Clotted Cream and a Happy Place

Nothing makes me hungry like a month of fasting. Something about sunken cheeks and a 3am drummer-boy alarm to eat before sunrise makes me crave a nice, big plate of butter. Turks do not do butter, at least not well or regularly as best as I can tell, but thanks to my new favorite blog, Istanbul Eats, I found a place that is famous for clotted cream near my house called Besiktas Kaymakci. I had never had clotted cream before, and I'll confess that I thought it was something like cottage cheese. To save time, I'll just say that it's somewhere between butter and cream and it's good. It will also stop your heart. The place was unassuming, run down, and it appeared to be family run. The grandmother stirred a vat in the back of the restaurant, the grandson waited, and the grandfather looked at me skeptically every moment of my stay up until I payed.

The cream was covered in honey and served with hot-as-you-like-it milk. I spread the cream on a loaf of bread and munched whilst gazing at the three pictures of Ataturk above.

Then, I ordered a Turkish coffee and was very happy to find that it put my own attempts to shame.

It was a Saturday, so I decided to go sit by the Bosphorus and waft Istanbul's millennial stink. Pretty boats, ferries, two men fishing, nationalism. Splendid.

On a related note, I stupidly asked one of my students about the symbolism behind the Turkish flag. He replied coolly, "It is the reflection of the moon and stars in the blood of Turkish citizens." The man didn't know what the word "admire" meant, but he was able to come up with that without a moment's hesitation. Sometimes I think they consort this plot against me...

That's it. Be well, all of you.