Of Turkish tea – and t-tests

Posted on March 27, 2012 by lizcameron

It’s been a grading bonanza this weekend and on into this week.  As I turn the pages, make my comments, labor over assigning grades (I hate them) and figure out how to turn my responses into a meaningful learning moment for some of my struggling students (blow to my ego), I am constantly up and down, refilling my Turkish tea glass  with the strong dark brew hewn of Assam and Rize tea leaves.

I learned this mixture from watching M.’s Teyze (maternal aunt) mix proportions of Rize tea (from the Black sea region) with Assam tea (from, presumably, India).  She swears by the mix, as does M.  Once, I tried to supplement rose-petal infused Assam for just plain old Assam, to no good result and the protests of the aging matriarch who was visiting at the time.  “It tastes like soap,” she was reported to say.  Oh well, so much for creativity.

In any case, this weekend, I am getting the tea myself, instead of relying on the little chorus of dancing ladies, who are usually lovely about delivery, as I have exhausted them – “m’lady,” one of them said the other day, “you are drinking SO much tea, is it healthy?” I finally told them how much I appreciated their efforts, but that I could make tea for myself. After much consternation and debate, the little lady puppets decided to let this be as my skills, they tell me, have improved significantly.  Quipping to them with the best of my statistical humor, I asked them if it was statistically significant.  They drew blank looks.  I reminded them that I am grading exams about “independent samples t-tests” and “paired samples t-tests.”  They again drew blank looks and I let the topic drop, but not before Hacivad Bey asked me if I was referring to the Istatistik-i Umumi Idaresi – the Ottoman Empire-era statistics agency who conducted the census between 1891 and 1914.  I just said – “yes, something like that.”  I teach enough statistics in my university, I’d like to give it a break at home, not going to be teaching these puppets statistics anytime soon unless I get another breath of workaholism.  While my tea consumption during this grading phase might be an indicator of workaholism, I would like to think of it more as an endurance-oriented coping mechanism.

TEA...

A Turkish double tea pot (Photo credit: lorises)

But in any case, back to tea.  Gone are the days when I struggled to execute the perfect brewing of Turkish tea (you can read about one such hilarious learning moment here, where I was caught unawares by an early visitor whilst still in my nightgown, and ended up using once-boiled tea only (Horrors! The yabancı gelin (foreign bride) couldn’t make properly brewed tea).  All I have to say is, for someone like me who hates grading as much as I do, the ability to just run down the stairs to refill my glass is a wonderful option to keep me going.

Any guesses about how many tea glasses worth of tea had to be drunk to get through this stack of tests?

Thirty-two.  More than two per test for this class so far, inşallah it will end soon!

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Posted in Academic hell, Turkish Food!, Visits from the Karagöz puppets | Tagged , , , , | 22 Comments

In search of manupecten pesfelis: Ak Deniz or bust!

Posted on March 25, 2012 by lizcameron

In real life, this is a tiny manupecten pesfelis – a treasure to be found on the Ak Deniz for sure, M. tells me…

As the summer sun wends its way farther and deeper into our life itinerary, we have decided to make a journey to the Ak Deniz coast (Mediterranean Sea). We plan to visit ancient sites and interesting towns this yabancı gelin (foreign bride, in Turkish) has yet to see (i.e. Kalkan, Kaş, and the like) and M. hopes have not transformed TOO much into tourist hell from the recherche du temps perdu his mind harkens back to. The chorus of little dancing ladies “ooh” and “ahhhh” at this news, already searching for their bathing costumes and planning for mud baths in Dalyan, where we will stay for a week in Haziran (June).

But for M., the resident malacologist, a visit to the Ak Deniz region wouldn’t be fun if we didn’t also plan to search for mollusks.  Yes, you read that right, mollusks, as in shells, and in this case, primarily land snails.  I think M. knew he had found a true comrade when in the process of making plans to meet Alan (of Archers of Okçular fame), the aforementioned explained that he already had specimen containers ready to go for collecting and documenting the land snails in the Kara Göl or Black Lake area in Okçular and environs.  Hopefully this will be part of an effort to preserve what sounds to be a lovely area of Turkiye at risk of what I understand to be the perils of ever-encroaching development.  Mercan Bey, the quiet but observant spice trader puppet from the Arabian peninsula perks up at this, suggesting that he too should bring some specimen jars, in case he finds some new herbs or spices to consider cultivating for sale.

And this reminds me that I should tell you a bit about what it is really like to either walk on the beach or sightsee in Turkey with my M.  Now, you might think that most couples would relish a walk on the beach, perhaps at sunset, holding hands and feeling free and in love.  In my relationship, however, it doesn’t quite work like this.  Sunset, you see, is not the optimal time for beach walking, as the light is no good.  And you need light, you see, in order to see shells that have washed up on shore.

Generally, when walking on the beach, M. walks with his head down, almost hunched over, scanning the sand for minute specimens that he picks up seemingly out of nothingness.  I am usually a few paces behind, kicking my feet in swirls of warm water, feeling the crunchy ooze under my feet.   Kenne, the Queen of Manners and Ladylike behavior, purses her lips in considering this curious behavior on M.’s part, thinking it is not too romantic, but approves of the few-paces-back walking stance I refer to.  Hacivad Bey tells me “you know, you cannot get in the way of the scholar, and why would you want to?” and of course, I agree.  Although M. wears glasses, I am always amazed at the miniscule treasures he pulls out of nowhere – the term “needle in a haystack” often comes to mind.

Several years ago, he spent an entire week at our dining room table on Bozcaada, looking at a pile of sand dredged from a particular spot offshore by fishermen friends for this very purpose.  Using a tiny magnifying glass squinched into his eye socket and a pair of fine, scientific tweezers, M. sorted through every single grain of what was in that bucket.  I knew better than to disturb M., and instead, lazed around reading books, working on my ayran-mixing skills and napping in the noon-day sun.  At the end of the week, M. pronounced his findings – evidence of shells from the Indian ocean right there in the Dardanelles, a product, perhaps, of global warming. Within minutes, he was on the phone to other shell-collecting colleagues and friends, explaining that he had discovered that two families of mollusks are here in island waters for the first time.  Think: lots of excited gesticulations while speaking in Turkish on the phone.

While the focus of this year’s Ak Deniz trip will be on freshwater mollusks, I wonder what it is M. will find this time.  I look forward to the latest malacological hajj of sorts in the making!

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Shelling fava fasulye on the back porch (with recipe)

Posted on March 24, 2012 by lizcameron

Shelling fava fasulye on the back porch

When I last left you, most of the Karagöz puppets were snoozing in the unseasonable sun, and the Write-a-matrix had slunk off in supreme defeat, after I failed to do academic work OTHER than grading papers. This left me on the porch, taking a gander at the progress of the soaking fava fasulye or fava beans once in a while. I shelled a number of them, no easy feat, by the time M. came home, but we finished shelling them together.

I treasured every moment of sitting together on the porch, quiet, just listening to the world around us, the breeze picking up the errant sound of super-soaked fava beans squishing out of their easily-hardened shells. One of my favorite memories from growing up involves sitting with my Mother on the stoop, where we would chat away as we peeled carrots, onions or apples for some supper-related item. M. and I have a bit of a different rhythm when it comes to food preparation together – it is more of a quiet thing – but I love doing that work together. M. knows how much I love the chatting aspect of this work, so perhaps in a nod to my familial tradition, he told me about the lemon, garlic and olive-oil infused fava bean paste he grew up eating at home.

“Did you ever shell beans with your Anne (mum), then?” I asked, hoping to learn more about his beloved mother.

“No, canım sweetheart, I did not. She had help in the house…” he said, his voice trailing off, perhaps a bit guilty at the memory.

“I guess boys were not expected to do those things?” I asked gently, hoping I was not making a stereotype.

“Probably so,” M. said, looking down as he worked on a particularly recalcitrant beans not wishing to leave its shell, “I love the smell of them!”

Not understanding the allure of the somewhat sour, astringent smell emanating from the light green soaking bowl, I just nodded my head and smiled. Clearly, I thought, this is a culturally-acquired taste.

About that time, a friend text messaged me, asking what I was up to. I had to laugh when she said “and will you serve your fava beans with a nice Chianti?” referring, of course, to the inimitable Hannibal Lechter in The Silence of the Lambs – this is the primary reference point most Americans I know have when it comes to fava beans.

So, in honor of fava fasulye, here is the recipe that M. and I have collaborated on for fava ezmesı.

Fava Ezmesı a la Slowly-by-Slowly

1 pound bag of soaked, shelled fava beans

1 litre of chicken or vegetable stock

10 garlic cloves, pressed or mashed (not chopped)

One bay leaf (defne)

Olive oil to taste

Salt and pepper

Lemon juice to taste

Optional: A full sprig of minced, fresh rosemary – it is a lot, be we over spice everything as we like it that way although M. says this is not the tradition he grew up with (biberiye)

1) Place the soaked and shelled fava beans in the slow cooker with the chicken or vegetable stock and bay leaf (and if you like, the rosemary). Put the slow cooker on high and once it is bubbling away at a good clip, let it go for 2 hours or until the beans are soft. You will be surprised to see how long it takes for the beans to find their softness in the water. Be prepared for your usually friendly neighbors to comment on the odor. 🙂

2) Once the beans are fully soft, pulse the fava beans into a paste with the olive oil, garlic, lemon juice as well as the salt and pepper to taste.

3) Enjoy it with some lovely hot ekmek (bread) or crusty crackers (I have some sea-salt baked melba toasts I am eyeing for this purpose).

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