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How to make Turkish Delight

Stacks of Turkish Delight for sale in Bodrum. Photo by David Lansing.

At the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul I saw mounds and mounds of Turkish Delight (lokum in Turkey). But I think the capital of Turkish Delight has to be Bodrum. Walking around the alleyways of the old town you’re assaulted with boxes of Turkish Delight in every flavor imaginable stacked five feet high.

Until the arrival of refined sugar in the late 18th century, lokum meant an amalgam of honey and wheat flour. Then an Istanbul confectioner, Haci Bekir, got his hands on some white sugar and corn flour and began making these jellied sweets we know today as Turkish Delight.

Such was Haci’s fame and acclaim that he was soon appointed chief confectioner at Topkapi Palace. The sweet came to international fame after a delighted British traveler (it’s always the Brits, isn’t it?) took a sample back to England, wowing his mates.

Amazingly, the Istanbul sweet shop, which Haci Bekir opened in 1777, is still doing a roaring trade in lokum. So you can check that out, if you want, or make your own. Here’s a classic recipe for Tukish Delight.

Lokum (Turkish Delight)

1 lb. sugar

2 1/2 cups water

1 tsp. lemon juice

2 tbl. rose-water

2 oz. cornflour

icing sugar

Lay a piece of muslin in a tin and dust it with cornflour. Boil the sugar, water, and lemon juice in a saucepan, stirring constantly. Stir the rose-water in with the flour in a separate bowl then slowly pour the flour into the saucepan, stirring all the while over medium heat. When the mixture thickens to jelly, pour it into the tin and let it cool. Once cool, turn it onto a bench dusted with icing sugar. Cut into squares and cover generously with more icing sugar.

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Phantom jets over Bodrum


Maybe you’ve heard: Turkey and Syria have been squabbling lately. Syria shoots down a Turkish Phantom F4, Syria says it was in their airspace, Turkey sends tanks up to the border, etc., etc.

So we’re at this café on the beach in Bodrum, ordering up some nice cool Efes and some meze dishes, just, you know, kicking back and enjoying a summer day on the water. And BOOM! Out of nowhere comes seven Turkish Air Force Phantom F4s—heading right for our restaurant on the beach.

Dogs howl, babies cry, old ladies faint, and I duck under the table. It’s terrifying. The jets fly so low that I swear I could see the lead pilot’s decal of Ataturk on his helmet. Then they bank hard and fly not more than a hundred feet over the Bodrum castle.

And then they do this again. And again. And again.

For at least half an hour we were bombarded. It was if they were practicing bomb drops on Bodrum harbor. Except without the bombs. Flying low, straight at the beach, the harbor, the castle. Our table shook so much that you had to hold your glass or it would have been knocked over. The dogs couldn’t stand it. I swear I saw several of them go crazy and run off like stampeding cattle, howling madly as they went. Frankly, I felt like doing the same.

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Me behind a Carian statue at the Bodrum castle. Photo by David Lansing.

So at the castle in Bodrum there are all these old canons and amphora and knickknacks from the Bronze age, but for some reason what really fascinated me was seeing some broken statues and bits and pieces of architecture from the Carians.

The Carians were the first known group to take up residence in the Bodrum region. Nobody knows exactly when the Carians first entered the picture but they were here at least a thousand years before JC started making the rounds in the Middle East. You don’t hear much about the Carians these days. But they had some cool characters. One of whom was named Mausolus.

Mausolus ruled the Carians from Bodrum between 377 and 353 BC. He was a big time conqueror, taking part in several wars in and around the region (including capturing several Greek islands). That’s not particularly interesting, I suppose, but this is: He married his sister, Artemisia. And when Mausolus died, his sister (who was now also his widow), ordered a couple of Greek architects, Satyros and Pythis, to build a momument to her brother/husband that would also be his tomb.

Believe it or not, no one had ever thought of that idea before. And so this temple-like structure, decorated with reliefs and statuary on a massive base, was named after the ruler it entombed and called a “mausoleum.” And that’s where we get the word.

By the way, the structure stood for 1700 years. Until an earthquake destroyed it. And now all that’s left of the Mausolus mausoleum is the foundations and few pieces of sculpture. Like the statue I stuck my head on.

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Where god doesn’t exist

Where god doesn't exist: Words chiseled in stone at the entrance to the Castle of St. Peter in Bodrum. Photo by David Lansing.

When Sidar told me over breakfast this morning that we’d be going to the Castle of St Peter this afternoon, I can’t say I was overly excited. I was kind of thinking of just hanging out at the beach today. Maybe sitting at a little waterfront café and ordering mezzes and cold Turkish beers. But Sidar was adamant.

“This is now the greatest underwater archeology museum in the world,” he said with his usual restraint.

I don’t know. An underwater museum? Did I really want to go see that?

“Definitely,” he said.

So we went. We’re walking up the cobblestone path towards a shady courtyard where they have ancient amphoras—those odd shaped earthenware jars used to transport olive oil and wine thousands of years ago—when we come to a passageway leading to the interior of the castle. There’s some writing chiseled in to the stone. I ask Sidar what it says.

“It says this is a place where god doesn’t exist.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Because during the Crusades, the Christians would either kill or capture Muslims and if they were captured, they became slaves. They were brought to this castle to work literally to the death. And so the crusaders wanted the slaves to know there was no hope here. That the minute they crossed under this arch and into the castle, they were entering a place where god didn’t exist.”

Right then I started to get a lot more interested in the castle.

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Bodrum’s windmills

The evocative windmills that overlook Bodrum harbor. Photos by David Lansing.

It was hot yesterday. Somewhere in the mid-90s (or about 70 degrees celcius). And we’d had a long day. Lots of walking about: the harbor, the castle of St. Peter, the shopping district. By four o’clock, I was ready to head back to the hotel and either go for a swim or take a nap. Maybe both. But Sidar, my little Sancho Panza, had other ideas.

“Come on, guys, just one more stop. It will be worth it.”

“Where are you taking us?” I asked him.

“To the windmills. We must see them.”

Like I said, Sidar is a Turkish Sancho Panza.

The outdoor cafe next to the Bodrum windmills.

So up into the hills overlooking Bodrum we went, our taxi bumping over the dusty road. And what is waiting for us at the top of the hill? What looks like a barren dusty parking lot (and maybe it once was) that is now an odd little outdoor café with a dozen or so bent-wood chairs grouped around three or four tables that looks to have been made from scraps of lumber. There’s a little homemade hut, like an old fireworks stand, and an old guy sitting outside on a log smoking a cigarette and, when summoned, bringing beers to a young couple slouched on two of the chairs watching the gulets come in to Bodrum harbor at sunset.

Oh, and the ruins of several stone windmills. The windmills are derelict but evocative. Particularly near sunset. Sidar says they were built sometime in the mid-18th century and were used by the locals to grind flour until the 1970s.

There is a barbed wire fence around the windmills and signs to keep out, but the father of a family with two young kids simply holds up the barbed wire while his family slips inside. The boys, no more than nine or ten, grab stones and throw them at the hapless windmills.

“This first one doesn’t look too bad,” says Sidar, pointing at the windmill furthest out on the point. Indeed, it looks like it’s been recently cleaned and rehabilitated. Sidar says that the local council of monuments plans to restore all of the windmills. “But it will take some time. There is not much money.”

The goal is to give tourists another reason to visit Bodrum. But I don’t know. I kind of like the windmills the way they are now. A little sad and ruined. And I like the no-doubt illegal outdoor café in the parking lot. A place where you can get a cold Efes and watch the Turkish gulets going in and out of the harbor without worrying about someone trying to sell you tourist trinkets.

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