Slowly-by-Slowly

Cross-cultural compromise – on potato salad (with recipe!)

Posted on September 3, 2011 by lizcameron

Mayonnaise for American-style potato salad

Lemon for Turkish-style potato salad

We stood, facing each other, with what can only be described as a glowering look. Me – hand on my hip, mayonnaise in the other hand resting next to the bottom of my apron. M. – hand on his hip, a lemon in his outstretched hand. Usually, I am the first to explore something new vis-a-vis culinary creations. As we stood, locked in the detente that only a stubborn set of in-love human beings can achieve, the seconds ticked by. Even our dog got in on the act, sitting in between us, looking back and forth at us with doleful, confused eyes. His head moved as if there was a tennis match going on, even though neither M. nor I were moving an inch. What, you may ask, led to this tense moment? A request to bring potato salad to a party combined with our New Year’s resolution to do more cooking together. Of course, we thought, we will just make the salad together.

Getting the ingredients from the market was bad enough – M. voted for waxy Idaho style-potatoes and I voted for the small red potatoes more familiar to me. I compromised. In my mind, we had all the rest of the stuff we needed at home. In M.’s mind, we had all the rest of the stuff we needed at home. We swung the heavy bag out of the store and walked up the street. I should have known I was in for it when all of the shadow puppet troupe was lined up on the kitchen windowsills, heads in hands as if relaxing in the Sultan’s sitting room on low recliners. They rarely all amass for regular goings on. I just nodded my greetings to them, and placed a pot of water on to boil by starting with heating up a bay leaf (a.k.a. defne) in the bottom of the pot. My grandmother always started this way, just heating the leaf ever-so-slightly in the pot to release some oils that would then make their way, very subtly, into the potatoes via the water that would soon boil there.

Defne (a.k.a. bay leaf or laurel leaf)

“What are you doing?” M. cried, rushing into the kitchen. “What is that smell – you are burning defne? We have to cook the salad, not burn some defne. Is this your house purification ritual again? I prefer to do that with lemons, not defne.” Feeling put out, the hand immediately went to my hip “what’s it to you, a little defne, it is for the potato salad.” M. just looked at me quizzically and went to wash the potatoes before chopping them. “Grandma Verna did it like this. You know, something about the defne oil going into the potatoes?” I said, feeling a bit insecure and a lot grumpy. “OK, that’s your way, ok.” M. proceeded to chop the potatoes perfectly AND to clean up the resultant mess. I am always thrilled to note this as one of the stupid things people ask me is whether I have trouble getting him to do work around the house. In fact, it is probably more vice versa! Reading my mind as only shadow puppets can do, Kenne and Khadijah clicked disapproving sounds, whispering to each other “she’s making a mistake, she should let that be her domain, not his. This relationship is all out of whack. A man, cleaning?”

As the perfectly-chopped potatoes bubbled away, their starchy steam fogging the windows behind the shadow puppets on the windowsill, we commenced preparing the salad. I fished the mayonnaise out of the fridge and turned around to see M. choose a lemon from the cheery ceramic bowl on the counter. As we met each other’s eye, the detente commenced. “What do you need a lemon for?” I queried. “Well, what are you doing with mayonnaise – you aren’t going to make that terrible, gooky stuff like in the market, are you? I really hate that” he said, with a bit less decorum than one might wish for. As if poised towards a planful jinx, we both said “I am making it my Grandmother’s way.” At this point, the detente was full-on. The shadow puppets all leaned forward on their elbows – waiting for the next moments of the potato salad drama to play out.

All my life, I have made potato salad one way, my Grandma Verna’s way. This way involves mayonnaise, garlic powder, celery, white onions, tarragon, pepper, salt and paprika. All his life, M. has made potato salad his Babane‘s (Grandmother on the father’s side) way. This way involves lemon juice, red onions, parsley, salt, pepper and pul biber (a.k.a. aleppo pepper, or red pepper flakes minus the seeds). After much negociation and protest, a quick consideration of two different potato salads and a non-partisan taste test, I gave in. I don’t know why I had a hard time letting go of my Grandmother’s approach that day – maybe just an off day – but I decided that having M. take the lead on our required potato salad was novel. Even though he is a fabulous cook, I do most of the cooking around here.

The resulting salad was truly amazing – a mind blower for me – more akin to German-style potato salad than the salad I am used to – the one that you have to fight against in order to avoid the glop factor. With smoked salt highlighting the lemon juice-infused potatoes, the fresh brightness of parsley and the soft crunch of purple onions all fused together with some high quality olive oil, it was the hit of the party, and I stood corrected – and proud of the man who could cook so well. Even Kenne and Khadijah relented a little bit upon splitting a tiny, puppet-sized portion of the unctuous stuff.

Now, as the years have flown by, the potato salad we love has evolved into what can only be referred to as a cross-cultural dish, and here is how it goes.

Turkish-American Compromise Potato Salad

Step 1: Heat the defne in the bottom of the pot for boiling the potatoes – don’t burn it though. Just heat it enough, no blackening need.

Step 2: Chop and boil the potatoes (we have moved to red bliss potatoes over the years). It takes less time than you might imagine, so be sure to test them along the way, you don’t want mashed potatoes.

Smoked paprika, celery salt, freshly cracked black pepper, smoked salt, pul biber (Aleppo pepper) red wine vinegar and lemon juice waiting to be made into a slurry

Step 3: Choose a low, wide bowl, so that when you mix the dressing with the hot potatoes, they can cool enough and it is easy to mix. In the bowl, put more red vinegar than you might imagine (1/2 cup? I don’t know, I eyeball it) and the juice of three lemons after zesting one of them and putting it in the bowl. Add smoked salt and cracked pepper, smoked paprika (I use a whole jar of the standard spice jar size), celery salt, pul biber and even some cayenne if you like, and using a fork, make it into a slurry of the red, fiery sort.

Add more celery salt, to taste - an underused and interesting flavor in my mind

Step 4: Check your potatoes to make sure they are not overcooking and taste the slurry to see if you have enough celery salt.

Step 5: Chop up one large purple onion, squeeze lots of garlic with a garlic press (we prefer that to chopping garlic, as you get more garlic juice and we are major garlic lovers), wash and chop a head of flat-leafed maydanoz (parsley) and finely chop a chunk of the heart of celery. Throw it all in the big bowl and mix with the red, fiery slurry.

Step 6:Drain the potatoes when they are just right and mix them with what is in the bowl. Let it sit for about 20 minutes so it can absorb the flavors. If you feel it is not wet enough, squeeze another lemon over the mix and/or add some more red wine vinegar (I have also used white balsamic vinegar, to great effect, try this brand).

Mix it all up before you add the hot, steamy potatoes

Step 7: Drizzle a nice extra virgin olive oil over the salad and mix it up. It is important to do this last, so that the acidic flavors can make their way into the potatoes first. Then enjoy!

Drizzle some super delicious extra virgin olive oil that tastes good on its own all over the salad and mix it up - after the salad has been marinating for a while

So there you go – you will note that over the years, the defne ritual made it into our recipe along with the celery I am used to along with the paprika and cayenne – and as with everything else in our home – we spice with abandon so there is a lot more than my Grandma Verna would approve of, but we love it! Try it out, and make your own recipe renovations. Health to your hands!

Posted in Cross-cultural learning moments, Turkish Food!, Visits from the Karagöz puppets | Tagged argument, compromise, cooking, cross-cultural marriage, food, Fruits and Vegetables, Home, Kenne, Khadijah, lemons, Mayonnaise, obesity, peppers, Potato, Potato salad, Potatoes, Salad, spicy, Turkish, ugly American, Yankee | 2 Comments

2011 Interlude: Hurricane Irene, Chicken Little and the Tough Turk

Posted on August 31, 2011 by lizcameron

A view of Hurricane Irene from space

If the sound of shivering could be made into sound, that was what was emanating from my purse as the chorus of little dancing lady puppets huddled together upon hearing the sound of the tropical storm outside. “Will we,” one meek voice ventured, “blow away if you go outside? Is the story of Chicken Little right, that the sky IS falling?” The night was Sunday, the date was 2011 and the place was New England. Hurricane Irene had hit, and while her hit was strong yet under-whelming in the form of damage in our area of New England, others were hit very hard. We were lucky, I learned the next day. Large, ancient trees were down all over the neighborhood, loosened by the extra rain of the summer and the intense winds.

Karagöz was paying those little ladies no mind. Whipping it up in the wind, he was thrilled to be engaged in his usual shrieking-while-twirling activities – the wind and the rain only egged him on. He was hanging out on the porch with M. and our dear friend’s son, also an intrepid mangal-maniac, M2, who were debating the best way to break out the mangal (BBQ) in the midst of all the rain and wind. The various solutions discussed included underneath the porch in a mud-filled area, or under an umbrellla on the porch. In the end, the latter won out, and we were treated to delicious, hand-made spicy sausages along with grilled zuccini and red pepepr.

The magic, anti-hurricane mangal-starting device (proof that it works even in a hurricane!)

Hacivad looked on from inside the window, perched on the windowsill between the orchids, he appeared to be meditating in favor of no sparks in the house, reciting the following from his favorite Rumi, over and over “move outside the tangle of fear-thinking. Live in silence. Flow down and down in always widening rings of being.”

I prayed that our neighbors would not be upset that we were grilling on the deck – which I think may be illegal in these parts. Once a shower of sparks started to blow in the wind towards our neighbors’ house, I went inside to join Hacivad and to put the final touches on the dinner table for our hurricane party.

I joked with friends the day before, that it was perhaps cross-cultural differences that had driven our hurricane-preparedness response as a couple. Me, the intrepid Yankee who has lived through several major storms in her life, went straight for the candles, batteries, flashlights, canned food, water and packaged milk. I planned a few days worth of menus that could be kept out of the fridge (aka meat and dairy free) so that they would not spoil. As the grilling was going on outside, the kitchen was set, with great big bowls of handmade pasta pesto and zuccini, smoked paprika and lemon potato salad and sesame-soy buckwheat noodles with cilantro and shredded vegetables along with garlic-sauteed tofu. After seeing that all of my hurricane-proof food was in order, supervised by the pleasant and pleased tut-tutting and cluck-clucking of Kenne and Khadijah, who fully approved of my efforts as the matron of the home, I checked to make sure the basement still had no water coming in. So far, so good, dry as a bone.

M., on the other hand, the self-declared “tough Turk” to my “chicken little” of “the sky is falling fame,” was whooping it up with great gales of laughter along with M2, and of course, unknowingly, Karagöz, who was loving every minute of the joking and laughing, most of which, as far as I understood, contained many references to “the Laz people” or the much-maligned Turks of the Black Sea region who are known to do many a dumb thing…I neglected to point out that grilling on the deck in a hurricane with sparks flying over the the neighbors might be just such a thing…

M.’s approach to hurricane preparedness had been the opposite of mine. M. had sauntered around the supermarket making fun of all the harried hurricane preparers. I tried to pretend that I did not know him as he cried out in mock sotto voce “the world is coming to an end with the Hurricane – quick – buy up all the water! Oh, and the tinned peaches too!” As he amped and vamped down the aisles, generally freaking out all that he came across, and causing them to load even more water and tinned peaches into their overflowing carts, he did pick out a few things, namely, some lovely sparkling water in tiny portions, extra charcoal for the mangal, beer – and cash. “It will not be such a big deal,” he announced, with pride, “don’t worry so much. They sky will not fall, Ms. Chicken Little.”

Later that day, I commiserated with another friend in a cross-cultural marriage, whose African husband took a somewhat laissez-faire attitude to impending Irene. Some days later, a day into living without power, he had asked whether there was enough baby food, to which I can imagine her response! However, upon hearing from another friend, this time a Turkish woman with an American husband, I decided this was a gender dynamic, not a cultural one. This woman had done all of the preparedness work – the American brushing off the potential horrors of the storm. Kenne and Khadijah looked at me with sarcastic, sidelong glances – “are you really surprised that it is the women worrying about this? Hearth and home, m’lady, heart and home.”

A few days later, M. showed me scathing critiques in Milliyet, one of the large Turkish daily newspapers, ranting about the over-reporting and hype around Hurricane Irene and bragging that all of the Turkish stores and lokantas in New York City had remained open. One man was quoted as saying that “the winds were like normal winds in Turkey, no big deal 74 MPH.” M. explained this away with a snort “it’s sort of like a macho Laz person, they think they are the invincible tough Turk, maybe they need a little bit of Chicken Little too.”

Posted in Cross-cultural learning moments, Visits from the Karagöz puppets | Tagged argument, family, food, Hurricane Irene, Kenne, Khadijah, New England, Shadow puppet dancing troupe, Turkish, Yankee | 6 Comments

To burqini or not to burqini: A sea change floats my way

Posted on August 29, 2011 by lizcameron

Another image of a burqini - an Islamic bathing suit with many names - burqini is the registered trademark from ahiida.com

…and there it was, a young lady in her burqini, sweeping and swaying her way across the deck of the Kos Island-bound feribot I wrote about when I last saw you (you can catch up here). As we tried not to be too obvious in our examination of the art of walking in a burqini, M. and I felt rooted to the ground via our smooth, white plastic chairs that were bolted to the deck in all of their pseudo-modernist glory.

Our water bottles moved slightly back and forth on the table with the rhythm of the water. I was reminded of how one’s eyes look at a tennis match, first here, then there, as the ball passes across the net. This was, I realized, a metaphor for my own back and forth, to burqini, or not to burqini? This was my question, my question of the hour.

Of course, Karagöz was there to rhyme it up and egg me on. “Do it, blue it, they will boo it! Whee-hooo!” And, of course, the chorus of dancing ladies commenced their “cluck-clucking” and “tut-tutting,” from the confines of the purse. Kenne, now joined by Khadijah on my right shoulder, was busily ensconced in some needlework and ignored the whole curfuffle. From the corner of my eye, I could see that the two little ladies were working on opposite ends of some large piece of fabric, embroidering up a storm.

Shooting them a thought with my eyes, as I knew they could read my mind, I said “you ladies, are, umm, awfully busy today? Doesn’t the rocking of the feribot make you a bit ill? Sort of like reading in a car?” Kenne just waved her hand in dismissal, quipping “just enjoy your time in Kos, we’ll show you what we have made on the way home tonight, dear/canim.”

Unaware of the lady side conversation, M. stopped complaining about his headache and breeze-born illness, and announced “I will never censor you. I love you and once again, if you need to do this ‘burqini street theatre’ to put these snobby ladies in their place, be my guest. I am not convinced that it will put them in their place, but if it helps you to feel better about you, ok.” Now, most women faced with such a show of support from their man would be thrilled. Why, then, did I feel so dismayed. I delivered a big kiss and thanks, but felt a bit empty inside.

Once on Kos Island, we wound our way off of the harbor on a long, brick promontory towards town. As we decided which direction to go, what to see and do first, I scanned the newspaper seller’s shop for English-language news. After purchasing a much sought-after copy of the International Herald Tribune, my eyes zeroed in on the newsstand when I saw an old copy of the feminist magazine “BUST.” This zine, in my opinion, embraces what I think of as an in-your face, third-wave feminist stance on all matters concerning women.

Rental bikes on Kos Island in Greece - a short hop across the sea from Bodrum

Somehow, after just seeing those magazines when I had left Turkey for the day helped me to re-center. I realized I could – and should – just be myself despite my insecurities about my body AND be as respectful as possible to the situations I was in – without giving it all up, or needing to protest in a burqini street theatre extravaganza. “Loser!” Karagoz cried with screeching fury, as soon as he heard my thought “fraidy-cat, wimp!” He stormed off to the ferry, mortified that I would not spin with my own form of anti-establishment protest. While the street theatre might have been a kick, I decided to leave well enough alone for now. As my Granny always said, “pick your battles, and be courteous.” The dancing lady chorus sighed with approval. Kenne and Khadijah just kept on sewing. They even continued to sew as M. and I rented bicycles to toodle our way around the island a bit – now that’s a balancing act, sewing while biking. As the day unfolded into our exploration of Greek Orthodox churches, cafes and the fuchsia flowers of Bougainvillea vines over whitewashed adobe-like structures, I temporarily forgot my call to burqinism and my lingering question.

Per the Textile Museum "Domestic embroidery, made for sale or personal use, accounted for a large percentage of all textile production in the Ottoman Empire. Both men and women embroidered." See http://www.textilemuseum.org/fsg/teachers/otmn_embrdry_frmset.html

As the late afternoon blue of water and sky sped by the feribot window, I felt full with sunshine and the fun of a day’s worth of exploring a new place. As we approached Bodrum harbor for our return, I could feel the frantic pace at which Kenne and Khadijah were sewing – what were they up to, anyway? Khadijah answered with a hurried and a little bit tense sentence, saying “We are, m’lady, famous for our needlework and embroidery, don’t you know?” “Yes,” Kenne said, cutting a bit of thread in her teeth as she rushed, “Ottoman embroidery is world-famous, and even our men get into the act, when it is time to sew with gold and pearls.”

Before I could inquire further into the gender equity involved in 14th century embroidery, the feribot pulled into the harbor and we were instructed to prepare for passport control. Forgetting about the mad sewing on my shoulder, I jumped off the boat, received my passport stamp and headed back through Bodrum town. While I was already winding down towards binning my burqini street theatre plans, I did find that I looked somewhat lovingly at the Islamic bathing suits swaying in the breeze along the roadway. They came in every imaginable color – pink, orange, tropical fish patterns – and the more demure black, grey and blue. At one stall, I mustered up the courage to inquire about whether there were burqinis in my size. The gentleman in question called over an English-speaking vendor who explained to me that he did not have burqini in my size “all gone,” he said apologetically, “all gone for summer.” My fantasy of shocking the swim parade began to crumble a bit more just as Hacivad made his appearance with a softly-worded observation, “It is only a few more days that we will be here, yes? Not too much more here to do in the gated community before striking out for more adventures in Anatolia.”

We hopped on the dolumuş at the Bodrum Otogar, site of a previous escape, and I lapsed into my mind yet again. Wishing for the pragmatism of my best friend, a stalwart Austrian feminist who generally doesn’t give a hoot nor holler what others think of her, I began to think my fabulous burqini-based street-theatre plan was for the birds. Maybe, I thought, I should consider that this is my first meeting with M.’s family – diplomacy should perhaps prevail. Maybe, just maybe, I should just stick to being me. Arriving back home, a peace settled in, and I realized I was done with the burqini fantasy. Not only because M. accepted me for who I was body-wise, or because it would potentially upset the familial apple cart (so to speak) – but because I realized that I was just me, and I was ok with that. As Tasha Fierce pointed out in her recent essay, Sex and the Fat Girl: Subjectivity and Self-Image, “let a partner be a complement to your positive self-image, and not the key.”

“Now that’s the right idea, m’lady!” Khadijah pronounced with a declaration fit for the Sultan himself. “And you are coming around to this right attitude at just the right time!” Before I could wonder what was what, I felt the tiny tug of my earlobes and hair as the little ladies commenced dragging their needlework masterpiece to the top of my head. “What on earth,” I cried, “ladies, I get that you are way into your needlepoint, but why are you climbing up there?” At this point, a humming, swooning honey-like sound began to ooze from my purse, and I realized that the little ladies of the dancing girl chorus were repelling out of my bag and up to the top of me by any means necessary. Clearly, this was a lady puppet revolution. Transfixed as if an insect that has given up on being caught in a spider’s web, I waited and watched. Even Karagöz was mesmerized.

An example of silvery Ottoman-style embroidery from http://www.marlamallett.com/turkish.htm

Slowly-by-slowly a thin, silvery-smooth embroidered lacy film dropped down over my body. I felt the cooling of it’s touch, it’s protection still keeping me warm, I felt the pleasant glow of healthy skin augmented by sparkle and glitter. Raising my arm, I marvelled at the intricate bird and flower designs that were melding to my skin as the material seemed to magically emblazon itself all around me like cling-film. “Your question, m’lady,” Khadijah whispered, “was to burqini or not burqini. So, we made you a magic, invisible burqini that will lift your spirits, enhance your sparkle, glitter your twitter and inure you to further catty comments from the swim parade on cement beach.” Here you have it, a burqini on your own terms. Walk with your head held high, and the confidence within that you know you deserve. Do not fall prey to the ladies of the day, they will get all they deserve in good time.”

Alighting the car, I felt the glow of feeling-good-in-my-bones throughout me, as if an aura of well-being had descended, and indeed, I think it had. “My, my,” M.’s sister in law said, “you look really beautiful tonight!” Clearly, something had shifted. For the first time, M.’s sister and I took a long walk that night, sharing stories and listening to the sea. It was a sea change.