I found myself making halva the next morning. I am not a defined religious soul but believe in different gods, and rituals, I practice what I find soothing or apply the ones that make sense, into my life. So, I wanted to cook semolina halva, helva kavurmak, an act of cooking semolina halva after our parted ones. Ordering semolina, butter and milk from the market, no intention of going out, soon took down the small copper pot left from my grandma, and toasting the pine nuts…

Our Toko just left us, I had missed my friend Eren, she passed May 2025, and my other beloved cat, Meek, who left us at 2020, all in my memory all present when I was cooking halva. As I add the butter to the hot pot, watched it bubble and rise, releasing the aromas, it was time to add the semolina, I remembered all my parted loved ones. I nonstop stirred the semolina, to prevent it from burning, watching the tiny grains as they turn golden, the smell rising from the pot changed every second, I again found myself talking at the pot.

As the butter and the semolina turned golden, the smell keep changing, it took me back to the paper Aylin Öney presented at Sapor Istanbul, the old school symposium, at 2022, yağ kokutma. The tradition of ‘smelling of oil’, which has continued for thousands of years from the ancient Turks -Turkic- to the present day. Roughly it is a belief and a culinary tradition based on the idea that the scent of pastries and halva cooked in homes is carried to the spirits in order to please the spirits of deceased ancestors.

As I stirred the semolina, I believed the scent rising in the kitchen was reaching to my loved ones, to somewhere we don’t know… The semolina turned golden brown, I added the milk and sugar mixture, watched it squeak and sizzled. As the semolina grains soaked the juices, the overwhelming smells softened my heart, eased my pain a bit. The liquid disappeared by seconds, the semolina turning plump and soft. The halva was ready.

We had our shares piping hot, Deniz -my son- dusted some cinnamon on his share. Soon we were eating the hot helva, tears rolling down from my cheeks, I was trying to make peace with the thought with every spoonful of halva.

With flavor, Tuba x

In Istanbul, mulberry trees are rented seasonally by families who supply the fruit to local grocers. Yep, that is a profession—a seasonal one that has been going on for centuries. When the mulberries start to ripen, someone climbs the tree and shakes the branches. The falling fruit is caught by a dut bezi (mulberry cloth). My granny had a white one; it was a cloth big enough to catch everything, like four to six tablecloths sewn together. As the rest of us held the ends of the cloth, it felt like it was raining mulberries on our heads.

Years ago, when my late granny still had huge mulberry trees in her garden, we—the children of the mahalle (neighborhood)—were called in for the job. Every single child would leave with their cheeks stained and their bowls overflowing with mulberries. It was such pure fun. (Followed by tummy aches and diarrhea for sure because of the excessive eating, but it didn't stop us.)

Until the 1940s, Mecidiyeköy—now one of the busiest concrete districts in Istanbul—was a region of mulberry groves, renowned for its silkworm farming and orchards. Mulberry trees were highly valued throughout history:

“One of the trees that sanctity is attributed to in tree cult is mulberry tree. Mulberry tree which is called the spirit of the house is also the symbol of the peace of house, future and abundance. In Turkish traditional structure, before laying the foundation of the house, planting of fruit trees around has been given priority. ”*

That is not the story anymore. Today, a single tree’s space is seen as an obstacle, and the first things they tear down are the trees and the forests. It seems the majority of people have become disconnected from nature. They are far removed from fruit trees, preferring to complain about how the few remaining urban mulberries soil the pavements or stain their cars.

But today, on our way back from tennis, we stopped. We shook the tree a bit —I used his sweatshirt as an impromptu dut bezi— and watched the slight mulberry rain. We listened to that patır patır sound, the berries falling one after another in a resonant rhythm. We filled Deniz’s cap with them and munched on them all the way home. At least today, I got to tell my childhood stories around the mulberry trees to my son, and he got to taste the joy of that falling rain. City and times may have changed, but the magic is still there, if you can see it.

*Ülkü Gürsoy, Dergipark.org

After galloping down my soup with some bread, I was ready to hit the road to the market. Çarşamba Pazarı is the biggest clothing market in town, I was not interested in shirts, socks, table cloths, shoes, etc. but the alleys of vegetables and fruit layered upon one another. I leave you to it…

It was the fresh garlic season, so nobody was bothered with my garlic scent, I blended in masterfully.

This variety if more firmer and which makes it better for pickling. I love munching on them cause they are crunchier, and they have this old times cucumber taste, your lips stick to one another, that kind!

Hodan is an acquired taste if you ask me. The root parts —the roots on the right side of the photo— have a taste like slimy cucumbers, creamy, spinach, chard, sweet and mineral at the same time. They share the same fate with all the edible wild plants in our geography; they are sautéed with lots of onion, or/and eaten with eggs. I love to sauté it too, and add some pastırma to it. the leaves and flowers can be added to salads, roots are better when cooked.

All scooped when they are at their best, put on a string and hung to dry under the sun, the hot, dry Antep sun. When cooking, they need to be hydrated then stuffed with your choice of ingredients. Dolma… It needs its own article.

If Eren were alive, she would have bought all of these bags, these have her name written all over them.

So... I bought another market bag, —a striped one—, filled it with fresh garlic, prickly cukes and Antakya lemon. 10 minutes later I was having tea, leaning my back against the Valens Aqueduct. When in Istanbul!

Take a simple dish for example, it is the hardest to achieve. It takes precision, very good ingredients, pairing knowledge, cooking knowledge this and that.

These peas for example, a bit of butter, olive oil, black pepper, white pepper, onion and garlic. Every ingredient has to pull its weight. A heavy skillet, couple of drops of water, you don't stir it or open the lid often; doing it once will do. For me this is the best pea dish. The onion melts slowly, leaving with the sweet taste, the peas’ sweetness combined, the salt and pepper kick in from behind. I eat it spoonful, immediately it is cooked.

Like this writing for example -simple. It isn’t always necessary for every piece of article, post, blog etc to teach or impart something, or for a recipe to be followed line by line, gram by gram. I need a conversation over a meal, not the textbook version of it. Instructions, 101’s are necessary, those have their place. Perhaps I feel that we need more stories. As writing this way has done me good, I’m writing here this manner—relaxed, accessible, and in a way that brings a little smile to my face when I read it.

I need simplicity in a world of chaos. Who doesn’t?

With flavor, Tuba x

Istanbul’s neighborhoods all have their share of artichoke sellers. They keep to the same street, the same corner, the same spot in front of an apartment building, perched on the same tabure -stool, next to the same kova -a big bucket, with the same usta- master at work. The artichokes change with the season, but everything else stays exactly the same. Sakız, Bayrampaşa, Kıbrıs, Mor (Hybrid)… The best for me is sakız enginarı, it starts around February, March depending on the weather, are grown in Izmir. Urla sakız enginarı, in fact, is a product with a registered Geographical Indication—the undisputed king and queen of the artichoke world. Sakız is also the only variety I refuse to let anyone peel but myself.

Don’t get me wrong—I can peel any artichoke perfectly. But if I did, I’d miss out on the chance to gossip and chat. Besides, if there is an usta—someone who has truly mastered the craft and does the job brilliantly—why on earth should I do everything myself?

Everyone has their preferred artichoke seller, mine is for the last 10 years is Erol Usta. Before it was Şevket Usta, before Recai Usta. You never forget the name of your artichoke seller, well I don’t, they are the link to my food. The people behind the food, that makes it worthy, you simply do not forget that.

I missed the window to make artichoke confit from sakız enginarı this year, but I’m still cooking my fair share of them at home—with lots of olive oil, lemon, fresh garlic, herbs, and spring onions. But please, never with that boring garnish of potatoes, carrots, and dill!

Claimer: Food is personal, so no raising voices to my preferences for dill-free artichokes.

With flavor, Tuba x

We are obsessed with that sour green plum in Türkiye! That is a fact. -For those who have not tasted before, it tasted like green apples, grass, unripe grapes, a bit of pear, juicy, crunchy, fresh, moreish.

There are two types of green plums available in the city, Papaz erik and Can erik. I prefer Papaz erik. And ooh that erik! Pop one in your mouth, you are hooked.

We dunk it in the salt, have a bite and then dunk it more. The green juice bursts in your mouth. Kütür kütür, and there is no direct translation for this it looses its meaning, ode to crispiness.

Erik is one of my fave sides to rakı as well. A sip of that pearly, round, drink and a bite of that erik, at my fave meyhane in town, Cavit. I do not need an occasion for erik anyway, but erik goes all with everything I like!

Last night I sprinkled some Tajin on top of them. Not bad, I have to say, then again it needed a margarita with that! It is always a good idea to store some in the freezer, cause I love to add them to my dolma, for their tangy flavor.

When in season, it steals the headlines every year. The newspapers write Erik fiyatları dudak uçuklatıyor, plum prices are sky-high, starting from thousands of lira like 2500TL for a kilo when in turfanda -harvested and brought o the markets early, the first batch- then heading its way to 700, 400, yesterday was 300 per kilo. When you believe that everyone should grow up eating green plums by the handful, you realize just how absurd these prices have become.

I missed the days when the fruit is plenty and affordable. Skin Trade by Duran Duran is spinning on the deck. Notorious, American Science, Skin Trade, A Matter Of Feeling and Hold me are on one side, what else can I ask for! And I do not know what to cook for dinner! So, yeah!

With flavor, Tuba x

When I make it at home I add some Chinkiang -black rice vinegar-, garlic, bunch of torn coriander leaves, toasted grounded sichuan pepper, finished with local sesame seeds from Aegean lands. Not to forget couple of drops of Kodaya sesame oil. Then always always I top it with my chili oil after I serve it to myself.

Only I wish to have a bowl of that -best- hand pulled noodles, Lagman, at home!

Talking Heads’ Speaking In Tongues is playing in the back ground. Home is where I want to be /But I guess I'm already there / I come home, she lifted up her wings /
I guess that this must be the place…

Kara Keçi moment /aka Black Goat of the day:

Forget about representing your restaurants or companies—is it really that hard to make a bit of an effort for a wine tasting event? The attitude of those who turned up to the tasting I attended, the carelessness of some industry professionals, their behavior as if they’d come to a rave party— I suppose I just wanted to see a bit of respect for their profession. Thankfully they were not the only ones around.

Maybe skipping sweatpants and sunglasses is a start, and also losing the 'here for the free drinks' attitude. After all it is not a liquid in a glass but it is the exchange of respect between producers coming from around the world with the ones who are supposed to talk about their wine… Is this caused by a lack of mentorship, or is this lack of intention? Whatever it is, if you show up an invitation, you should at least make an effort for it. But then again, what’s it to me?

The category “aşçının güncesi” is like a cooking and life journal. The music was always there, as were the ingredients, market visits, people, cooking, and recipes. Oh, how I loved writing that! Today, when I took a look at the page and saw how my life has changed, I felt something was missing. I don’t write like that anymore. I write, though. I have four different notebooks, if not more. I cook every day. I have different responsibilities and jobs now. But I’m not writing particularly like that anymore.

So, I have decided to pick up where I left off. Not daily, though, because I can’t keep that promise. This is about my life with food: adventures, finds, ingredients, repeats, boredom, creations, and books et al. I will be opinionated and honest, as usual.

Yay! So, happy reading!

A big and warm hello came out of my mouth. His face lit up. This was not our first conversation. I raved about his rice cart again. He smiled and thanked me. It was raining with a side of snow at that moment, he had no umbrella in hand, but he assured me he would put an umbrella on top of his cart, I wished him a prosperous day, well I said güzel işlerin olsun Ustacım. We went our separate ways.

A delicious street food, nohut pilav, with a choice of chicken on top, is one of Istanbul's most popular street food dishes. Some cart owners became so famous in the years that they opened their shops. Shops without wheels! But I think, there is no sense or charm in eating nohut pilav in a shop. If I want to eat in a shop, I will visit one of my esnaf lokantası.

I like sitting on a plastic stool that he scatters around the cart on the sidewalk - if the cart owner offers a stool -like the ones in Vietnam. Around noon, he parks his cart at an intersection, a busy street with a section of an avenue, and his customers know that's where they're going to find him. And the hungry crowd gathered around him. Nohut pilav -chickpeas and pilav- or tavuk pilav -rice & shredded chicken- or all of them. He scoops the order in plastic square bowls, tucks a plastic spoon on the side, and hands it to you. Sprinkle with pul biber chili flakes, get your help of fiery mini pepper pickles served in the jar with a hanging mini thong on the rim, and Bob's your uncle! If the portion is not fulfilling, you may always get the second or have another food of your choice on your lunch break, somewhere else.

He takes his morning to cook and then forms his rice mountain, like a heap waiting to be climbed, the steam from the rice makes the glass mist up, giving an overall mystical look. Then off to work, pushing his full cart… I run into him after work hours, mostly pushing his empty cart on a crowded sidewalk, trying to get home from Pangaltı. Tahsin Usta is one of the few left street sellers, leaves you with a smile on your face, gives you comfort and you know you can never have a bad grain of rice if he is behind the cart.

We live in times when our current agenda is full of tragic news. This too shall pass, of course, but while this is happening, I am conscious of my responsibilities and I take care to both work and protect my relationship with my son as a mother in a healthy way.

On one of those days... and it was freezing in Istanbul, that wet cold! I set out to clean the kitchen from top to bottom and ran out of energy halfway through. With all the gadgets, jars, pots, pans I had collected over the years, quite a collection. I thought I would collapse from exhaustion if I didn't stop.

So I did. But it didn't end there either. How could it! This woman can't get better without cooking! I needed to chop, stir, go crazy with the spices, start with one dish in mind and end up with another. (Not always, but it happens!)

Chickpeas! Since I had half-boiled chickpeas in the freezer and my kitchen pantry was stocked with good ingredients, I wanted to have tomatoey-spicy-thick stew. But as started cooking, I wanted something more. Something soothing with a side of that pungent thingy. I was yearning for the softness and balance of coconut milk.

Opened up a tin of it. Poured in the bubbling tomatoey chickpeas, tasted, tasted more! Yes and yes. The coconut milk mellowed sensations of coriander, cumin and chili flakes, and citric tomato, bind everything together. Well, there was the flavor of dried mini limes and smoked paprika in every spoonful. Cumin seeds exploding in my mouth, garlic, my homemade tomato sauce and creamy coconut... Moving on to seconds, it warmed the ice-cold Istanbul weather. And my heart. With the scent of cooking hanging in the air, those chickpeas nourished us literally and spiritually.

P.S. I was going to write something nice-r and cool as my first post, but food is life, or life is a form of food in return. So here you go!