I was beginning to think that this dismal city has sucked the life out of my cooking because nothing I spend a lot of time making comes out that good (whoa, sounds eerily like what I said about my short-lived newspaper experience…), or comes out just plain bad.
Until I had a drunken epiphany very early this morning: Chicken is not pork. You cannot cook chicken all day long like you can pork. Like I could do with all the beautiful pork I’d find in Spain.
Chicken becomes stringy, bland, and overcooking leeches every bit of the flavour out of everything around it. Unlike pork, which gets tender and succulent, absorbing each distinct flavour into bursts of wonderfulness. Obviously, there is no pork here. And, it is very clear that chicken is not even close to being a substitute. The first step is identifying the problem, the second step is getting the hell out of dodge.
Which leads me to my second point that Istanbul is like a bad boyfriend. You know when you are with a really sucky person who does not identify any of your wonderful qualities, treats you bad, takes advantage of your weaknesses and is generally disagreeable yet you continue to give the person the benefit of the doubt and numerous second chances? Well, I have had it. No more chances for Istanbul; we are officially broken up. Now if only I could move out of his house…