May flowers

While the rose petal elixir is maturing, here’s a peek at a few other things happening in the garden.
The climbing rose next to the greenhouse is starting to bloom. It’s a relatively recent arrival, so it is not the spectacle that the red rose is, but I love the flowers- they look like petticoats.

That hand is Kaya’s. He emerged from the shadows and attempted to devour the roses (due to their inviting scent?)

The roses were promptly whisked away.
Kaya had his first taste of wild strawberries over the weekend. Wild in the sense of being small and fragrant, but not literally wild; we started them from seed a few years back, and they’re doing well. Kaya was very enthusiastic, which drew Baki’s attention, and he made sure we didn’t leave any behind.

Another pleasant surprise was the sweet peas. Sweet peas are a sentimental favorite of mine, because it was my nickname as a baby. Still, despite my mother’s and later my own enthusiasm for them, I was for a long time quite unaware of the lovely scent of some of the older varieties.
My mother and I found ourselves in Kew Gardens in June of 2004 and caught wind of a beguiling scent as we strolled beneath wooden pergolas. Following our noses, we were bowled over when they led us to sweet peas. I’ve grown them every year since, and I’m always careful to choose scented varieties.

These ones self-seeded, so they were unexpected. At this time of year, the garden is just one surprise after another.

A cathedral in my garden

Or at least that’s what it felt like when Ali and I finished the trellis we put up in the pea bed.
I had seen a photo of a similar trellises in an email from Kinsman garden supplies about twine and it got me all excited. Loads of time went by and the trellis was a perennial to-do list resident, but yesterday we finally did it. Ali pounded our giant rusty nail deep into the ground and pulled it out, leaving a perfect sized hole for me to drive in the stakes. Then I got busy with the twine, and all told in about an hour victory was ours.
And I do feel utterly victorious. This is because I set the bar very low, and I’ll tell you something, I think that’s the secret to my personal happiness. The less I expect, the more gratified I am.
So when I crossed “pea trellis” off the list, it was with tremendous satisfaction.
Which brings me to the list itself. I always write lists for absolutely everything, but gardening has made me consider very carefully how I phrase my list items. “Water” or “weed” for example, are terrible candidates because they are never-ending jobs. “Dig corn bed,” on the other hand, is a tidy, achievable little task (that I crossed off the list over the weekend). Again, aiming low.
So this is how I am sailing through Spring, celebrating every tiny achievement and setting new, low hurdles for the days to come.
Here’s a closer view of my grand architectural achievement, with it’s neat rows of peas (very sorry pea roots, we won’t be so late next time) and a random scattering of spinach and carrots (the chickens got in and kicked things up a bit). I’ll put some cucumbers in the bed later in the season.

May your day be full of little victories!

New neighbor


Finding a new apartment is one of my least favorite things to do. It just brings back visions of all of those horrible, horrible tiny smelly flats that I would find myself standing in, with a real estate agent intoning that this was the last apartment available on the planet Earth, so I had to make my mind up in the next five minutes. Antalya, being a complete unknown for both Ali and myself, was no better. We spent one soul-killing day looking at depressing places and it was enough to make me wonder if we should just forget about the whole thing and let Baki’s education go down the drain. Was it really so important that he go to a good school right away?


Then Ali remembered to call in his cousin, Cigdem, who moved to Antalya after she retired a while back. Within the day, she had found us a place to look at just a few blocks away from where she lives. I drove in to see it with Kaya, and it was such a far cry from the places we’d seen, I never looked back. We moved in on the first day of school, September 12 and Cigdem became out neighbor.


Since then, we see Cigdem often, and she has been an invaluable source of information and support. Hooray for extended family!


The Friday before last, after Baki had gone to school, Cigdem called. “We’re making helva. Come over and I’ll teach you.” She and a friend were making a wish, she explained, and they had to make helva to seal the deal. This was flour helva we were talking about. As far as I know, flour helva and semolina helva are kitchen work, while the sesame helva is left to the professionals. Still, flour helva is nothing to be sneezed at. I don’t know anyone who would turn it down, not even Ali, and he is certifiably lacking a sweet tooth. Flour helva is pure evil, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. That is to say, it is comfort food that is horribly bad for you.


Cigdem and her friend have on occasion, they told me, appealed to Aceleci Baci. You can ask him for favors, they said, if you promise to make him helva when they are granted. The helva can also be made up front, as they were doing, in which case, for good measure, you could think about your request while stirring. This makes flour helva a good match for the task of concentrated wishing, as there is plenty of stirring involved.


Cigdem’s recipe is simplicity itself:



1 part sugar

2 parts flour

½ part olive oil

½ part butter


The oil and butter went straight into the pan with the flour. Then the stirring began – in order for the helva to taste the way it ought to, the flour needs to be toasted in the fat until it is a nice biscuity brown. Don’t stop stirring, or it will scorch. The smell is a tip off – when it has a lovely nutty smell and is the color of a roasted peanut, you’re there. We took turns. Then Cigdem poured off about a third of the sugar and replaced it with water. She stirred it to make a sugar slurry and poured that into the flour. Stirring briskly to mix it all evenly, she then added the remaining dry sugar “to pull it together,” she said, stirring all the while. A few more turns of the spoon to melt the sugar, and the helva was ready. Cigdem took soup spoons and pressed the helva between them one spoonful at a time to make little egg shaped morsels. Then we sat for Turkish coffee and helva.


(Ali contends that without pine nuts, un helvasi is only half the pleasure it ought to be. If you use them, toast them first.)


It’s a pretty sweet deal (in all senses of the word) that you get to make a wish and eat the helva yourself. And as it turned out, I had a wish of my own. After years of absolute freedom, Baki was having a little trouble adjusting to life in the classroom. He came home every night with piles of homework, mostly due to the fact that, according to the terse notes that I received from his teacher, he was not doing any work at all in class. In addition, he was demonstrating his lack of classroom experience by leaving the room through the window. In short, he was behaving as if he had been raised by wolves. Homework sessions were torturous, and were driving me to madness. The minute that he sat down in at the table, Baki was suddenly bone tired, or starving hungry, or his back was itching. It was honestly the first time since Baki was born that I regretted becoming a mother. So I made a silent wish for Baki to settle down just a little and apply himself ever so slightly to his work.


On the following Monday, Ali and I went in to talk to Baki’s teacher and the guidance counselor at his school. I went feeling pretty defensive and expecting the worst, but it was not a bad meeting at all. His teacher could see that Baki wasn’t misbehaving because he was an animal. As we discussed the matter, it became clear that Baki just didn’t have the patience to sit and do the work, and we would have to slowly acclimate him to it. Last week, I changed my homework tactics and let him take more breaks so he wouldn’t burn out so fast. The homework still took ages, but while he was working he was far more focused.


Then on Friday he came home and he had done so much of his classwork that he barely had any homework at all. Thank you, Aceleci Baci! So on Sunday night when we got back to Antalya from a weekend in the garden, I made a small batch of un helvasi. As I was breastfeeding in the bedroom, I heard Ali offer Baki a piece. Baki was hesitant until Ali explained that it was dessert. “Oh…” said Baki. Silence. “This stuff is awesome!” he said. Another fan is born.

11 pm 11/9/11

I don’t know much about palm reading, but I have noticed that my life line is about a third the size of anyone else’s that I’ve seen. This used to make me nervous, and then I read somewhere that this can mean that one’s path in life is not certain. I like the thought of making it up as I go along, so I chose to believe it.
Still, there are points that I can spot in my life, moments that seem to change the direction I’m going in. Perhaps it is utterly predictable that September 11, 2001 was one of those moments. I was teaching in Harbin, in northeastern China at the time. September 11th spoiled the taste of being far away from my family, as what had felt like freedom curdled into something more like isolation.
Tonight, though, we commemorated other events. It is our dear friend Deniz’s birthday, the day before Baki starts school and we move to Antalya, and it is the day before the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival, the night of the year when the moon shines brightest. I didn’t want to celebrate in the city, so we celebrated tonight with Deniz and Suleyman.
I made a steamed fish, steamed egg with Chinese chives, General Tso’s chicken from Fuchsia Dunlop’s amazing Hunanese cookbook, and green beans in black bean sauce. Afterwards, we turned off the lights and ate mooncakes my mother had sent from NYC and enjoyed the moonlight. It was a moment that I could feel being written as we lived it, and I knew then that I would look back on it later. The moonlight shone slickly off the banana leaves and made the evening primroses glow.
It is so bright as I write this that no flashlight (or night vision) is required to walk outside. The garden is silvery blue, with deep black shadows. I feel an awful tugging sadness at the thought of leaving this place, the pleasure of sleeping beneath these tall pines and hearing the owls call, and waking with the sun to see the sky lighten and blush before the sun blazes across it. We are doing what we feel us necessary, but I can’t help worrying. I feel disappointed that I cannot just forge ahead, but at the moment I feel more morose than anything else.
I will miss the daily pleasures of visiting the plants and watching them grow. We’ve just had flowers on our Crinum, for the first time since we moved here three and a half years ago. Here are the photos of three consecutive days:




In the deep end

I remember seeing a parenting book with a title along the lines of “I was a great mom until I had kids”. It is so true that the lofty ideals of who we want to be as parents often do not stand up so well to the messy reality of actually having children. And of course along with the long list of things that we will do comes an often equally long list of things we won’t do.
I had never understood the madness surrounding getting your child into the right preschool. It seemed to me far too early to be worrying about such things. Still, the local school that Baki went to turned out to be a far cry from what could have been called “the right sort of environment.” Baki went to school willingly enough, and it was good for him to be among his peers, since there are no kids his age out by us.
I began to notice, though, that Baki never wanted to talk about school; he evaded my questions by either ignoring them or running off. And his teacher complained that he wasn’t joining in during class. One day he was watching Sid the Science Kid and he marveled at how the teacher was always smiling and never yelled.
I realized that I had not been looking the situation in the face: Baki was really unhappy at his school. I hated the idea of him disliking school, especially when he is so curious and eager to learn by nature. Suddenly, I found myself desperate to find him “the right school”.
I felt completely out of my depth for the first time since I hit rock bottom when Baki was about a week old (I was in the shower trying desperately to relieve the insane pressure building up in my engorged breasts and Baki was on a sheepskin on the floor screaming). It was such a huge decision to make for Baki, and I wanted for him to be happy so badly, I felt a sort of madness gripping me.
My mother said, sensibly, “Go see a school and you’ll feel better.” How true. Baki and I went to see a school in Antalya (though he only conceded to join me after I promised him that he would not be going to class, just looking around). He liked it, and seemed to want to go there, and it seemed great to me. A weight lifted from my shoulders; as trite as it sounds that’s just what it felt like.
Now we are looking for a flat in Antalya so that Baki won’t have to commute 3 hours a day to school. I’ll go there with the boys during the week and we’ll come home on weekends. He will start first grade on September 12.
It must all sound pretty drastic. So I have promised myself that next time I hear of parents going to seemingly extreme lengths for their kids, instead of rolling my eyes I will remember that I’ve been there too.



More than one person has asked me if it was love at first sight when Kaya was born. I’d have to say that it wasn’t. I think my first reaction was relief, to be honest, followed by various forms of disbelief: although I’ve done this once before, it is the hardest thing in the world for me to believe that an actual human can come out of my body. There was the weeklong physical train wreck period and there was also a period of complete emotional chaos, where Kaya was the calm eye of the storm and I was flapping around him.

We wake with the sun now, so that we can water the garden before the heat of the day. Once I’m sure Kaya has had his fill of milk, I wrap my sling around myself, slip him in, and we’re off. This is the time of day when I have it all: Kaya is with me, Baki is sleeping, Ali is watering as well. I sometimes listen to podcasts as I work, and I see all of the plants, one at a time. I looked down this morning, as I have so often over the past few weeks since we’ve started watering every morning, and I sighed. It might not have happened the instant we met, but there’s no denying that I’m besotted now.