One word: Mustafa

        As I was browsing my computer for pictures to accompany my recipes, I found a paper I had written for my freshman literature class at City College. For those of you who know Mustafa Deveci, one can describe him as quite a character. Depending on the time period from which you knew him, you may either laugh at or be truly surprised by the story you will read below. Now that he is back in Turkey, it is rumored that Mustafa has had a spiritual awakening. To his credit, he no longer drinks, smokes or swears. I can attest to this because I saw him in 2008, driving a Range Rover through a village, wearing a long white robe and the cap reserved for hagis (those who have made the pilgrimage to Mecca, the Hajj). To say that I was shocked would not even touch the tip of the iceberg. He held the tespih (rosary-like beads for prayer) in his hand like a pro, and had the demeanor of a lamb.With this in mind, please take the following essay as entertainment and not an attempt to discredit his progress.


 *Despite the disclaimer, this story is very true. We still belly laugh to this day when we remember it.*


                         College Essay: Change                                          

A congratulations hug from the man himself

            He had already started to get on my nerves, although it had only been 30 minutes since I had met him.  My fiance had calmly told me that as soon as the wedding was over the following week, Mustafa would go home.  Under that impression, I loosened up, picturing that stout, bulbous-headed Turkish man with his sweat-glistening face taking off in his car in a week from that day.  Little did I know that my whole life was about to change from that one moment. Change sucks.

York Harbor, ME

            Maine had been a typically quiet place that was always peaceful.  That scenario had changed the minute Mustafa had arrived. For a minute, and only that, I had begun to get used to having Mustafa around the house.  As a distant cousin of my husband, he made a great live-in chef to my family. He had traveled up from a small town in New Jersey, where he resided and owned a small pizza place that was known to all. 

What used to be Mustafa's Pizza place

            Everything was great, as long as we tuned out Mustafa’s cacophonous babble, which seemed to diminish the flavor of each succulent meal.  One week had passed since the wedding and Mustafa was still with us in Maine.  It wasn’t until one entire month after I was married that he returned to New Jersey, much appreciated by me. In the peacefulness, I had lost track of what my plans were for the fall. Then it hit me, we were taking off for New York City, where I would significantly change my surroundings and grin and bear the challenges of college.  Never did I think about the housing situation. I had been so busy working double shifts each day during the summer that I had not had a good amount of time to apartment hunt. When I did, it was by way of the internet and some very strange phone calls to people I would not even want to rent from.  Time passed and August came. My husband suggested that we take a trip to find an apartment; it was all in vain.  There was nothing to be found in the “Big Apple.”  To my dismay, as well as my husband’s, we had come to our last resort: staying with Mustafa.  I had resisted as much as possible and finally agreed, when I lugged my duffel bag into the dingy, studio apartment that reeked of salami sandwiches and old man cologne.  At that moment, my eyes began to tear up as I contemplated my dismal future in this location.  Although my husband had promised me that it would be temporary, all I could picture was years and years of sleeping in Mustafa’s bed while he slumbered restlessly upon the floor by my feet.  Needless to say, it took some getting used to. Every morning, I would fling my feet over the edge of the bed and shriek when they came in contact with his gigantic stomach, while he snored away as if nothing had happened. That in itself was a task to overcome, but I had no idea what was in store.

On our wedding day

            Presently, I can announce that my husband did not live up to his promise and I still, unfortunately, claim Mustafa as my housemate.  Despite the many times we almost got kicked out, along with him, we are living together as one dysfunctional, Turkish family. Now I have been on my best behavior, as we have finally secured our own apartment and have been told, by Mustafa himself, that I owe him big time. All he said was, “Clear your bed in your house because I may get evicted soon. It’s your turn.”  With that, I cringed so deeply that I know he must have seen it. Despite the trauma suffered, I am still alive.  Every night when I lay in bed studying, he trudges to the refrigerator and grabs his Budweiser and a cigar, and plops in front of the computer to watch an endless marathon of Turkish television programs.  If you do not already know from firsthand experience, I can assure you that one can not study, sleep, or even efficiently bury their own head in a pillow when the International channel is blaring and a discontented old man is drunkenly arguing with the characters.  Take my advice; do not try it for yourselves. 

In all his glory

            Just the other night, as usual, I was lying in bed studying for the next day’s classes. Mustafa had just lumbered in, smelling of sandwiches as usual, with a bag of bagels to share as a primitive meal.  As Mustafa wandered to the computer, I just kept my nose in my psych book, to avoid confrontation.  My husband had put the bagels on a tray and placed them in the oven, which was not often used by the Emeril-in-training.  As destiny would have it, something was not right. The scene was too peaceful and NORMAL.  Just as I was settling in to sleep, at the 11 o’clock hour, a horrific beeping came from the smoke alarm. Mustafa, bewildered, shot up from the computer chair and spouted off in his native tongue, all the while translating as if I had actually mattered today.

            “Allah Kahretsin! Nedir bu? Goddamnit! What is that!?”

            “The smoke alarm,” I sarcastically retorted, as I watched my husband dislodge the burning bagels from the oven.  Mustafa flung the window open and turned on the air conditioner while I shivered beneath the thin blankets.

            “S***** git! Kapa cheneni, kiz!” He continued on with his Turkish expletives, cursing the smoke alarm, which bleeped and announced ‘fire fire’ in a surprisingly calm and computerized female voice.

            “Shut up, bitch! Yangin mangin yok! There is no fire!” His remarks were aimed at the smoke alarm, which defiantly remained on the top of the 15 foot high ceiling, beeping all the while.  He had begun to get crafty, and dragged a rickety chair beneath the smoke alarm, which was directly above me.

            “Hadi kiz! Move!” he shouted at me, as he beckoned to my husband. “Give me that goddamn semsiye!”

            My husband quickly brought him the umbrella, as he teetered upon the chair, that failed Turkish acrobat. He thrusted the umbrella at the button in the middle of the smoke alarm, which he could not reach, due to his dwarf-like stature.  Amidst the escapade of the fire-less emergency, chilled air rushed through the window and out of the air conditioner.

            “Turn off that air conditioning! It is not summer! Allah Allah!” Mustafa glanced at the windows as if he had no idea who had caused the chilliness.  I made no effort to move, but kept my head in my book so that the living “weeble” could not see the anguish from hiding my laughter.  My husband stood at the side of the bed, offering advice and then taking the helm and mounting the chair. With one swift movement, the battered umbrella protruded the smoke alarm and ceased the din. He jumped down, relieved, and replaced the umbrella to its usual spot.

            As things started to roll on from the joyously entertaining event, the bagels were tossed out and Mustafa re-joined his Turkish sitcom, in what seemed like a move to make my life a living hell. From that point on, until 4 A.M, peace was no longer a possibility in the small studio, with Yilmaz Guney playing hero to an annoying, weepy young actress.

            Needless to say, life went on without a huge disruption, as it does in all cases. This was the thing that I had managed to realize, during all the hoopla of the alarm, no matter how hard it was for me to adapt to new situations.  Although not every change is going to come in the form of a Turkish pizza man holed up in New Jersey, I will be more ready to face it. Without the interjections of umbrellas.

Pirinç Pilavı- "Rice Pilaf"

    Although I technically know how to make rice, I could rarely make some that wasn't raw or burnt, too crunchy or too wet. One summer in Turkey, I was recruited to help with dinner. I was chosen to make the rice pilaf ( albeit, a very simple one without şehriye (orzo) )I immediately swapped with my husband's young niece, Zeynep. I used the excuse that I didn't know how they liked it, and instead made a salad. Later on, as we ate the wonderful meal, I whispered to Zeynep that I could never get my rice to turn out like that. She admitted that her difficulty came from pasta. I came to find out that no matter how often she tried, she could not make makarna (macaroni) without it turning out like my failed rice.

Zeynep (with Kerem)

        Despite knowing the 2-to-1 liquid-to-rice ratio, it always gave me trouble. Finally, I have figured out how to make a pilav  that my husband will eat without grimacing. 


    *Adjust to make enough to feed your family*


2 cups of white long-grain rice
4 cups of chicken stock or water (even with just water, this rice can stand alone)
1 tbsp. vegetable oil
1 tsp. salt
Orzo- I use about 1/4 cup, but use enough to cover the bottom of the pan in a single layer.


Pour the oil into a medium size pot or deep skillet (that has a lid). Heat it to medium-high and sprinkle a single layer of Orzo (enough to cover the bottom of the pan).

Stir occasionally to insure that the orzo browns evenly without browning. Add the uncooked rice and stir to coat.

Add the salt, then pour in your stock or water. Bring to a boil and then reduce to a low simmer, cover and cook about 20 minutes, or until the rice is tender.
             

serving suggestion

Karnıyarık- "Stuffed Eggplant"

Like I mentioned before, my Kaynana lived with us for a while and cooked for us very often. Another regular on her repertoire was this Eggplant dish, that I ended up loving, although I thought I didn't even like eggplant. This recipe is based on one from Bade Jackson's Turkish Cooking cookbook and our own memories of how we've seen it prepared.

  3 small eggplants (will be cut in half to make 6 "boats")
  olive oil (to fry the eggplant)
  1 Tbsp. butter
  1/2 lb. ground beef (you can use lamb, too)
  1 onion, chopped
  1 Tbsp. fresh chopped parsely
  1 tsp. tomato paste ( I used 1 Tbsp.)
  salt and black pepper
  1 tomato, sliced

  First, cut the eggplant in half lengthwise and peel the outer skin into strips. 

  Scoop out a small amount of the insides- do not break through the skin or leave edges too thin.

  You will have 6 hollowed out boats.

  Heat a small amount of olive oil in a skillet (I used cast iron- I do not recommend it though- see below) and fry until all sides are lightly browned and softened. Place them hollow sides up in a roasting dish (preferably not glass)

 Preheat oven to 375 . Meanwhile, toss the butter in a frying pan and cook up the beef or lamp with the onion and parsley and tomato paste.

Spoon the cooked meat mixture evenly into the eggplant boats and place a tomato slice on each. Pour 1 1/4 c. water in the bottom of the dish, cover with tinfoil and bake 30 minutes. Let it go longer if the eggplant is too rubbery.

 We served this with a rice pilaf (recipe still to follow)

Seeing as our basis of comparison was a tough act to follow, Aziz gave this 8 out of 10 stars. He said that the filling was great (although I had forgotten to put the onion and fresh parsley) but that the eggplant was not cooked enough. This being said, we figure that the cast iron skillet I used was either not hot enough to brown the eggplant evenly (my mother-in-law usually used a stainless steel frying pan that I will use next time) or that the glass Pyrex baking dish I used was an issue. Also, the recipe did not call for the dish to be covered, so we think that this may have also affected the tenderness.



 I do know that I will be looking for a different recipe for this (hopefully straight from said Kaynana), since it did not live up to our, albeit high, expectations. I will post when I find an alternative. Despite our dissatisfaction with some parts of the dish, we still enjoyed it and I think that people will find it a nice variation to Spaghetti night :)



*** You can find this cookbook on  www.betterworldbooks.com.

 Jackson, Bade."Karniyarik/Stuffed Eggplant."  Turkish Cooking: Authentic Culinary Traditions from Turkey. Ed. Rosie Hankin. New Jersey: Chartwell, 1998. 53. Print.

Fırında Tavuk - "Chicken in the Oven"

 My first entry, and one of the first things I learned, is this yummy chicken dish that I learned from my Kaynana (Mother-in-law). When she came to New Jersey to stay with us for a few months, I was glad to have a live-in cook. At the time, I thought "traditional" Turkish cooking was very complicated and time-consuming and was very surprised by the seemingly quick and simple meals we had when she was here. This is one of the meals we requested very often, and something we forgot about until recently. It's a favorite in my house.

This recipe is modified because I can not remember exactly how she made it, and when I ask her, she makes rough measurements of everything anyways, so keep this in mind when trying it yourself. We also prefer a lot of "sauce" so feel free to adjust the liquid to your personal preferences.

   1-2 lbs. chicken (we use drumsticks, but you can do thighs/breasts, or even a whole chicken, cut-up)
   Salt and Pepper, to taste
   1 tbsp. tomato paste
   1/4 tsp. red pepper paste (I have only been able to find this in ethnic markets in my area, it can be             omitted, especially if you would like to keep it mild)
   1 tbsp. olive oil
   2-3 medium potatoes,peeled and sliced

   1 medium onion,peeled/ sliced
    1 cup water
   *optional- long, hot green peppers                                     
                 - seasoning salt


Preheat oven to 350 F.
Grease an oven-safe casserole dish with cooking spray. Place sliced poatatoes and onions into dish. Mix tomato paste, pepper paste(optional),olive oil, pinch of salt and water in a small dish. Pour over the potato and onions.
Brush the chicken with seasoning salt(optional), salt/pepper and brown all sides in a cast-iron skillet (my personal favorite). Place the chicken on top of the potato/onion mixture, and arrange hot peppers (if using). Cover with tin foil and bake for 1 hour.
   *the cooking time may vary- I cooked it about another 10 minutes to get it just right for us-it was "done" at 1 hour but keep checking to be sure.

Serve with Rice or Bulgur pilav (I will update with a recipe soon)

You can also use broth to kick up the flavor, and adjust the salt to your personal preferences. One thing I've learned from cooking for my Turk is that I never use enough salt- and adding it to the cooked product is frowned upon.