buttery trout and tea

Salad, real honey with a slab of fresh butter, the butteriest pan-fried trout, and biscuits for your çay. What more could you ask for except perhaps one more çay?

six

Last week Harika quietly turned six. Whether you just stumbled upon my blog or have been a habitual reader, thank you so much for coming along with me on my adventures. I have deeply appreciated your kind words and all the ideas you have shared with me over the past six years. Here's to more drawing, more travelling, and more tea— here's to seven!

roadside corn

As is so very often the case, you can find food in the unlikeliest of places in Turkey. People are quite entrepreneurial here, and on the side of a lonely stretch of road near some dam, a cheery moustachioed man was boiling up corn on the cob on a stove that looked homemade. His make-shift café clung precariously to the side of the cliff, and he had somehow diverted a small stream into a kitchen tap with an actual sink. We squeezed our car against the guardrail, climbed over it, and sat down at a tiny table for some corn and mountain stream çay.

tea in a most unusual place

You can always find a çay in Turkey, even in a volcano.

grey, grey, grey

To say that winter is bleak in Istanbul, is an understatement. It is downright depressing. The sky is grey, the city is grey, the people are grey. I used to find a poetry in the mournfulness, in the huzun, but currently, I am in a terrible state of unrest. My toes can't seem to warm, there's a rattle in my chest, and the grumpiness of the people on the street is souring my mood. A few days ago, it was nearly spring weather— so warm in fact, that crocuses popped up their heads towards the pale sun. We have since descended back into that wet, bone-chilling gloom, and there is an inexplicable amount of mud.



What else can you do but wait?
Wait, and have another çay.

making room for dessert

After that incredible lunch, dinner felt like sheer gluttony. We decided to dine sparingly on three meze plates of hummus, ezme, and a dip of aubergine and yogurt, in order to leave room in our bellies for a much-anticipated dessert. Soft bread and mint leaves were plentiful, but the hummus, one of the dishes for which Antakya is famed, left me disappointed. I've been spoiled, you see. With a Lebanese father, I have Lebanese aunties, and those of you who have Lebanese aunties know that in their kitchens, you grow up to be a snob about certain dishes. I am ever so picky about my tabbouli, kibbeh, and hummus.  

Hummus, which has become wildly popular across the globe, is a delicious chickpea puree which comes from Lebanon. Yes, I said it. Lebanon. I know there are people who would disagree with me on the origins of this fantastic dip— and these disagreements can get strangely political— but I'm saying it's Lebanese. Never have I had a more delicious hummus than in Lebanon. Antakya's version seems to be made with a chickpea flour instead of real chickpeas, which makes the consistency a bit too runny for my taste. I found it rather bland, with far too much tahini. Hummus is simple: chickpeas, tahini (a sesame paste commonly used in the Middle East), lemon, garlic, and olive oil. Blend it all together, et voilà! Heaven. I like mine heavy on the chickpeas and lemon, with that punch of garlic— the key really, is in the proportions.

The dessert we had been waiting to try all day was none other than the syrupy, cheesy künefe, rumoured to be excellent in Antakya. I've mentioned the wonders of künefe before, both in Istanbul and Beirut— I am a huge fan of the sticky, gooey sweetness.



So what is künefe? Simply put, a baked dessert of mild, elastic cheese sandwiched between threads of kadayıf (a shredded dough), bathed in butter and syrup. The entire Hatay region is known in Turkey for this delicacy, but Antakya is considered to be the capital of künefe— and for good reason. What I found even more interesting than the dessert itself, was the way in which the kadayıf is made. A large, oiled copper disk is spun while a special bucket with evenly spaced holes pours the dough onto its surface. Large threads are formed, then scraped off:

Once you've filled your belly with butter, cheese, syrup and dough, there's only one thing left to do. Sit back and sip on a hot glass of çay, while discussing the day's discoveries.

one with sugar, one without

sketches with sketchers

Now that the Italian Sketchers have returned home, life in Istanbul has returned to its October grey. I was delighted to be around fellow sketchers again, as it can be quite isolating and demotivating in Istanbul, having failed at finding other sketchers who will actually show up when you invite them to draw with you. We visited my favourite tea garden, the Firuzağa Çaybahçesi, we wandered around the colourful, crumbling streets of Balat, and we sketched the B. Arda, much to the bafflement of the boat's owner, Bülent, who was working intensely on something metallic aboard the boat. We gathered a crowd of curious fishermen and passerbys, who praised us with many a "Vaaayyy!" and "Çok güzel!" and "Harika," some trying to snap pictures of us with their phones. After some time, Bülent came ashore to offer us grapes, on a small porcelain platter.

Sketching the B. Arda.

I think I need to look into airfare to Rome!

tea and ruin

...in Fethiye.

tea

At seven in the morning, I climbed to the roof to find the white specters of mountains beyond the dark hills. I was comforted to know they were still there, watching over me as they had before, and would continue to do so, so long as I returned to Nepal. I shared this excitement with Tsering, who was making a breakfast of Tibetan bread and papaya, and milky tea for the sleeping guesthouse. We shared a thoughtful smile and he added with a gleam in his eye, "They calm the mind."

With a calmed mind, I headed out to Shree Mangal Dvip to meet with one of the school's devoted teachers, Milan, who has become my friend over the past year. He wanted to take me to the slums of Boudha— just past the main road where there are tents of tarp, cardboard and scraps of metal, that many call home. Milan spends his free time teaching the children of the slums Nepali and English, in a tent with a dry-erase board and two benches for tables.

I arrived early, and decided to sit on the inside steps of the school, where I was greeted by scores of little smiles. A giggly little body came running toward me, and I held out my arms for the embrace.

"What's your name?"
"Lhaaaaaaakpa."
"How old are you, Lhakpa?"
"Fiiiiiiiiiiii..."
"Five? Oh you're so big!"
"One hundred thou— no, twooo hundred thousand!"
"My goodness! You're really big!"

Lhakpa slapped his tiny hand in mine and showed me a piece of a plastic tube he had found, that was a telescope. He studied me through the ring, with a wide, satisfied grin of pearly baby teeth. Suddenly, with a far-off look, he murmured with great seriousness, "We need the rain."

I held him tightly in my arms and thought about the rain, the rain that can turn from gentility into a beast if it so wishes, snaking down from rumbling grey massifs. Yes, we need the rain.

It was 7:30. I peeked my head out of the gate to see if Milan had arrived, and there he was, smiling as usual. I turned to say goodbye to Lhakpa, but he had run off to discover new worlds with his telescope. We headed toward the Stupa gate, chatting about the mountains.

I was lead down a path paved with litter and green-tinged mud toward a patchwork of tents of all materials. Eyes, cautious at first then warm, watched me as I moved through their neighbourhood. I tried in vain to fade into the background— I didn't want to be thought of as the gawking foreigner— but my self-consciousness was eased as my nervous smile was met with welcoming ones.

On our way to the make-shift classroom, we crossed paths with a familiar beautiful face, a different Lhakpa, one of the older students from SMD. Today was her day off, and she was headed into the slum to teach the resident children some English and Nepali as well. When the three of us reached the classroom tent, little smiling faces popped up from around every corner. Suddenly we were surrounded, the excitement electric, and there were displays of somersaults and cartwheels, games of pattycake and shouts of A! B! and C! A man with intense, but kind eyes graciously offered me tea—and I politely declined.

“Please, you must try a cup of real Rajasthani tea. You came to our slum, it’s the least we can offer.”
“How can I say no to that?” I smiled.

Amid the giggles and play, Lhakpa quietly confessed, “I feel lucky.”
I nodded. I felt an aching inside. 

The tea smelled faintly of licorice and spices, and was served in floral porcelain— my fingers burned as I raised the cup to my lips. It was sweet and earthy, as delicate as its vessel. A little girl in wild pigtails proudly showed me the intricate mehndi design drawn on her palm, while a tiny boy folded his hand into mine. Class was not to be taught today— the resident teacher had some business to attend to. When our cups were empty, Milan, Lhakpa and I said our goodbyes.We weaved back through the mud and the tents, past curious eyes and smiles, and parted ways—Lhakpa went off to run errands, and Milan invited me over for tea.

Within minutes, we were caught in the current of the Stupa's devout circumambulators and the constant, melodic flow of the om mani padme hum from a CD player in one of the surrounding gift shops. I felt a million miles away, out the other end of a dream, though I had only crossed a few streets. As we took a shortcut toward Milan’s home, he pointed to a lovely, stoic gompa and asked if I would like to visit the school’s monastery. Naturally, I said yes. I had never been there before.

We entered a cool, peaceful courtyard that vibrated with heavy, low voices in chant, a solemn drum and the occasional explosive horn. As we headed toward the gompa's main office, we passed the dark room unable to contain all the music that was stirring inside it. My eyes met with others that were expressionless, lips moved softly. I saw red, I saw gold, I saw orange.

"Please, sit, sit!" beckoned the young monk behind the desk. He had a beautiful face.
"Tashi delek." I smiled, and bowed my head. A little boy of an age I could not guess— a monk— was earnestly studying his Tibetan in the light of the window.

"Is he one of ours?" I asked Milan.
"No, not yet."

Another monk entered, and began to fiddle with some tea cups on the shelf behind the door. The pretty blue and white cup placed in front of me was soon filled to the brim with a pale, ochre-coloured liquid that had a familiar sheen on its surface. Butter tea. I had my first taste of Tibetan butter tea last summer, and had fallen in love with its silky, yellowed saltiness. As a child, I had read about butter tea, most likely in one of my mother's National Geographics, and would often imagine sipping the hot brew atop Everest as Tenzing Norgay or Hillary.

The warm butter soothed my sun-chapped lips. When my tea reached the half-way mark, it was quickly and generously refilled. As I listened to the gentle tones of Milan and the monk's voices rising and falling in Nepali, I watched the little boy studying by the window, the light kissing his shaved head. This child had different path carved out for him from the children I had met earlier in the slums— a path different from little Lhakpa's as well. I wondered about their adolescence, their adulthood. 

"Let's go see if our monks are studying for their exams." Milan laughed, drawing me out of my thoughts. Next week was exam week at SMD, and he thought it would be fun to surprise the young monks who studied at the school, catching them mid-cram. The monk lead us upstairs to the study room, where young faces lit up upon seeing Milan. As Milan kicked off his shoes and entered the room to chat with his students, I remained in the cool stairway with the monk. I learned he was from Bhutan, and that his father painted dragons. I showed him my sketchbook. After a while, Milan reemerged, and we thanked the monk for his hospitality. He had a firm handshake and a warm smile.

After weaving through a maze of tiny streets dotted with shops and apartment buildings from which fluttered both prayer flags and laundry, we arrived at Milan's. It was cool and dark inside the building, a relief from the blistering sun. We needed the rain.

"Just one cup of tea, then I will take you back to the school." He motioned to a little chair by the window.

I sat down with a smile and a Nepali wobble of my head that I had picked up from the students. The tea was from Darjeeling, Milan explained, his homeland. I watched him from my chair, as he poured milk into a pot and turned on the burner. I had been to Rajasthan, Tibet, and now I would go to Darjeeling. The room began to smell of leaves.

çay, anyone?

With nearly every business transaction at the bazaar comes the tinkling of tiny teaspoons in tulip-shaped glasses, glittering sugarcubes perched on red and white saucers— hot çay to warm you from the toes up. Empty glasses tell stories of waiting, bargaining and contentment— happy customer, happy vendor. They are as much a part of the Grand Bazaar as its famous arches.

ada çay

It was Javier's last night in Istanbul, and I wanted to take him to one of my favourite drawing spots— the tea garden in Cihangir. We sipped on fragrant sage tea as we picked out our subjects from the colourful crowd. I find that ada çay lends itself well to long periods of sketching, as it's caffeine-free— I can't tell you how many times I've gotten ridiculously wired from glass after glass of çay, my hands drawing trembling lines. Turkish tea is powerful stuff— beware.

no ordinary sunday

It's the first day of Spring!
What better way to celebrate than with a nice breakfast of buttered toast with honey, black olives, fried hellim cheese and a big mug of English Breakfast tea? Maybe... oh I don't know, paint portraits of pigeons?


As many of you know, I love pigeons. I find these overlooked and often despised birds to be beautiful and fascinating creatures. They have such marvellous shapes and colours— truly, is there anything more lovely than the heart-shaped curve of a pigeon's shoulders? I love watching the males twirling around in their silly, unappreciated mating dances, their tails fanned out like a matador's cape, charging unimpressed and fickle females. I love their gentle cooing as they snuggle up together on a branch or window ledge. Yes, I adore the pigeon, and have been honouring these humble birds in pencils, ink and paint, for a very long time.


I was thrilled to discover that Turks have a passion for pigeons as well. I have never seen such clean and healthy-looking pigeons in a city! Piles of stale bread scattered in grass or on the side of the road are a common sight, and birdseed sellers can be easily found along the Bosphorus walkway or in parks. If you examine the sides of buildings and the upper branches of trees, you might even see beautiful little houses constructed especially for these birds.

Once, as I was walking down Istiklal street, someone's yellow lab decided to take a bite out of a frightened pigeon he had been tormenting. Within seconds, people were scolding the dog's owner and forming a human barrier around the bird, and a woman swept its trembling little body into her arms and began whispering to it, as though trying to comfort a child. When I asked her if the pigeon was harmed, she told me she was taking it to the vet, and would care for it until it was well enough to fly away. Needless to say, this warmed my heart.

A couple of weeks ago, I walked by a colleague of mine's desk and noticed a bunch of pigeon pictures up on his computer screen. I let out an "Ooooh güvercinler!" at the sight of all the colourful birds, and he, caught off guard and perhaps a little embarrassed, fumbled to shut the browser window. After professing my love for pigeons, we clicked through picture after picture, and he wistfully told me about the pigeons he had as a child. Oh how I would have loved to have pigeons as a little girl! How wonderful that would have been— but the life of a nomad makes it hard to keep such pets.

Moved by his story, I thought I'd surprise my colleague with a couple of indoor pigeons that don't need to be fed or looked after.


I hope he'll like them.

drinking mountains

I was really inspired by my friend Ramires' beautiful sketch of tea, and I thought I'd try drawing my cup of Lapsang Souchong. If you've never had this smoked black tea, you must change that— it feels like you're drinking a mountain. Seek it out, have it on a day when you need to feel transported. Lupicia was one of my favourite tea shops in San Francisco, and fortunately, they have an online store— although I don't know if they ship overseas. Twinings also makes a decent Lapsang.

Sometimes you have to draw the little forgotten things right in front of you,
to get back on the right path.

tuesday

Nothing like a few wasabi peas, a hot cup of jasmine tea, a pen and some ink. Oh— and a tin of colour pencils and Moleskines. I've been trying to catch up on some work for various Moleskine Exchanges I'm in. The lovely Mr. Behemoth in the top Moly is Emma's book for Moly-X48. I happen to know that she's a fan of The Master and Margarita, so I wanted to draw a few of my favourite characters for her. The book below him is my second Moly for Moly-X13.
I hope to finish these soon and send them on their way to the next artists.

greedy artist

Lately I feel like I've been a greedy artist. Reluctant to let out the images in my head, reluctant to use my hands for anything except holding a book or knitting. Sometimes this happens, and it's not like artist's block— I have plenty of ideas and feel quite inspired— I just don't want to do anything about it. It's a stubbornness, a greed. I want to keep it all to myself.

So today, today is a work day. I've poured myself a delicious cup of Darjeeling tea and I've got my pen and bottle of India ink ready to go. Staring at all these inches of white paper, I am feeling a little discouraged, yet determined to get back to it. Sometimes I want a bit of instant gratification; to be done with a piece in a day or two, but that's just not possible with the kind of work I do. It often takes weeks, months— one piece even took me three years to complete. It was eight feet tall and composed of tiny words in ink.


Alright. Let's get to it.