement each other and elevate the enjoyment of the whole experience. At our home, for lunch or dinner… Sometimes very simple, sometimes more elaborate… Just for the two of us, or inevitably to be shared with friends… Most often at a nicely set table, but sometimes on our laps while watching a movie on the screen.

The idea is that even the simplest meal deserves to be savoured to its fullest potential. We need to take care of ourselves, both body and soul, to enrich our lives. It’s about the simple details that turn any shared meal into a special occasion. Because we deserve treats. We deserve to be spoiled, and who better than ourselves to treat us with the utmost care and love? It’s a reflection of love—the love we should feel within ourselves for ourselves.

In the four months that followed, I completed seven menus and framed the entire concept of this book. But then, life got in the way. We had to make the difficult decision to leave Türkiye and settle abroad. After considering London and finding it impossible due to British immigration laws, we finally chose our wonderful pied-à-terre overlooking Thessaloniki, Greece.

Now, nine months after our move, I am finally ready to reclaim my life. The relocation is complete, the renovations are finished, and we are settled into the comforts of our new home. After a much-needed summer vacation, I’m back on track.

I’m excited to present the eighth menu of the “Small Menus” cookbook. Like all the others, this one is drawn from real life—a “Rakı & Meze” dinner I prepared after returning from a short trip to Istanbul, where I found excellent lakerda and grey mullet roe for tarama. For this special meal, I decided to open a special edition of Kulüp Rakı, presented in a beautifully crafted crystal bottle to celebrate its 90th anniversary. This numbered bottle, 103 out of 2019, was gifted to me in 2019, the year of the anniversary. It felt fitting to break the seal and enjoy it for our first Istanbul-style rakı table with friends in our new home in Thessaloniki.

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As seasons are changing and these last few days in Istanbul the weather seemed weepy, I am craving sweets more than usual. I am not a ‘sweet-tooth’ kind of person but sometimes, just sometimes, unexpainably I crave something sweet. I say unexplainably because I am past PMS -stage so the season must be the reason. As the weather cools down a notch, as yo…

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At one point to have a break and prepare dinner, I went to the kitchen for the dolma I have planned for. I selected the courgettes from Saturday’s farmers’ market with this dolma in mind. The courgettes should be plump to be hollowed out so they can be generously stuffed. Growing up, the women in my family always preserved the hollowed-out innards of courgettes to be used as courgette fritters {mücver} about which I have already written on an earlier post here on Substack. This dolma for dinner turned out so delicate, so silky smooth, I couldn’t resist the urge to write about them and postponed the half-written article of ‘Leftover/Value-add Kitchen’ for another time.

A dolma is something that is stuffed basically. Courgettes, tomatoes, aubergines, bell peppers are all summer dolmas, whereas cabbage, Swiss chard, brined vine leaves or the sun-dried vegetables (like these) are considered a winter selection. Then there are uncommon dolmas, like the esteemed mackerel dolma or mussel dolma of Istanbul. Also you can hollow out quinces and stuff them with finely chopped (not minced) lamb meat with cinnamon, allspice and cloves. In spring, the artichokes, when they are still tender but large enough, can be filled as dolmas as well.

There is a distinction between a ‘dolma’ or a ‘yalancı dolma’. If the stuffing is with meat but only a bit of rice and is supposed to be eaten as a hot dish, then it is a ‘dolma’. If it is stuffed with rice, no meat at all, and cooked to be eaten cold then it is a ‘yalancı dolma’.

A ‘yalancı’ is a liar. In this case it becomes a liar’s dolma, a cheat’s dolma or a fake dolma. Why considered as such? Any dolma with no meat by tradition is called ‘yalancı’. In my opinion a ‘yalancı dolma’, a zeytinyaglı (olive oil braised) basically, is more difficult to master. A meat dolma requires no precooking of the stuffing, it is just mixed together and filled into the casings. For the yalancı dolma one needs to par-cook the rice mixture to a certain degree of doneness to assure the very specific end result.

But that is a post for another day. Today I’ve cooked a proper meat stuffed dolma of courgettes and enjoyed it with a side of garlic-y cacık. A match made in heaven. Yoghurt almost always accompanies vegetable dolmas, not necessarily as cacık. I should admit I don’t fancy plain yoghurt with dolmas in general, but summer dolmas with a side of cacık is really a match made in heaven. I conceive cacık as a salad, not as a sauce, and essentially a summer concoction. Made with a proper full-fat yoghurt and cucumbers, it should be slightly over-salted with a generous amount of olive oil and definitely some garlic in it. I don’t like cacık without garlic and don’t even consider it one. Years ago at my restaurant Kantin when a customer asked for a non-garlic cacık, I refused to serve one, explaining my logic ‘if there is no garlic, it cannot be called cacık, it would be just yoghurt with cucumbers in it’.

Besides a cacık needs to prepared at least an hour or so before eating so it has time to chill thoroughly and get the cucumbers release their juices into yoghurt and turn into cacık. You can find a rough recipe of no measurements down below.

As for the stuffed courgettes, you can apply the method and stuffing in this photo-novella into bell peppers, tomatoes or aubergines. Feel free to choose your dolma and enjoy the bounty of summer.

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it symbolizes the celebratory meal Noah made when he came off the Ark. according to the myth, when the Ark came to rest on Mount Ararat, every live being on it, humans and animals, celebrated with a special dish. since the supplies were almost exhausted, what was left, primarily grains and dried fruits, was cooked together to form a pudding, what is now called in Muslim tradition aşure and in Armenian tradition anoushabour.

aşure {ashure} is a sign of peace, of community, and of hope for a bright future. it is meant to be shared with your family and friends and neighbours. every year in the “Muharrem” month of the Islamic calendar (which is a lunar calendar of 355 days, so the timing moves forward 10 days in one solar year) aşure is cooked with blessings and prayers and distributed among neigbours, friends and family.

I am not a religious person, furthermore I don’t like any religion at all. I believe religions in general are the oldest form of politics. and I don’t like politics. belief is something else, every person is entitled to their belief system, be it one God or energy or…. some traditions are more geography bound than others, and some are cherishing things I believe. like counting one’s blessings. like showing gratidute. like sharing.

that’s why I make aşure every year.

at my restaurant Kantin in Istanbul for 18 years we made aşure in cauldrons several times during the aşure month (Muharrem) and shared it with the neighboring shopkeepers and the street vendors on the our street and distribute to friends and guests living or working in 1 km radius of our restaurant. it was my way of saying thank you and showing gratitude to everyone who existed together with us, our community.

as I’ve added the last ingredient to the pot at the end of a very laborous 2 days, I’ve always said a prayer in my own words for all the things I have been blessed with and sent the aşure bowls to our community with the restaurant’s waiters with the instruction that they should utter the exact words upon delivery: “may your blessings be ours, and ours yours!”

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a follower on IG messaged me about what his granny used to cook with surplus tomatoes in summer, a rice zeytinyağlı dish to be eaten chilled. suddenly the idea of tomatoes, olive oil and rice along with green peppers and onions, out of the fridge drizzled with more olive oil, maybe some basil torn into it had such an appeal. being on a boat I don’t know…

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I’ve learned this dish from my beloved aunt. my father’s older sister was an ace of Istanbul cooking and whatever she cooked, in her nonchalant way as if not paying any attention at all, turned out delicious. she was the queen of all types of zeytinyağlı, but also pan-fried palamut (bonito) caught from Bosphorus a few hours ago to excellent juiciness an…

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are you an ‘okra’ person?

so many people dislike this relatively undesired vegetable. in our culture children have a tendency to feel repulsed by its slimy-ness. also so many grownups have stories how their mothers pushed them to eat okra, too many tearful memories. yet I’ve known people who detested okra as a kid, have acquired a taste for it later in life. 

I can understand the fact that it can be an acquired taste. yes, when overcooked or treated the wrong way okra becomes slimy. 

I don’t know of many cultures to deem this veggie as part of their cuisine. Indians and Africans yes, Creole indeed, but Europeans, Brit or Americans? not really. 

okra is a native of East Africa. obviously it has travelled to Anatolia where its presence is felt. by presence I don’t mean it is an ingredient of desire, not like tomatoes. almost always it is a love or hate story. some adore it, some don’t. in Istanbul it certainly has its place but surprisingly okra is present in some Anatolian dishes. for example Cappadocia has dishes made with dried okra. Konya cooks okra with sheep’s meat and in Ayvalik it is part of a fish stew. again it is a matter of geography. all the fore-mentioned areas grow okra, so they consume okra. 

as for Istanbul it is part of our beloved “türlü” a summer vegetables’ stew with lamb’s meat cooked either in an earthenware or a copper pot. also we make a “zeytinyağlı” with it. actually there are several versions of it. in early summer, beginning of June, when tomatoes are not fully ripe to be used, okra gets cooked with verjuice. another option is cooking it with greengages which is also late spring early summer. in the absence of both one uses lemons. it is not easy to find sour unripe grapes but when you do, you cook okra with them. sour becomes okra very much.

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okra is available almost all summer. when the time comes, tomatoes with their earthy tartness replace the verjuice, greengages or lemons. these traditional cooking options are always in the form of a “zeytinyağlı”. which means they are meatless, cooked gently in an abundance of olive oil, let to cool to room temperature and savoured with freshly baked loaves of bread. what all these “zeytinyağlı” okra dishes always have in common is the presence of onions and garlic. 

I am definitely an okra lover. I enjoy all the traditional dishes but there are so many other delicious ways to enjoy okra, it would be amiss not to mention some of my favourites:

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we all have been reading about the harms of gluten for our bodies. the press, the doctors, people on IG… anyone really, they are all saying '“gluten is bad, period”. yet again there is research about how sourdough breads are good for your gut health. obviously not the ones with super processed super bleached flours. but just having organic wholewheat stone-milled etc does not help the process alone. also the long fermentation through which the gluten transforms is the key as far as my understanding.

not that I understand much. all is a confusion for me! yet I know how I feel when I eat a gluten heavy diet and how the sourdough bread does not affect me as much.

for the last several months, after our move to Thessaloniki, I retained my mental health by obsessing with how the local varieties of flour can be transformed into a fine loaf of bread, naturally leavened of course. keeping sane and busying myself during the waiting months for the renovation of our new home to finish in a small cramped apartment with a kitchen the size of 1 sink and 1 stovetop, having no horizon to look at - I know I am spoiled but after living the last 12 years always with a horizon both in Istanbul and in the Northern Aegean, I desperately need one- I have baked dozens of bread and ate at least half of them. the other half I didn’t were always intended for our neighbours and some friends.

so, these last 5 months I have been devouring naturally leavened, up to 48 hours fermented sourdough breads. at the beginning the flours were also rubbish, but in time I managed to find locally sourced organic flours and turned them into some decent loaves.

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I adore meatballs.

growing up, there was nothing I liked better.

but then all the kids were the same.

but I, being a gluton from a very young age, took the matter to new heights. I have been known as a kid, while playing with other kids on the street, as everyone did those days, we are talking ealy 70’s, having smelt the wafting aromas of cooking meatballs from unknown houses, going after the smell just like a hounddog, and knocking that door and asking whoever answered the door “are you having meatballs?” the poor unsuspecting human being could just blabber “yes” and then came the following question “may I join you?”

can you imagine opening your door and finding a blond girl of 8 (or 9) you certainly haven’t seen before, standing in front of your doorstep asking to join you at your table to share your meatballs? it is hillarious but at the same time disturbing, shocking and very annoying.

but no one said no to a child in those days if they saw the child also had manners. yes this child had manners but at the same time was very outgoing with no feelings of shame.

so, I adored meatballs. I still do. my mother made excellent meatballs. I still use her method.

meatballs are so versatile. you can use all sorts of mince, beef, lamb or pork, finer or coarser ground; then they can have different binders and they can be serving many different purposes. you can make soups and stews with meatballs in them, grill or bake or boil them. they are also our most beloved streetfood, grilled meatballs stuffed inside a warmed bread along with lettuce tomatoes and onions. what is not to love?

but here, now, I want to talk about the very classic meatballs any Istanbul mother makes at home, the one all of us as kids wanted to eat all the time and if posibble only that. for an Istanbul youngster ‘meatballs and pilav’ or ‘meatballs and fried potatoes’ or ‘meatballs and tomato pasta’ is a dream meal. but that was way before American style burgers came into the city and into our lives. I wouldn’t know the new generations but mine and maybe two more generations prefered meatballs. as kids and as adults.

they are luscious. they are soft and juicy and the caramelization of the minced patties have you salivating all the time. so, here I want to share a few tips about the way my mother made meatballs. as I said I still use the same method.

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“paska” is around the corner.

paska in Greek is Easter in English; paskalya in Turkish.

the Greek Easter is starting this Friday till Tuesday. the Armenian Easter is celebrated at different times. in Istanbul we are lucky to have celebrating both.

for me the Istanbul Easter is all about the “paskalya çöreği”

paskalya is spring for me and the smells that f…

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