Kindness of Strangers

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

To say we have eaten vast quantities of food while staying with our lovely host family in Istanbul is an understatement. Inci, our Turkish mom, is a fabulous cook, but the portion sizes are gargantuan! We often protest to additional servings, but as her son says, “My mom doesn’t understand ‘enough’ in English or Turkish.” An average weekday dinner is a multi-course affair, something most Americans would only experience during the holidays, always consisting of soup, salad, bread, rice, vegetables, meat and dessert.

Maikael has a way of jinxing meals. “This doesn’t seem like so much,” he says, looking at the gozeleme, a Turkish quesedilla, flopped on his plate, not seeing the other two sizzling in the frypan. “As long as I don’t eat anything else I’ll be fine,” he’ll say while stomaching his final bit of rosewater-laced gulac or gooey baklava. An hour later, Inci will cheerfully ask, “Dondurma?” “As, as,” a little, we demure. Then, great spoonfuls of pistachio ice cream are heaped into glass dishes. One evening we retired to our room after dessert number two, groaning loudly. Then, we heard the jangle of silverware against dishes. Our ears perked up, like a dog who’s heard a cat a mile away, and we shoot each other panicked looks. “Maikael? Elizabeth?” we heard Inci call down the hallway. As we creeped into the kitchen, we saw that each place setting was bedecked with a cornucopia of fruit: bananas, peaches, two different types of grapes, and tart green apples.

It’s an interesting contrast, then, that the end of our time in Turkey fell during Ramazan (also referred to as Ramadan), the ninth month of the Muslim calendar, commemorating the revelation of the Quran to the prophet Mohammed. Muslims renew their faith by fasting from sunrise to sunset for one lunar month, not permitting anything to pass their lips, including food, drink, and cigarettes. We didn’t plan it this way, but we will be passing through the Muslim world during the entire month of Ramazan.

I was a little nervous. Would we be expected to fast, too? Were there special customs we needed to follow? What if we did something wrong and inadvertently offended someone? We watched the news with interest the night before Ramazan started, which contained a 30-minute special segment on the holiday. A doctor was interviewed on how to fast safely (pregnant women shouldn’t do it), and offered tips on how to make it through the day without killing anyone from nicotine withdrawals. They showed footage of the Blue Mosque, Turkey’s most famous mosque, which had a carnival-like atmosphere. Temporary structures, such as sprawling tea gardens, had been erected to minister to the masses that pour into the historic mosque during Ramazan. Inci told us that we wouldn’t be expected to fast (although it is still important to be discreet in public). Our fears were laid to rest…except for one.

I understood that the dinners that followed a day of fasting were often huge. How could the meal possibly be any bigger than Inci’s usual affairs? I was afraid my stomach might split wide open right there at the dinner table. “Are there special meals?” I asked Onur, Inci’s son, trying to be diplomatic. “Not special,” he said, “just bigger.” I gulped. “Like, bigger how?” “Well, instead of one salad, there will be three,” he continued.

Around 4 am the following day, we were awoken by the rhythmic bang of a loud drum. Someone seemed to be parading through the streets in the fashion of a minuteman. Soon the family was up, eating and praying before sunrise “I think it’s starting,” I said sleepily to Maikael, before drifting back to sleep. When we awoke later that morning, the tenor of the household was different than other days. Everyone dozed, conserving their energy, and Inci prepared us a smaller and simpler breakfast than usual, which we felt a little strange eating in front of her, despite her encouragement. When we went out for the day, the restaurants and grocery stores were largely empty, and the world seemed to hum a little quieter than usual.

When we returned home later in the evening, Inci was busy preparing what looked to be a feast. A plate of kofte, grilled beef patties, and French friends were sputtering in a pot of oil, and heaping plates of watermelon, honeydew, and salad already graced the table. Every burner on the stove was occupied by simmering pots. Inci tore off a piece of round bread studded with sesame seeds - special Ramazan bread, she said — and guided me through the long menu.

Onur and his wife, Burcin, came for dinner, and I was relieved when we were allowed to serve ourselves. At the heart of Iftar, a Ramazan dinner, is celebrating blessings, offering hospitality, and sharing a meal with friends and family - biological and otherwise.