in which I outdo myself in levels of nerdiness

I've commented before that returning to the U.S. after my stint in Turkey hasn't been as difficult a transition as it could have been. I managed to bypass a lot of the unpleasant self-loathing, the alarming bad moods, and the extreme restlessness I experienced post-France. I miss Istanbul a lot, and I regularly think about my roommates, friends, and (surprisingly,) my job with great fondness. Watching Mad Men with one of my coworkers in our school's media center was awesome. Watching my female students blush and gossip about me and said coworker in the elevator was even more amusing. I never imagined I would, but I miss the call to prayer, the ezan, so much that I've favorite-d an Istanbul version of it on youtube so I can listen to it whenever I need to. (NB: It's pretty shitty quality, but that seems fitting since with the exception of time spent at Aydın's house, I never lived very close to a mosque.) 

I miss the music, too, and the hordes of guido-esque men roaming the streets in their leather jackets and fountains of cheap cologne. (In Turkish, they're called Apache, because they usually have bizarre, spiky haircuts and that somehow relates to the Turkish knowledge of Native Americans...?)

Those are all things I can deal with, though. What I miss and can't deal with is my insane longing for Turkish food. I would happily pay $10 for a bowl of the $2 tomato/egg stew and half a loaf of bread I ate for lunch at least three times a week at the café by my apartment. I would pay extra for a cup of Turkish tea - which I'm not crazy about and the café owner usually spotted me for being the neighborhood oddity - and tip 20%. I have eggplant, bell peppers and plain "Greek" yogurt on my permanent grocery list these days, but it's just not the same.

And now I'm going to reveal something very personal and probably very weird.
I'm obsessed with yogurt. Not just any yogurt. I'm obsessed with the cheap, ubiquitous, number one brand of yogurt in Turkey: Sütaş. I was repulsed at first by how frequently (and in my American brain, inappropriately) Turks use it, but it didn't take long for my lifelong conversion to to take root. A quart of the good stuff goes for about $1.50 in most supermarkets in Istanbul, and I think I probably bought at least three containers a week for the apartment. Which is not to say that one of my roommates didn't supplement on her own - she did.

Contrary to what you might think, Turkish people don't eat hummus as a condiment. They don't eat hummus at all, unless they're at a "foreign" restaurant, or own restaurants and are catering to tourists who don't know better. (Falafel also makes that list.) They do like their ketchup and much to my dismay, enjoy more than their fair share of mayonnaise, but the ultimate Turkish condiment is (plain, full fat) yogurt. So much so that I'm sure it wouldn't occur to them to label it a condiment, as much as its own food group. They'll put it on pasta. They'll put it on chicken. They'll put it on a salad. They'll put it on any roasted vegetable you could imagine. They'll put in on their massive, heaven-sent baked potatoes. Soup, too. Hell - they mix it with water and salt and drink it. After tea, it's the national drink: ayran (and it's foul).

I need yogurt. I need it like an orchid needs obsessive, careful tending. But I can't seem to find any that live up to my cheap, blue tub. I've gone on a taste-testing mission. No joke.

 

this was my natural instinct, and something I bought before I moved to Turkey. I buy most of my groceries at Trader Joe's and it seemed like the easiest choice. It's too sweet and way too creamy. It's just not wet enough.  

 

this was promising because I bought it at an Armenian market, and the little old Armenian man did a sugar content check for me - this one had the lowest. It was disappointingly bland. No mouth-puckering tartness. FOR SHAME.

 

I admit I'd never heard of Chobani until the millions of commercials of theirs I saw during the Olympics. (So, money well spent, Sir.) Chobani was founded by a Turk, and the word actually means shepherd in Turkish (çobanı). So you'd think it would taste more Turkish, but even the plain version doesn't. Too much sugar for the average American consumer. Boo.

 

 I am a sucker for beautiful packaging, and this guy lured me in with its looks alone. And then I read the description, and I mentally wet myself. Icelandic yogurt. Made by some yahoo named Siggi. What's not to love? Unsurprisingly, this was the most expensive yogurt I've bought on my quest, and also happens to be the least sweet, despite the supposed presence of agave nectar (and no perceptible hint of vanilla, other than the tiny black specks). It's got a sharp tart zing to it that I love, and it's not so creamy that I think I'm eating dessert, which I probably should? It's close. But it's not quite there.

Again, I was a fool for packaging and fell for that mighty sweet beard Poseison's sporting here. Unfortunately, this yogurt was one of my least favorite. Chalky and thick without any redeeming punch.

I found this "treasure" browsing the not inconsiderable yogurt section at Whole Foods a few weeks ago. I'm a major fan of figs, but don't necessarily associate them with dairy, so I thought I'd give it a go. This was so viscous, so flavorless, and the tiny bits of figs so obviously chopped up dried figs that I had to consciously choke it down. Waste not, want... a lot. No tang. Just gross.

The next step was obvious, but not to me. I told some friends about my little project, and lovely Laura stepped up to the plate and gave me some rather glaring advice. I should probably just get off my ass and make my own damn yogurt. No sugar would mean unmasked tang (band name?) - not to mention saving a pretty penny. Laura directed me to her family's recipe and I spent a very interesting evening fretting over nonexistent threats of botulism (thanks, Randall), and got to test my mom's still-in-the-package candy thermometer. Due to the fact that I'm a numbskull, I didn't know we had a cheese cloth lurking in a cupboard somewhere, so I used a very finely woven (new) dish cloth to strain the yogurt from the whey and ended up... overstraining. So while my homemade stuff is delicious, it's too creamy. Not wet enough, either. Next time. Next time, it'll be Sütaş.

 My eggplant craves its lover's embrace.

(sideline moral of the story: when it says "strained Greek yogurt" like that's a novel, marketable feature - it's total bung. All Greek style yogurt is strained. Otherwise you'd be eating thick milk.)