I would never change my childhood for anyone, especially today's wealthy but virtual, magnificent but artificial lives, despite all the pain and poverty I went through! In our childhood, primary schools were full-day as they are now. We went to school in the morning, did three lessons until noon, and went home for lunch. We'd come back after dinner and do two more lessons.
On cold winter days, I almost looked forward to lunch break. Because we would get hungrier in the cold, our family elders also knew this and they must have experienced it, they used to cook meals to keep us full and give us energy in winter.
It was the year I just started school. One day we went out for lunch again. I ran the distance of about a hundred meters between my school and our house and reached home.
I was hungry and cold. As I always do, I turned the knob of the opening door leaf and threw myself into the courtyard. All of a sudden, I saw that our furnace in the garden was burning with great fervor. In the furnace, the pyrene bushes appeared and disappeared among the flames, but they burned, flaming and crackling. Joyfully, I burst into the house. The oven was lit for us, at least there was pies on the lunch menu!
My mother, grandmother, aunt and aunt in the place called Volta of our house; I saw him do something in a hurry. As I approached, I found some of them grinding wheat with a hand mill around a dough trough, some of them darkening dough, some of them making balls on a dough board and rolling out dough, and some of them dividing the dough into small pieces, turning them into mint-size balls and rubbing them! My joy increased even more.
Suddenly I was cold, I forgot my hunger. Because our mothers would make us pastries and we would eat them with great pleasure. My mother was laying out the phyllo dough she was opening on a tray next to her, and spreading the pastry dough she had prepared before, a mixture of nettle, spring onion, dill, parsley, olive oil and egg, on each phyllo. When the pastry writing was done, he headed for the door with the tray, followed by me! He was going to the village bakery in the garden. He placed the tray in his hand on the well stone next to the oven. He took the long-handled fire shovel against the wall, collected the burning coals to the right inner wall of the furnace, and swept the remaining embers and ashes from the floor in the same direction with the furnace broom. He rubbed the pastry tray with the help of an oven shovel in this area he had cleaned, and closed the oven door.
As I thought about the food, my impatience increased, and my hunger began to rise with the smell of the pastry being cooked. At that time, my other brothers appeared at the street door. Sensing that we are all very hungry, my mother said, "Come, let the children go and make juice with you until the pastry is cooked and set the table." That half an hour seemed so long to me!
As I remember, my throat gets knotted, my eyes get moist, every time I hear the smell of my mother mixing with the smell of the pastry, I feel sad!
I grew up without you darling - Poetry
random lines or false shots,
A granite-tiled sound tank and,
The absence of you hanging from the bottom shelf of my limbs.
We also have a story, actually.
We live, love, and even die in silence.
No one knows when we die.
I think floral prints would suit you very well,
Then your hands must be henna, your eyes must be smeared,
You should wait for me by a window as if you are waiting for those who come from abroad.
I know;
I am a dream that does not stop by intercity bus terminals,
I'm as remote a possibility as a night traveler, and moreover, I'm banned.
Maybe we shoot ourselves with our serial conscientious weapons,
But we have an innocent point,
We did not touch each other.
Loving you was like pencil drawing,
Darkly shaded and hidden.
I have simple, passive and faint steps,
Despite my white shirt and stubble.
Do you know what is the biggest revolution,
Kissing is illegal.
In those childhood days spent around the heated garden oven with olive wood and bush, my mother used to cook us such a variety of delicious and beautiful dishes, which one should I tell you about! Hand-milled wheat, lamb meat, stinging nettle soup made with corn flour and butter, sweets made with sugar, sheep's milk chewing gum and cloves, and many more!
In the garden of our house, whatever you look for according to the season, you can find it. My mother; he would surely plant and grow something in the garden every season. The taste of the salad we gathered from the garden, made from the sprouts of broad bean leaves, green onions and lettuce, with plenty of olive oil, could not be satisfied.
A short longing letter for those who want to return to their childhood. Live with love and happiness.
