Thanksgiving, Past and Future

This year’s Thanksgiving was, modesty aside, The Best Ever. Naturally I attribute that to two key factors - excellent food, for which I was partially responsible - and a healthy amount of Moet et Chandon White Star and Evolution from the Sokol Blosser vineyard in Oregon - for which I was fully responsible for. Family gatherings can be tense in the best of situation, but loosening everyone up, albeit in a reasonably civilized way, ensured that the final prep, dinner, conversation, desert, and subsequent card games all flowed smoothly if not a little hazily.

This year was the second time in my life that I made the turkey. Now cooking in my house is very daunting as everyone is an amazing cook and thus, a spot on critic. So rather then completely winging it (no pun intended) I decided to stick as closely to a recipe as possible. Naturally, that didn’t fully happen and what turned out was an improvisation of two recipes. One was for the actual brining, which I shall forever do before roasting any poultry, the second for roasting the turkey. I found both on epicurious.com, which has always proved reliable in my experience and usually has very helpful user comments.

The first step, after we bought the 13.15lb (5.9 kg) monster was to wash it thoroughly and remove giblets and organs. I then found a pot large enough to put the bird in so that it would completely submerged in the brine, plunked it in, and improvised the following brine recipe.

Rather then adding a whole three pounds of kosher salt, I added approximately 1 1/2 cups, and while we didn’t have marjoram, I used fresh rosemary instead. This was done the day before to let the Turkey soak overnight, and the whole concoction looked something like this:

The hardest past was probably washing the bird after the brine, because you really do want to do it thoroughly, but it is a large, slippery, unwieldy thing.

As to the actual bird, I decided to improvise on the Porcini Mushroom Turkey with mushroom gravy recipe with fresh baby portobello mushrooms instead of dried porcini.

What that meant was that I boiled approximately 8 ounces of the mushrooms (cleaned and sliced) and using maybe 1/4 of that for the mushroom butter that went under the skin and the rest for the gravy. Thinking back on it, 1 1/2 sticks of butter under and over the turkey’s skin is a bit much, but it made the meat unbelievably juicy.

For the actual bird, my mother had brought homemade chicken stock from her cafe, and I had saved the mushroom broth, so I combined both of those to put in the roasting pan with the bird and the fresh herbs. Luckily there had been a farmer’s market at the Corner Brewery the week before and one of the vendors and been kind enough to give me a ridiculous amount of fresh rosemary, thyme, and sage (alas no parsley or we would have had us a good old Simon and Garfunkel moment) for only five dollars.

There was extra butter, so in addition to putting it under the skin (a very intimate process not for the squeamish) and in the cavity (ditto), I put it over the skin as well instead of the olive oil the original recipe called for.

So as the bird was ‘doing its thing’ roasting in a separate roaster oven we have, I started the prep for the gravy. Again, I substituted fresh portobello’s and used regular onions for shallots. I started the gravy with a blend of the chicken and mushroom stock, and added some pan drippings later once the bird was out and tenting. The sauce was way too much for the 5 of us, however I refrigerated one part, and froze a good 2 cups of it for future use. The part initially saved was used with the last of the turkey breast, sauteed mushrooms, and extra fresh herbs to create a sort of post-Thanksgiving Fettucini Alfredo. I don’t usually much care for cream sauces, but given this had more broth and white wine in it then actual cream, it was surprisingly light and yet still onctueux.

I was told by no less than my father, one of the kindest people I know but with a highly sophisticated palate, that it was the best turkey he had ever eaten, and my mother, who has even more discerning taste buds, seconded this. It was pretty damn good, and though time consuming, surprisingly easy to make. In the future, I would roast it in a conventional oven as I think it lets the skin brown more and maybe try it with a mix of mushrooms to add even more woodsiness and richness to the flavor.

Also on the dinner menu was the wild-rice and chestnut stuffing my mother makes’ every year (unbelievably good, also time consuming but fairly straightforward). I had my dad send me the recipe the first year I cooked Thanksgiving dinner by myself, but have been unable to locate the .pdf file or the recipe online. As suggested by the title, the stuffing involves loads of wild rice and roasted chestnuts, is cooked with chicken broth and celery, flavored with fresh thyme and the rest I will leave to your imaginations. Because the bird was brined we did not stuff it, but baked the cooked stuffing.

Other sides were roasted Brussels sprouts (the only way I eat them), mashed yams, and a lovely cranberry-orange sauce whose recipe was from a girl who works at my mom’s. I’m not a huge fan of cranberry sauce, usually finding them far too sweet, but this one had no added sugar and fresh orange rind, so it had a lovely citrusy, aromatic bitterness.

For desert I made a maple-pumpkin pie, with the best crust recipe I’ve ever found, all from November’s edition of Real Simple.

I made the crust the day before and was really hesitant about rolling out. All previous crusts I’ve used have been with the “pat-in” method, and I’m really no baker. However with my mother’s help, we rolled it out evenly and it turned out flaky, not too sweet, and buttery. I think I’m going to use the recipe next time I make my caramelized onion quiche.

So as I get ready to go back to Berlin (where ironically, I cooked my first Thanksgiving dinner by myself) my brother and I are planning to have a late Thanksgiving dinner for him and some of our friends. It will also be a Festivus celebration (dorks that we are). I suspect we will substitute 2 roast chickens for the turkey as it is hard to find a reasonable sized one, and I will bring canned pumpkin, ready roasted chestnuts, maple syrup and other ingredients from the States. I also suspect we won’t make all the trimmings, but definitely the stuffing and one other veg. Either way, it should be a good time and a fantastic trip.

Road trip reflections, early impressions

This past week has found me and two close friends from Paris on our Great American Road Trip (East Coast version a la francaise). We've already put over 1,000 miles on our rented red Chevy, driving from Ann Arbor to New York City in one fell swoop, then down to Washington, DC, and today back up to Boston. 

The trip has been amazing and unexpectedly quirky, a chance to catch up with friends old and new, en route to far away places like Mexico City and Seoul, and spend lots and lots of time on the road. Lots. New York to DC was the worst stretch thus far as we hit both New York and DC rush hour with a vengeance. Rather, they hit us and the trip took a total of 12 hours. 

We've already had some memorable meals. Rather then going into detail in a fatigued and loopy state (8 1/2 hours of driving today) below are some illustrated highlights with further details to be filled in soon: 

Afternoon beers and crab cakes in Baltimore, in the neighborhood where the best show ever, Homicide: Life on the Streets, was filmed: 

Having the wife a a prominent politician buy me beers in the afternoon at Nathan's in Georgetown because she saw me sitting alone with my paper and elevated bum knees. The conversation improved as the beers kept on flowing. It would have been rude to resist and beer does have a very real therapeutic value in terms of pain killing/numbing:

Dinner at Marvin's with their lovely steak-frites, beers, and noisy but entertaining ambiance:

And finally, eating sushi and sesame noodles with chopsticks in a car today - no I wasn't driving (that would have been impressive) -  but when you stop in Old Greenwich for a quick snack, you might as well go local: 

There are many, many more anecdotes to follow, and the hospitality we have received has been amazing. I'll end with a picture of our Boston friend's cat, as I'm acutely missing my own, and he is quite darling: 

A tres bientot - 

E.

Food and Travel, Memories and Road Trips

To me food and travel are inexplicably, deeply linked together. Whenever I go to a new city, country, region, I try to locate the local food market and wander around, hopefully finding a hole-in-the-wall eatery ordering whatever the people at the next table are eating (unless that dish happens to be still alive or a form of insect - we all have our limits), and going to restaurants my local friends (either old or freshly made that day) say is "The Best." The strategy has served me well as evidenced by many memorable dinners, conversations, and fairly few incidents of the notorious Delhi-belly. On a side-note, Google has informed me of a new Bollywood movie by the same name, one can only hope with a different interpretation of the phrase.

While eating dinner with my dad tonight, we happened to have Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations on, easily my favorite show and probably my dream job. The episode tonight was shot in Egypt, and the Bedouins Tony visited butchered a goat in his honor. It reminded me of a family trip to Turkey about 11 or 12 years ago when we went to the small town, Ulukisla, both of my parents come from. We stayed with my father's Uncle Haci, a spry 60 year old who had a Western-style toilet installed in his house for our visit, no small expense for him and hugely appreciated by my brother and me. 

Uncle Haci, his wife, my grandmother, aunt and family all went out to the vineyards owned by our family, though the grapes grown have just been used for fruit as long as any one can recall. We took the sedan we drove down in and Uncle Haci's small pick-up, which had a lovely little mewing lamb in the back. 

I remember foolishly wondering why we were traveling with an animal, but not thinking too much of it as the entire experience of being in my parent's hometown for the first time since I was 6 months old was intense. I don't think I've ever tasted anything as funny or pungent as fresh goat's milk cheese. Think a liquid tangy slightly chunky chevre. It was served by one of the numerous extended family members' we had met (cousin's cousins, great aunts and uncles galore, half the town seeming to be a relation of one sort or the another) and I would not necessarily recommend it. The yogurt of course, not Old World family reunions.

We got out to the vineyard and set up a picnic spot with blankets, various sides and breads, and beverages. Uncle Haci pulled down an increasingly panicking lamb and I realized that in fact the little lamb was going to be part of the menu du jour. After a brief foray into vegetarianism (probably as part of a teenage rebellion rather than anything remotely related to animal rights or health reasons)  I had been squeamish about meat and didn't even cook my own meat dishes at that point. 

How we change.

At the time, I remember talking a mile-a-minute to my mom in English as my dad and brother joined the menfolk to go behind the trees and do the deed, so to speak. I told her there was no way I was even touching a piece of that meat and just how unfair it was to that poor little sheep. My grandmother, aunt and great aunt quickly realized that I was becoming upset and it caused them merriment to no end. My mother hissed under her breath that this was a huge honor for them to sacrifice a lamb for us, not to mention a further financial burden, and I'm sure said something to the effect of "suck it up or shut up," of course in a far more maternal manner.

I pouted and decided that I would still take the moral high ground and seethe in silence as I watched the expertly skinned meat pieces were brought to us on the bone. My grandmother and great-aunt started cutting the meat off the bone and sauteing onions and some tomatoes in a huge pot on an open fire. 

Once all of the meat had been diced, they threw it in the pot, seasoned it only with salt and pepper and let it cook briefly. Everyone else started digging in as I eat dry bread and started contemplating just how strongly I felt for little the poor little lamb and how good that dish looked.

Of course I caved. And I have to say, it was the best lamb I ever had. 

And now I am getting ready to welcome two dear friends from France and embarking on a 2300 mile road-trip on the East Coast up to Montreal and then back down to Windsor and Detroit. We have a few choice meals planned out including Rayuela for the first-time, my DC favorite Marvins, and Sultan's Kitchen in Boston whose chef Ozcan Ozan wrote one of my favorite Turkish cookbooks with the same title. I want to treat my friends to hot dogs on Coney Island and at Ben's Chili Bowl in DC, wander Boston's Little Italy, and go back to Steve's diner at Middlebury where I spent far too much time on food that was far too good, heavy, and affordable. 

To say that I am excited would be an understatement, and I look forward to seeing some of you on the road, discovering new nooks and crannies, and hopefully even cooking for those kind enough to host. 

A bientôt!

Memories of Barbara and Turkish Macaroni with Lamb

Today I had the honor of attending a Celebration of Life event for an old family friend, who had passed away suddenly in March. 

Barbara was a remarkable woman and at the event, her friends and colleagues shared stories about just what a rich life she led. Among other things, she did many of the original illustrations at the University of Michigan's Natural History Museum, completed a PhD and worked in Women's Studies long before it became an established discipline, and raised two children as a single mom in the 1960s. 

She travelled the world, became particularly interested in Turkey and the Middle East, and was very involved with the Turkish American community in Michigan. An avid gardner, we all received seeds and planters at the celebration per her wishes, and I look forward to the flowers as well as the radishes, lettuce, and endive we'll get to enjoy on her behalf and in her honor. 

I had known Barbara all of my life, and was always touched by how she would always remember what I was up to academically or professionally, and challenged by the thought-provoking questions she would ask. 

Her family had come to eat dinner at the cafe the day after she passed, and came again this evening . While serving a table of 15 is never easy, they were a wonderful group to serve and it was inspirational to see how candidly they celebrated her life while still mourning a great loss.

Barbara would frequent my mother's restaurant and would often call and ask if we had any lamb with macaroni, her son's favorite dish. Even if we did not, it was easy enough to whip up a batch and she would walk in with her immaculately coiffed snow white hair, saucy red lipstick and shift dress, more often then now with an anecdote to share. 

I do not know the exact recipe of the dish, and have promised to not divulge cafe secrets. However, my version of it follows below. It is, like most of my favorite food, simple and comforting. 

In a heavy bottomed skillet saute about 1/2 onion of finely diced onion in olive oil until cooked through. Add about 3/4 lbs ground lamb (lamb is quite fatty, so you really shouldn't need a lot of olive oil in the skillet to cook the onions with, otherwise the dish will become too rich) and cook until the lamb in completely cooked through. Add 1 - 2 finely diced ripe tomatoes, a small spoonful of tomato paste and a small spoonful of red pepper paste, cooking until the tomatoes have wilted into the dish. Season with salt, pepper and paprika. 

Cook your desired pasta in boiling salted water until al dente, drain and return to pot, adding a generous pat of butter to melt in the pasta. We frequently use macaroni at the cafe, but I could see this dish being made with penne or fusilli, or even my favorite, orechiette.

Add the cooked ground lamb mixture to the pot, stirring well until blended through. Serve the dish with a garlic-yogurt sauce and sprinkle with maras pepper and dried mint. 

Dr. Barbara J. Bilge,  August 31, 1931 - March 2, 2009

New Orleans memories, Part Deux

I managed to dig up and scan some of the photos from that trip, eight whole years ago. 

The etoufee or was it gumbo? I can't tell from the picture, I do remember it being very, very good: 

Antoines: 

Walking around: 

New Year's Eve Bourbon Street Shenanigans and our feeble efforts to cook

It really was a wonderful trip and it breaks my heart that much more to know what happened to such a lovely, unique city with such character. 

New Orleans memories

Last night HBO had an amazing documentary on Hurricane Katrina, Trouble the Water, as told by the story of three people from the 9th ward who filmed their experience staying through the storm, the breaking of the levees, fleeing New Orleans, and then going back. 

The imagery of the movie was fascinating and horrifying. I was living in Brussels at the time of the storm and had vague recollections of the images on TV then, the shocking devastation and the disproportionate racial inequality of the victims. I remember sitting with friends looking at the TV in shock thinking that this could not be the graceful city I spent a week in, one with an amazing food and music culture, a developed sense of identity, all of which seemed to be swept in the mud and water from the levees breaking. 

Trouble the Water was particularly powerful as you the viewer were able to see what it was like to be in a house in the lower 9th Ward, the desperate flee to the attic as the water rose higher and higher in their house, the attempts to find safety on a partially closed down Naval Base on higher ground (they were denied entry) and then finally at a local high school. 

Without getting into too many details of the movie, I can only say watch it because the stories of Kimberly and Scott are interspersed with news footage and horrifying recordings of 911 calls by resident who are trapped in rising water only to be told that there are no rescuers coming. I would also recommend having a large box of Kleenex nearby. 

My own experience with New Orleans was idyllic - during my first year of graduate school a few of us who had interned together the summer prior decided that we would meet there for New Years Eve 2002 and all piled into our friends' Tulane dorm room. The city I saw was graceful and elegant, full of charming restaurants and cafes, a very unique sense of identity and a certain je ne sais quoi amongst its residents which really reverberated in the atmosphere. 

We did spend an inordinate time on Bourbon Street, to which I can only say that I never saw so many body parts, both male and female, on display to get beads, and went to drive-through frozen cocktail joints where the workers were more than happy to recommend which frozen concoction was in fact the strongest, without verifying our IDs. 

But a few blocks away from Bourbon Street and in many other neighborhoods, there were beautiful french-style cafes and small restaurants, I remember one particular Cuban cigar and coffee store which I was particularly fond of and venues playing all sorts of music - jazz, honky-tonk, rockability - until all hours of the morning, and so much more. 

While I suspect most of the calories we consumed were liquid (we were all in our early 20s and didn't know too much better) a few meals do stand out in my mind: 

Eating frozen alligator for the first time in a typical New Orleans joint and finding it really did taste like a mix between chicken and calamari and wasn't all that bad. 

Enjoying an amazing etouffe at a little hole-in-the wall type place when we drove out to the bayou and thinking just how good it was. 

Enjoying coffee and beignets at Cafe du Monde, sitting on their large terrace, people watching to one's heart content and just thinking life didn't get too much better then in that very moment. 

And finally having an amazing meal at Antoine's,  a 160-year-old  New Orleans' establishment where we treated ourselves to a fancy meal. Amongst various recollections, what I clearly remember was the wonderful old-world formality of the service - there is something to be said about a restaurant which values its waitstaff and sees them as colleagues who are also in it for the long-term. My crayfish bisque was amazing, rich and frothy, tasting like the sweet crab-like meat but without being overly creamy, and at the end they made us an entire baked Alaska, lightening it on fire to caramelize the meringue while keeping the ice cream inside smooth, cool, and creamy. It was one of those amazing dishes that keep your palate on its toes to speak, never knowing the texture and temperature of the next morsel. 

I never made it to the 9th Ward - my suggestion to our host that we take the streetcar to Desire was greeted with derision and a flippant "best of luck" for my personal safety should I chose to do so. In retrospect, I really wish I had,  because what really could have happened during the day, and I could have used my best Blanche du Bois line "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." 

I would say next time, but the little that remains of that neighborhood and the changing racial and socio-economic dynamics of the city might make it unlikely that Streetcars run to Desire again. And it is tragic that we are willing to let an entire community unnecessarily suffer through a horrific natural disaster but then do very, very little to help rebuild their lives and neighborhoods. 

I sincerely hope that one time one can laissez-les bon temps rouelez not only on Bourbon Street but all over the city. And until then, I bid New Orleans may deepest a bientot and bon chance. 

Monday afternoon vices

I was reminded yet again during a phone conversation late last night, just how much I am going to miss my current life of leisure. Poverty aside, there is nothing quite as lovely as going to bed on a late Sunday night, knowing that the only thing you really have to do the following day is go to a doctor's appointment. And buy wine for your Tuesday night party. 

There might be, oh, say 40 items on your to-do-before-move list, but clearly many things are best done at the last minute, in a rushed way. Clearly. Plus, there is something to be said about the joys of a quiet Monday spent buying wine, planning a menu for the following evening's soiree, and watching such cinematic classics as What Happens in Vegas. On a non-food related sidebar, the movie was surprisingly cute, and you can turn your brain off the moment you sit down. Ah joyful life of leisure - how I am going to miss you!

My day of leisure began with an early morning  Hurenfruehstuck, followed by a toasted  Zingermans bagel (the Parmesan and black pepper is by far my favorite) with cream cheese, and then some bulghur pilaf and Swiss chard salad for lunch. All in all pretty healthy. 

And now, I am enjoying one of the few vices that I have. Okay, that's a lie. One of the many, many vices, but food-wise, truly one of the few. I know it is not good for me. And yet, there is that intangible pull it has on my taste buds that I have to enjoy every now and then.*

What is this magic delicacy you might ask yourself? Slices of pata negra served with the baguette flown in from my old bakery? Hand-cut french fries with homemade mayonnaise, raw eggs and all?** A glass of France's finest wine and and some cheeses such as  a generous slice of Morbier rounded off with a nice wedge of Fourme d'Ambert and some Crottin de Chavignol  served with a glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape from La Bastide St. Dominique, that my friend Veronique's parents make themselves? 

My own secret vice is a tad more provincial/affordable and very, very mundane: 

A can of ice cold regular Coke.  

If an old fashioned glass bottle is available, you have hit the jackpot, but otherwise it must be in a can and not from a plastic bottle. Certainly not Pepsi, and definitely not Diet Coke, but regular ole' straight-out-of-the-fridge-served-on-ice-with-a-straw Coke. 

Growing up my parents would rarely (if ever) let my brother and I drink soda or eat junk food. In retrospect, it might be a great way to raise children. However at the time, I felt like the weird little girl with the weird name and the weird spinach pie for lunch. Ethnic hadn't quite become "in" until well after I left high school. And no, I am not bitter. 

I have since learned to deal with my inexplicable pull towards Cool Ranch Doritos, which I know really do taste awful and literally chemical. Yet once in a blue moon, just the smell of one brings back a flood of overwhelming childhood memories. I find myself in a frenzied daze either looking down at an empty bowl of chips at at someones party (very, very embarrassing) or a crumbled bag from the vending machine with every drop drained. Fortunately, my friends rarely serve Cool Ranch Doritos, and much like an alcoholic can never drink, so too should I never get near those chips. 

My relationship with Coke is less dysfunctional.  Somehow sweet sweet Coca Cola still has that zing for me and puts me in a good mood every time. It is the ultimate kick of carbonated sugary hydration and caffeine. What could be possibly wrong with that? 

Always Yours. 

*"every now and then" = approximately once a week. 

**  For those of you tsk tsking the addition of mayo to what is already a fatty little treat, let me say you don't know what you are missing. Especially if the fries are just big wedges of British chips doused in salt and vinegar. The Germans have a great saying, "wenn schon, denn schon," meaning if you're going to do it, you might as well do it all the way. Which might be one way of summing up both my Weltanschauung as well as recent diagnosis of hypertension. Hence the reduction of food-vices. 

*** Does anyone else find it fantastic that French AOC cheeses all have their own website? Surely there are better ways one could spend one's time then to browse such websites, yet only in France would they value their terroir as much, and you have to give them credit for not letting their food culture be swept up in a wave of global trends. 

Blogging

I resisted blogging for a long, long time, preferring to send impersonal group "update" messages from the various countries I was in about shenanigans, travel, and so on than actually publishing a website for the greater Internet community to hear from my oh-so-interesting inner monologue about about my oh-so-interesting life.

Ironically it is now, when my life has been at its most mundane (living in my parents' basement, in the town I grew up in, on unpaid leave), that the urge to write has been incessant. And I like to write about things I enjoy. And one thing I enjoy most is food. 

When I reflect on various highlights of my life, I most clearly remember the first Sauerbraten my host mom Angie made the year I was an exchange student in the village of Ruderting (600 inhabitants, I was probably the token non-Bavarian), the stuffed Turkish bell peppers my friend Anita and I cooked for Thanksgiving my junior year abroad in Paris, the first actual Thanksgiving turkey I cooked all by myself in Berlin (amazingly tender, a very possible reflection of the fact that I was in love ), the first meal I cooked for myself in Islamabad constructed entirely from goods from the Commissary (I believe frozen spinach, canned tomatoes and pasta were involved, as was a healthy dose of wine. The meal is pictured above.) And I could go on, and on, and on. . . 

For me food is memory. For better or worse, it is how I remember events in my life. And cooking is what I turn to when I need a stress relief, or just to enjoy the shear joy of touching fresh ingredients. And now that I have some fundamental and scary changes, cooking and food are going to be extremely useful both in terms of helping me look forward, cope with the corresponding anxiety, help me come to terms with the past, and remember those moments when life was happy, my stomach full, and tout etait bien.

So enjoy the blog as much or as little as you like. I would love to get feedback on the recipes as well as hear about your own experiences with food, but if you find it trite or dull, ben alors, personne ne sois obligee de le lire. However if there was/is someone who could tell me how to do umlauts and accents on letters, I would, naturally be eternally grateful. And my inner language nerd would sleep better at night.

Yours always,

E. 

PS - the francophone influence (both linguistic and in dishes to come) stems from the fact that while I did grow up with amazing food around me, I really started cooking for myself the year I studied in Paris (1999 - 2000) and for the first time lived in an apartment right behind the Place des Vosges with my friend Caroline. In my experience, food and cooking are fundamentally linked with that first experience of trying to be an adult and fending for myself. 

Hunkar Begendi - Sultan's Delight

Hunkar Begendi or Sultan's Delight in Turkish, refers to one of my all-time favorite dishes to cook and to eat. Hence the name of this blog. The dish, like many Ottoman dishes, has two stories associated with it, neither one of which has been verified. 

The first story says that the court chefs created the recipe for Sultan Murad IV in the early 17th Century. The Sultan enjoyed the meal so much that it was named Hunkar Begendi, literally translated as the Sultan liked it. The second story says the dish was named in honor of Empress Eugenie, the wife of Napoleon III. The pair visited the Ottoman Court in 1869, and sampled a dish which the Empress was immediately enamoured of. She had her personal chef go to the kitchen with measuring scales and notebook in hand, only to have the poor fellow thrown out by chefs who said a true recipe cannot be quantified. The Ottoman court was nonetheless so impressed by the Empresses liking of the dish, that it was named Hunkar (a gender-neutral word in Turkish for Sultan) Begendi. 

While finding their delivery a tad harsh, I would tend to agree with the chefs. True recipes, true cooking is not an exact science. So much depends on the very moment of cooking: the freshness of the ingredients, the cook's palate on that day, climate, mood, etc., etc. . . To cook, and to cook well for others means using all of your senses to create and refine an individual dish, which can never truly be replicated. 

That being said, here is how I usually make my Hunkar Begendi: 

Roast 2 large sized eggplants/aubergines in a well heated oven at 400F. 

(There are many different ways people prefer to roast their eggplants, and in Turkey the preferred method is to literally char grill the vegetable in and over an open fire. While this does increase the smokiness of the eggplant, it can also be messy and a tad dangerous. I prefer the lazy option of cutting the eggplants in half, placing them cut sized down on a lightly-oiled baking pan, and roasting the hell out of them. The skin can and should char in a few places, and you have to wait until the eggplant is completely cooked through and very soft.)

Gently peel the eggplants and put the cooked vegetable in a bowl on the side, mashing up any bits that are not already in pureed form. 

Saute some 1/2 a chopped onion and 3 - 4 cloves sliced garlic in olive oil in a heavy bottomed pan, until both are cooked through and translucent. It is better to slightly overcook and caramelize the mixture then to under cook it. Add approximately 1 - 1 1/2 pounds diced lamb shoulder (without too much of the fat removed) and braise meat on each side over high heat. Reduce the heat, adding approximately 1/2 cup chopped tomatoes, Turkish red pepper, and salt and pepper to taste to the mixture. Cover the mixture and let stew very, very slowly over low heat until meat is extremely tender, at least 1 hour. If you find that too much of the liquid is being absorbed during cooking, add water a few tablespoons at a time to rehydrate the meat. 

(For the less squeamish, the stew is excellent when prepared with veal, for the more squeamish, a very tender cut of beef works just as well.)

While the meat is cooking, make a basic bechamel sauce in a large frying pan or wok by melting approximately 4 tablespoons of butter  and a 4 tablespoons flour. Cook the flour through until it starts turning a light golden brown, and slowly whisk in approximately 1/2 cup milk. Once the mixture is smooth, add the reserved cooked eggplant and fold together. Add approximately 1/3 cup grated Kashar cheese, a hard sheep's-milk cheese from Turkey. Any hard and fairly mild sheep's or cow's milk cheese can be used. 

To serve the dish, spread the eggplant puree generously over a dinner plate. Spoon the lamb stew on top of the eggplant, et voila, bon appetite! 

Here is a picture courtesy of blog I found featuring some great Turkish recipes. Once I locate one, I will also add a picture of my mother's cafe's, Ayse's Cafe, version, which is consistently spectacular. 

Weekday morning breakfasts

I once lived with a German gal, E., who taught me the charming term for what has since become my default breakfast - 

A strong cup/pot of coffee with milk

Cigarettes

E. called it a Hurenfruehstuck, I'll let those of you multilingual or net-savvy readers figure out what it means. . . 

But it provides one heck of an adrenaline kick to start the day with, as well as a very quick means to, ahem, cleanse/purify the system. So to speak.