The Pillars of Turkish Cooking

In Turkish culture, there are two things that are valued above all else.

Family… and food.

While I am English by heritage, my husband of sixteen years, is not.

Now, when you think of a young person going on holiday, it would be quite expected for you to imagine wild nights out, drinking far too many alcohol laden fishbowl cocktails and possibly making an error in judgement at the end of the night when choosing a partner.

For me however, my summer holiday was very different. I was on the first flight out of Manchester I could get, and was itching to visit my fiancé. My holiday wasn’t going to be filled with hangovers and sunbathing. This was the last holiday before we got married and it was a big deal.

I was meeting his family officially.

I knew very little about Turkish customs, and I’d been harbouring the view that it would be a quiet drink with his parents, maybe even his brothers. So, when I was met with every relative that lived within walking distance, to say it was a culture shock, was an understatement.

I was shuffled through into the ‘good’ sitting room and the women each arrived holding trays and plates which were laid out like a veritable buffet of treats for us.

I’d internally grimaced as a small bulbous glass cup was handed to me filled with a hot amber liquid. Tea. I absolutely despised tea, and still do to this day. The plates were piled high with leathery figs, plucked from the tree in the garden, bunches of grapes taken from the homegrown trellis at the front of the house, impressive slices of watermelon, the deep red fruit peppered with smooth black seeds.

With all eyes on me, I discreetly placed the tea down and out of my way and nibbled on a slice of watermelon. I didn’t know if they grew them differently in Turkey but that first bite changed my world. Gone was the bland, watery flavour I’d known before, and it was replaced with this sweet and refreshing creation.

I’d just gulped down my second slice when his mother walked through and stopped in front of me, speaking to me directly in Turkish. At this point I knew very little of the language so I sat there like a deer in headlights.

My, now, husband translated. All eyes turned to me when she spoke and he looked suitably embarrassed, but translated all the same. “She wants to give you cooking lessons.”

I shot a look to my own mother who looked suitably ticked off, as if this assumed view that I couldn’t cook was some kind of reflection on her parenting skills, that she hadn’t prepared her daughter well enough for the world. I smiled and much to their surprise nodded enthusiastically, “Of course. My cooking experience is limited to English food, so I’d love to learn.”

An inaudible but palpable collective sigh of relief rang out around the room and I got back to my watermelon.

When I arrived at the house the next morning with my translator/future husband in tow, I was ushered to sit down on the floor around a huge cotton tablecloth and watched as his mother and sister-in-law walked in with two trays laden with food.

I hadn’t really known what to expect but it was vastly different to a traditional English breakfast. Instead of the obligatory greasy bacon, sausage, beans and mushrooms I was greeted with an array of small bowls, filled with fresh or homemade foods so you can customise your own breakfast.

Inky black olives, gloriously baked pastries stuffed with minced beef or spinach and feta, thick, creamy yogurt, thin slices of heavily spiced beef sausages that were akin to pepperoni, a platter of chunks of cucumber, tomatoes and green peppers, hard boiled eggs served in the shell, deep-purple, sticky cheery jam and sweet honey. Most importantly, crispy loafs of fresh baked bread, warm from the small bakers that I was told were practically at the end of every street.

Once breakfast was done and cleaned away, I was brought into the aged kitchen and offered a seat. I asked his mother, “What are the pillars of Turkish cooking?”

Without skipping a beat, she nodded, “Bread, olive oil, yogurt, salça and love.”

Wow. Not a kebab in sight.

We spent the next week, stood in that little kitchen cooking. She came alive in there, her domain. She wasn’t in there because she had to be, she was there because she loved food. Good food. I quickly learned that she had been right, those five things were integral to Turkish cuisine and here’s what I learned.

Bread

Ekmek (bread) is revered across Turkey. Everyone intrinsically respects the value that bread sustains life, and life is sacred. I’ve been told on numerous occasions that a meal without bread isn’t truly a meal. But rather than being an accompaniment, the meaning is so much deeper.

Bread is cheap, but I guarantee if someone starving walked into any bread shop in Turkey, they would be given a loaf of the crispy, fluffy bread – no questions asked.

Even footballers stop the game to pick up a piece of bread off the pitch that had been thrown by a fan. I’d seen it. The player had bent down, picked it up, pressed it gently to his head and placed it to the side. I’d been bemused that a world class player would take such a risk. My husband just smiled and confirmed emphatically that bread should never be insulted by being thrown, tossed aside or wasted, whether you are a famous sports star, or a beggar on the street. Bread is sacred.

This is a sentiment wholly embraced by the Turkish people and it isn’t uncommon for there to be plastic sacks of bread tied to the fence posts outside the houses, available for anyone to take if they need it.

I do honestly think that the family meal would descend into utter chaos if there wasn’t enough bread.

It’s not only sustenance though, its an art form.

The first occasion I saw my mother-in-law making yufka, a traditional Turkish flatbread, was eye opening. I’d pushed through the creaky metal gate, complete with peeling black paint, only to be called over to the other side of the garden. She was sat on the floor, flanked by two other women.

A metal tray filled with smooth round balls of dough sat beside her and she had a round wooden table top perched on her legs. She was rolling the dough out so precisely and thinly, it became a blur watching her.

It was then passed over to the next woman who placed it on a black metal dome that was heated over the open fire.

My eyes had drifted behind them and I was met with stacks of perfectly round, huge flat breads, super thin and crisp. I’d asked her why they make so many? She’d just shrugged. “You can never have too much bread.”

These stacks would see each of these women, and their families though the winter.

They were almost dehydrated crisp breads and I thought they didn’t look particularly appetising, but then the magic happened. She sprinkled one with water and it came to life. It melted from hard and brittle into soft, pliable almost wrap like bread which would be used in a variety of dishes.

Utterly awe inspiring that in the twenty first century, these three village women were still using the recipes and techniques that had been passed down for generations. Still creating the same bread that for centuries had been the ultimate staple to Turkish cuisine.

Olive Oil

In my limited experience, when I first started on my Turkish cooking journey, I’d internally scoffed when my mother-in-law said Olive Oil was a staple. Expensive staple.

In England at the time, Olive oil was seen as overpriced and ‘posh’.

In truth, it is the healthiest, natural vegetable oil in the world, and has been used across the globe for cooking purposes. Why is this ‘immortal tree’ so integral for this cuisine?

In my ignorant head, I saw it as just another oil, unhealthy but this one is far from it.

It’s used in almost every dish I’ve ever eaten there in one way or another, but for my family it holds a lot of significance. Every autumn, they pile in the cars and drive to the olive groves that they tend to. Now, I’d imagined the Bertolli advert when I’d thought of them plucking the olives from the trees but I’ve been assured, it’s not like that at all.

Its days of back breaking work just to obtain these tiny precious morsels of seed, flesh and oil. Why go to so much trouble, I’d asked my mother-in-law.

“Love.”

I’d shake my head and roll my eyes but she was right. Love is the key to great food. Why use subpar ingredients if you have the best. Why use synthetic oil when you can have the purest, most natural.

It’s not only for frying off your onions. Far from it.

Turkish people have been known to take a small cup full every day as a tonic. Its added along with lemon juice and salt to fresh crispy salad, taking a simple dish of lettuce, onion, tomato and cucumber to another level. It’s used to replace traditional butter in a cake to make a dense sweet sponge that’s beautiful and moist. It’s literally the most used, yet least revered item in any Turkish kitchen.

Yogurt.

This one was a bone of contention between me and my mother-in-law. She was very much set up in the camp that homemade was better. She shooed me down the two flights of stairs, cash in hand to pay the local farmer who delivered her fresh milk weekly.

I’d lugged that huge water jug filled with the white stuff up those stairs, sweating and aching. “Why do you need so much?” I’d panted.

She laughed and immediately got to work. She pulled out the biggest pan she had and filled it with the creamy liquid and adding lemon juice. It immediately curdled and I’d gagged. She shot me a look I’d come to know over the years which told me patience.

I’d sat there sipping a coke, watching her stand and stir that pot like it was liquid gold. I’d take over and give her a break, but she was ever watchful.

Eventually, she deemed it done, and we decanted the thick mixture into a huge tub ready to be used. She’d made her yogurt for a week and she would damn well use it. Again, she used it in cakes, making the fluffiest sponges. She would take big spoonful’s and mix it with water, making the traditional drink, Ayran. One of the things I absolutely despise, but in Turkish culture, Ayran is the perfect accompaniment to meals or utterly refreshing on a hot day. She’d serve us fried potatoes, aubergines, spicy green peppers and a rich tomato sauce, topped of with a dollop of thick yogurt. But, my absolute favourite Turkish side dish to make with yogurt is Cacik.

Through broken Turkish, my niece and I had figured out the perfect Turkish meal. Kofte (meatballs), pilav (rice) and cacik. Yogurt, mixed with cucumber, garlic and little salt. I’d add in a sprinkle of dried mint to mine, just for that little extra something. Utterly delicious.

The issue we often disagree on is…I don’t like homemade yogurt for certain things. Cacik being one of them. I prefer a thicker consistency so I take the glares, and the grumbles, and when I know I want this particular dish, I trudge off to the supermarket and get my little pot of shop bought yogurt. She doesn’t give me too much hassle, but I know she will always begrudge me thinking shop bought yogurt is better than hers made with love…even if it’s only for one tiny side dish.

Sorry Anne!

Salça (Red Pepper Paste)

The Italians have tomato puree. The Turkish have Salça. Again, my family make their own.

One Saturday night, we were driving past the small contained area where the Pazar (market) had been that morning. We’d made the journey that day with my mother-in-law. I’d followed them around and watched in awe as she haggled, and bartered with the vendors, picking the best and freshest produce for her week ahead. Her old cart was weighed down with beautiful, fresh food that would become her delicious meals, packed with vitamins and the all-important, love.

This particular night, I was talking to my husband and he pulled the car to a stop, staring at the old metal framed area where the pop-up tables, laden with food had been today. It was now an empty shell and wouldn’t be used again until the next weekly market. He’d practically lit up, his eyes going wide as he cried out. “Tomatoes!”

I’d been utterly bemused when he immediately got on the phone to his three brothers, chattering at an unimaginable speed. After around ten minutes, the whole clan descended on us. At almost midnight, we spent an hour, riffling through a huge pile of tomatoes and peppers, leaving the damaged or rotten ones and filling bag, after bag of the plump red fruit and vegetables.

We were sweating, and hot, hauling our wares back to the house. “What are you going to make with these?”

She’d grinned, “Salça.”

We spent six hours the next day, washing, chopping and packing twenty-five kilos of vegetables. Our hands were achy and blistered, but we did it. Each one was used. She showed me how she laid them out on trays, and told me they would sun dry before they could be pulsed and turned into the aromatic red pepper paste that was the backbone of 70% of Turkish dishes.

She’d shouted for the men to haul the trays up the six flights of stairs to the suntrap roof.

Again, she’d flabbergasted me. Why spend practically a whole day, doing something that you can just buy in the shop? Salça isn’t particularly expensive to buy. She’d rolled her eyes and laughed, “The vegetables were free, I had nothing else to do today and you can’t put love into a shop bought Salça. Plus, homemade is better.”

Her answer to everything.

Those portions of pepper and tomato paste were shared with the community. Once they were ready, we threw them into jars and distributed them, keeping a little back for ourselves. She’d spent six hours preparing it to give it away.

Why wouldn’t she?

That was the Turkish way, and each person she gave it to, whether it was a huge plastic jar, or a small glass tub, they were incredibly grateful to take it, adding it to their own hodge podge kitchens.

I could describe the meals that we ate in the restaurants we visited. The cop sis (lamb skewers) places that each look like run down shacks but hold inside the most beautiful lamb pieces, marinated and seared on hot coals. Tiny jewels of salty, rich meat that are eaten straight off the skewers, with salad. Simple but delicious.

The kebab shop that we visited to get a real, authentic kebab. Not the long strips of condensed lamb we get in England on a Friday night. But the historic doner meat that is sliced with care and attention, wrapped with love and seasoned to perfection. There’s no bite to the meat. It melts on the tongue, leaving behind the perfect memory of Turkey, with every bite.

For me though, the real food is in the kitchens. Its in the homes of the woman, and men, that make it every day. Each meal totally unique for that family. The different cultures, even within the same country, making for a varied and abundant experience.

But this isn’t just delicious food. It’s food that’s steeped in history, each sprinkle of spice or sugar offers a taste of the past, each bite gives you the chance to travel in time.

The world may have changed, and time may have pressed on…but these recipes will continue to live and delight forever.

Yufka (Turkish Flatbread)

Ingredients:

• 1 ½ cups of all purpose flour.

• 1 tsp salt

• 2 tbsp olive oil

• Warm water – as needed to make a soft dough.

Method:

1. Sieve the flour and salt together into a large mixing bowl.

2. Add the water slowly to form a ball of dough.

3. Add the olive oil and knead the dough until its soft and smooth. (This usually takes around 30 minutes.)

4. Cover and let it sit for a minimum of four hours. Overnight is better.

5. Once rested, divide into ten equal balls. Let these rest for 15 minutes.

6. Dust each ball with a little flour, and start rolling. Roll as thin as possible without tearing the dough. You want to imagine rolling it as thin as filo pastry. If you are struggling, let it rest a little longer and try again.

7. Once rolled, heat a heavy pan, and cook the dough on a medium heat until golden brown on either side.

8. The cooked bread will harden very quickly. This is normal. When you are ready to serve, scatter it with water and it will soften up nicely.

Serving suggestions:

• Use it as a wrap and fill with your favourite toppings.

• Use it as filo pastry so you could make a savoury filling of fried onions and minced beef or spinach and feta cheese. Create it like a lasagne, filling then pastry, topping with a final layer of pastry, a brush of olive oil and a smattering of sesame seeds. Beautiful pastry dish.

Leeks with Olive Oil

Ingredients:

• 900g leeks

• ¼ cup virgin olive oil

• 1 small onion, finely chopped

• 2 carrots, sliced

• ½ cup rice

• ½ cup finely chopped fresh parsley

• 2 teaspoons sugar

• 2 tablespoons lemon juice

• Salt

Method:

1. Cut off the roots and about two thirds of the green part of the leeks. Remove the coarse outer leaves. Slice the leeks 1-inch deep lengthwise and split them open. Wash them well, removing all traces of dirt Cut the leeks into ½ -inch-wide slices and set them aside.

2. Heat the oil in a large saucepan over medium heat, and cook the onions gently for about 2 minutes, or until it’s softened but not brown. Add the leeks, carrots, rice, parsley, sugar, and lemon juice. Season with salt and stir the mixture. Pour in 2 cups hot water, cover the pan, and cook gently for about 20 minutes, or until the leeks are tender.

3. Transfer the mixture to a serving dish, cover, and refrigerate for 1 hour. Serve chilled or at room temperature.

Cacık (Yogurt and cucumber side dish.)

Ingredients:

• 2 cups of plain yogurt.

• One English cucumber, peeled and grated.

• Two cloves of garlic, crushed

• Salt to taste

• 1 tsp of dried mint

• 1 tsp olive oil

Method:

Super simple. Mix all the ingredients together until the yogurt is lump free. Enjoy as a side dish with any Turkish dish that doesn’t include fish. Our favourite, is meatballs, rice, a zingy lemon salad and cacik – chock full of garlicky goodness.

Salça (Turkish Red Pepper Paste)

While most of us would love to be able to sun-dry, its not always a possibility. So I’ve included a recipe for this rich pepper paste, that’s done on the hob. Enjoy!

Ingredients:

• 2kg of red peppers, washed, de seeded and chopped into chunky pieces

• Enough water to almost cover the peppers.

• 2tbsp salt

• 2tbsp olive oil

Method:

1. Add your prepared peppers to a heavy bottomed pan. Pour water over them until it gets to just below the level of the peppers. The peppers will naturally release their juice when they boil and you don’t want the paste too loose.

2. Boil them on the hob, on a medium heat, with the lid on the pot until they boil. Then remove the lid and let them cook for around twenty minutes.

3. Drain the peppers off with a sieve or colander. Leave the peppers to drain for at least 15 minutes. You want all the water off them.

4. Add the cooked peppers to a blender or food processor and pulse.

5. Once it is smooth, put the mixture through the sieve again. Push down on the mixture until you have strained the whole of the batch. This will remove the harder pieces of skin.

6. Add the mixture to deep pot and cook on the heat again and boil it for at least 35 minutes, stirring constantly to evaporate any further water.

7. Let it cool, and add in 2tbsp of salt, and 2tbsp of oil.

8. Transfer the mixture to jars and leave it to cool totally. This paste will not go bad if you keep it in a cool, dry place.

Use this sparingly in pasta dishes, or meat stews. Its strong tasting but it really takes simple dishes up to another level.

Serving Tip:

Take any portion of meat for one. Chicken breast or lamb pieces work well. Fry it with a small onion diced and minced garlic. Add a teaspoon of pepper paste and fry together for two minutes. Sprinkle salt, pepper, cumin and dried mint, (plus a sprinkle of chilli flakes if you fancy a little kick.) Add enough water to almost cover the ingredients. Leave it on a low simmer for twenty minutes, covered, but stir it occasionally to stop it from catching.

You will have the perfect, rich stew. Serve with rice and salad, yufka bread and cacik.

Finally, you may ask, what does love create?

That's simple...a family that spans cultures, generations and continents. Tied together by the most basic of things, damn good food!

Afiyet Olsun

(Enjoy your meal)