and speaking of breakfast

There are two things I think Americans do best: burgers and breakfast. Now my ideal breakfast was discovered on a trip to Vietnam (a little phở, fresh mangoes, dragonfruit, Vietnamese coffee), and I do love a little Van-style kahvaltı, but there's nothing like pancakes and maple syrup with bacon (or sausage), some eggs, home fries and buttery toast. It can easily slide into overkill, but it's so, so good! Plus, you can find variations on the big American breakfast in every region— California is all about adding a Mexican touch and greens, the South has their own thing with grits (which I have yet to experience), and New England has johnnycakes and lobsta.

At least once a week during the holidays, my mum raved about the breakfasts at Kitchen Cravings, so

on one of our last days in New Hampshire, my family, Pedro and I squeezed ourselves into the car and drove ever so gently on icy roads to the little café in Gilford. The menu offered your usual choices, but also gave you the option to create your own omelettes and Eggs Benedict— something I just could not resist. How could I improve upon a Benedict? It's a sumptuous construction of English muffin, thick bacon, and velvety poached eggs smothered in Hollandaise— what more could one want?

To honour the Californian in me I added avocados (scoff at this if you must, East Coasters), and replaced the bacon with a truly New England treat: lobster. Besides, where am I going to get lobster in Turkey? But really, look closer:



It was insanely good. Sweet, buttery, and tangy, I will fantasize about this dish for a long time. In the odd chance you visit the little town of Gilford, do plan on making a stop at Kitchen Cravings. I don't know about their lunches, but I imagine a place that does breakfast so right will do justice to lunch too.

guilty, greasy pleasure

There is this thing I have to do whenever I'm back in New England, and it's rather gross but it sends me over the moon with nostalgia. When I was living in Providence and dragging my steel-toed boots to class at Rhode Island School of Design, food was not a priority— apart from a brief obsession with all manner of dumplings after deciding that the concept of little pillows of food was edible perfection. This epiphany hit me at three in the morning at the ceramic studio while I was terribly sleep deprived and had been desperately trying to centre a lump of clay on a wheel for longer than I will admit to. Oddly enough, that night while driving home and mentally constructing my dumpling diet, I witnessed the kidnapping of a Mr. Potato Head sculpture downtown— but that's another story.

Until I moved to Providence, I had never been to a Dunkin' Donuts and was unaware of the wonders of their breakfast sandwich. This was a most marvellous thing for a teenager on her own: a garlicky "everything" bagel with an unnaturally smooth egg and a greasy slab of sausage. It was this sandwich and copious amounts of coffee that powered me through my classes.



Now this, mind you, is not from Dunkin' Donuts, but a café called Winnipesaukee Baygulls in Moultonborough. Oh how it took me back...

into the snow

Lately we've been braving temperatures of -20º Celsius in New Hampshire— and I know that's a warm day for my Canadian friends, but goodness! Counting ducks while your extremities loose feeling and your face hurts is an entirely different birding experience. Actually I quite enjoy it, but I really need to invest in some snow boots.



I love New England in the winter.

let's end the year with sheep

Well I don't know about you, but 2013 was a fine year. This is going to be quick, as we are about to begin our celebrations for New Year's Eve a little early— have a wonderful, wonderful time my friends. See you in 2014!

two of my favourite things

1. The Gilded Lily at the Alembic on Haight
2. Imperial Jade Noodles with Coconut Lemongrass Marmalade Shrimp at Citrus Club on Haight

My, oh my.

urban curry

On Broadway, among the flashing neon, one can order up a plate some of the most exquisite curry I have had in San Francisco. You can actually taste the tomatoes in the chicken tikka masala sauce at Urban Curry, and the flat screens blasting flat-bellied Bollywood beauties dancing in colourful saris just adds to the deliciousness.



If you find yourself craving some Indian food and are in the North Beach/Chinatown area, do drop into Urban Curry— it's oh so yummy.

Urban Curry
523 Broadway, between Kearny and Columbus / SAN FRANCISCO
415 677 97 44

the good egg

Egg sandwich on a croissant with smoked salmon, tomatoes and avocados at La Boulange de Polk.



Sunday morning eggs and bacon at my dear friend Suzi's house.



Brunch at Café de la Presse: Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon and home fries.

long-lost love

I was overwhelmed with all sorts of emotions during my two and a half days in San Francisco. I missed my grandad terribly, and every street I walked down held some lost memory that filled me with longing and nostalgia. I had loved living in San Francisco. It's a city full of action and adventure— I had my dear friends, my favourite haunts, and the food— oh the food! I was visiting an old love who I never quite lost feelings for, but I know deep down inside that we just can't be together.

there's something about san francisco

There just is.

things left behind

My grandad's chair and a few of his things.

a bag of crustaceans

I can't think of anything better than beginning the new year with friends and a bag of crustaceans. Priscilla and Angelo took me to the yummy and messy The Boiling Crab in Sacramento, where lobster, crawfish, shrimp and crabs are sold by the pound, steamed and simmered in bags of garlic, spices and sauce. My goodness, for a girl who will passionately eat anything that comes out of the sea, this was heaven in a bag— and you get to eat it with your hands! There's something deliciously childlike about feeding yourself with your fingers— it puts you literally in touch with your food and well, it's just fun.

As I was cracking open my saucy King Crab legs, I couldn't help but think of the Alaskan crab fishermen who brave the violence of the Bering Sea for our bellies. When I lived in SF, I was an avid watcher of the Discovery Channel's Deadliest Catch— I cheered on the crew of the Cornelia Marie, Time Bandit and Northwestern as they charged into icy mountainous waves to haul up giant cages of spidery treasure. I'm not a big fan of television, but I was strangely captivated by this show, and often think about it when I watch the fishermen head out to the far tamer Black Sea in Istanbul.




The absence of plates and cutlery makes dining at The Boiling Crab a saucy, garlicky mess— a blissful saucy, garlicky mess. I've never experienced such a thing— how fitting to start a new year by trying something new!

white lines and chain-link

farewell

I miss my grandad terribly. I miss his crooked grin, I miss his laugh, I miss his hello. I miss his mountain of notes— tiny scraps of paper scrawled on in his own blend of Danish and English. I miss his colourful, often incomprehensible sayings and his honesty. "Treat someone the way you'd like to be treated" he'd say, deeply serious, with a wag of his finger.

My grandad taught me how to fish as a little girl, and humoured me when I wanted to take the tiny sparkling fish home as pets instead. We found bowls for the fish, filled them with tap water, and when the fish didn't survive, we buried them under the bush with the red berries in the front yard.

I have countless stories and memories that I will cherish with every molecule of my being, and every time I see Denmark spelled with an 'e', I'll remind myself of his great frustration with the English language and how it fouled up his beloved Danmark. The loss of my grandad weighs heavily in my life; he was one of my most favourite people in this world. As life rolls on— much as I wish it could stand still a moment or wind backward for a spell, I carry with me the memories and stories as comfort and joys. I am fortunate to have known such a wonderful man, such a unique and special human being— so lucky indeed, to have been his granddaughter.

Jeg elsker dig, morfar.

jeg elsker dig, morfar.

I wish we could have said goodbye.

heading home

The last day in New Hampshire was white with snow. Loads of it. I began to get concerned that Natasha and I would not be making it back to Istanbul as planned— but oh, how it was gorgeous. When we awoke to an empty sky on Tuesday, we were both relieved and sad, as this was the last time she would see our parents and littlest sister before she moved to Dubai. While I am over the moon for Natasha and her new job, I can't help but feel a little selfish and want to keep her here with me. Life is movement— and there's nothing in the world like a sister.


We got to Boston Logan Airport three hours ahead of time, curious about the new security measures in place. Relatives had phoned us the night before with rumours of invasive pat-downs and restrictions on what you could and couldn't take on a plane with you. We breezed through the usual security lines and found ourselves with hours to kill. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar orange and magenta sign, grabbed Natasha's arm and ran toward it.

My college years in Rhode Island were dotted with orange and magenta memories. Feeling an extreme wave of nostalgia, I needed to order what I missed most about Dunkin' Donuts: an egg, sausage, bacon and cheese sandwich on an everything bagel and a hazelnut coffee. It's a heart attack in breakfast form, and absolutely delicious. Since the airport D&D was out of everything bagels, I settled for the next best thing, an English muffin.
Nostalgia tastes incredibly good.


The ride to New York's JFK airport was fraught with disappearing stomachs and sweaty palms. The plane, a Delta heap of metal from most probably the eighties, shook and fell and bumped and lurched its way down the East Coast. I can take turbulence, but I need to have confidence in what's holding me up in the sky. Fortunately, the flight was only 76 minutes.

We arrived with only ten minutes to reach our connecting flight to Istanbul, and hurried towards the gate on wobbly legs. The flight was full, the seats small. The man in front of me seemed completely unaware of his surroundings, crushing my left toes under his big boat of a shoe, oblivious to my yelling and seemingly unable to feel my foot under him. Eventually I was released from his torturous hold, and he sat down with an expressionless "sorry." I grabbed my foot and rocked back and forth in my seat, ow-ing and wondering if he was on drugs. Ok, it was an accident and nothing was broken, whatever. I had nine hours to let it go. As soon as we were airborne, his seat crashed down into my knee— which I expected, and decided to ignore. As I reached into my bag on the floor, suddenly his elbow swings back— right into my forehead.

The rest of the flight was fine. Exhausting, but fine. While I was doing some light stretching in the back of the plane, a flight attendant called out to her co-worker, "Hey Fiona!" (or something like that) "Come look at her tramp stamp!" This, of course, referred to the large tattoo on my back. Then she asked if Turkish men were afraid of me because of it, and tried to set me up with another passenger, then decided he was too young for me.

It never ceases to amaze me how some people have no filters.

harika holidays!

My Dear Friends,
Have a harika holiday full of light, love and laughter.
Warm wishes,
Szaza

around town