Tempest in a Teapot
a personal teaching anecdote
By:
Füsun Atalay Copyright © 2004

Recently I was asked to cover a grade seven French class during the first period as the regular teacher was involved in a fender bender on her way to school. These requests for emergency substitutions, as their name implies, are made at the last minute, and consequently one has to run around trying to find the work left by the regular teacher for such unexpected circumstances.

I ran to the workroom for the French department where, I was instructed, the work should have been left in the top drawer of the gray filing cabinet with the teacher’s name and the heading "Plans d'enseignement de Suppléance". As usually is the case, there was no such work. Sometimes teachers don’t expect to be absent under any circumstances either because of their dedication to this honourable profession, or because of trying to live up to the society’s misconceptions that they are infallible.

A colleague of Mme Poirier calmed me down saying that it was an easy morning. Students were to complete their portfolio work by the end of the day, so most of them would be working on that first period. Some who may have finished theirs could read their novels.

The class room, a 15 foot by 15 foot square of faded vinyl tile covered box was decorated with Halloween paraphernalia although there were still two-and-a-half weeks to the trick or treat day. Silhouettes of witches on their broomsticks and plastic pumpkins decorated the walls.

Pumpkin shaped candles, stretched out cotton hanging over the blackboard, tiny night bulbs in the shape of skeletons strung on a long cord framing the board certainly created the eerie effect associated with this day. My first thought was, "This looks just like an elementary school room."

Then I reminded myself that nowadays not much difference exists between the attitudes and behaviours of elementary and middle school children since neither act their appropriate ages.

As soon I opened the door and let the students in, I was bombarded with the dreaded question in the face of the obvious.

"Miss, are you a sub?"

"A sub" means that they will try to do everything not permitted by their regular teacher to see if they can get away with it with the sub. There is no way to know the parameters by which a teacher operates. Does s/he allow them to go their lockers during class? Can they work in pairs? May some go to the library to complete their work on the computer? Are bathroom visits permitted before recess?

No matter how many times I promise myself that I will be strict for the sake of my own sanity, my soft side takes over when a student begs me for one of the above. After all, if s/he doesn’t have one item needed for work, what is the point of denying access it so that s/he can work? Or, if the task was started on the computer and today is the deadline why not allow work in the library? Bathroom? Who am I to say "Too bad, sit down and wait until recess!"

Soon, before I knew it I had written a note asking the librarian to permit six students (maximum number without a teacher’s presence as I was to learn later) to work there; four had dashed off to their lockers to fetch coloring pencils or the first part of their portfolios and two girls had paired off and one scrawny boy with thick glasses had barely made it to the bathroom ,leaving the remaining twenty to work silently on their own.

That’s when another French teacher dropped in to read the names of fourteen students who had overdue library books, and the librarian wanted them right away to speak to them. The fourteen left in a flurry. Of the four who had gone to their lockers, two came back empty handed saying they thought their work was there but it wasn’t. A familiar line. It was just an excuse to get out of class, and I should have known better, but too late now. Then the overdue book culprits started trickling back one by one. Fifth student who returned had some news for me.

"Miss, four of them are not even using the computers, they’re just sitting at the tables, so why can’t me and Melanie go instead? I really have to work at the computer."

That sounded like a reasonable request. But no sooner than he finished his words, five other students surrounded my desk asking the same. That meant another note to Mrs. Porter asking to send the four who were there under false pretenses back, and in their place allow the five bearing the note to work there.

Two minutes later the same five I sent came back with a note from the librarian. "All six are now at the computers. I cannot allow any more as I have the max. no. allowed without a teacher".

Meanwhile, the noise level had gone up and I had to get that under control. The disappointed five returned to their seats without much intention to work. As I got their attention and asked them to bring the noise down to work effectively, the scrawny boy with thick glasses put up his hand.

I was ready to help anyone who asked for it. But his wasn’t a request for help. In an indiscernible, broken French he was trying to say something. I thought we could bend the rules a little and told him,

"Tu peut parler Anglais "

He was asking if I could turn off the flashing skeletons, because they should really wait for Halloween to have the special effects. To this another girl objected in a very fast spoken , indiscernible in yet a different way, French. Of her I had to demand,

"Parle Anglais!"

What does one do when students begin taking over and telling contradictory stories about their teacher’s habits? "Mme P. lets us talk when we work." Or, "Mme P. never lets us go to our lockers, how come you let Marc-Andre go?"

I keep telling myself that next time I will be strict and not let anyone move. No talking, no lockers, no library, no partners! I don’t care if they think I am one of those witches whose crooked nosed, bony fingered silhouettes hang from the windows. At least that will be far better than trying to calm the tempest that being an understanding, sympathetic and compassionate teacher can create.

Next time, did I say? Hmmm. . . At this rate, I wonder if there will be a next time.

Copyrighted Material ~ Copyright © 2004 ~ All Rights belong to Füsun Atalay

A Small Sacrifice

a short story

By:
Füsun Atalay
Copyright 1998 ©

I remember Mother always walking around in her high heeled shoes- even inside the house. She had the most beautiful shoes I’d seen in my life; and she took good care of them. At least a dozen shoe trees were placed meticulously inside her soft, Italian leather footwear when they weren’t worn. She had beige suede shoes, shiny patent leather pumps, multi toned snake, silver sparkly sling backs and even a midnight blue satin pair to complete an evening dress made of the same fine fabric. She was very proud of the small size of her feet and maintained that small feet on a woman were indicative of elegance and beauty.

Once, she had read in a Paris Match magazine that Brigitte Bardot boasted of her petite five-and-a-half shoe size. "Huh!" I remember Mother scoffing. "She thinks that’s petite? I wear size five!"

Father had humored her, "Well, honey, we should certainly display your tiny, elegant feet in Eaton’s front window."

I used to admire and wonder how she managed to parade around the spacious house all day in her heels and not fall down or sprain an ankle . I’d tried walking with her open toed red stilettos once. She was shopping, I think, and I challenged my sister to sneak into Mother’s room and attire ourselves in her clothes and shoes for fun.

I’d sensed an extraordinary thrill the first time I slipped into her high heels, the ultimate symbol of femininity. However, our feet didn’t quite measure up. Mine took up only three quarters of a shoe and Annie’s perhaps a half. We tried strutting around, wiggling our hips in a coquettish fashion and dragged our feet rather than float gracefully as we’d seen Mother do so often. After twisting our ankles a few times and sagging the footwear in the middle, we decided to place them back on her shoe rack, lest we broke a heel and got Mother angry at us.

The failure of that attempt was not enough to discourage me and Annie, who followed my lead, from further experiments with our quest for femininity. We tried placing wooden picture-puzzle cubes in our own shoes to look like we were taller. Stepping on the hard edges cut into our tender heels, and that one soon became a short-lived experiment.

During our fascination with high heels also came a period when we were intrigued by breasts.

When Mother held her Wednesday afternoon tea parties, Annie and I used to peek through the keyhole of the garden room and pick our favorite lady whom we wanted to look like when we grew up. I was usually partial for the brunettes with wavy hair and lots of jewelry. Annie’s favorite was a red haired lady with a protruding belly. She claimed her face was the prettiest.

Their fashionable clothes accentuated and occasionally revealed their round bosoms. I convinced Annie that we could look like them too.

was happy that we’d developed an appetite for oranges and apples which we had snubbed for a long time in favor of cookies and cakes. We began snitching a couple of each every day and hurrying back to our playroom. Then we placed a pair under our sweaters or undershirts and stood in front of the mirror admiring the miraculous transformation from the front and side views. There was such a thrill to having instant boobs. I didn't know how I could lived without them anymore. I was addicted to oranges, in a manner of speaking!

Annie and I invented games in which we pretended to have our tea parties and, as we sat on our play chairs lifting miniature tea cups to our lips, we repeated what we had heard from the adults.

We talked about the sad state of the world, the rising prices of meat, the mortal pain of childbirth and the impossibility of finding good help those days. We addressed each other as "Darling" and adopted pseudonyms. Annie would be Olivia and I, Miranda. Occasionally one of us had to readjust a slipping orange or a sagging apple, but neither of us took note of that. It was an act as natural as breathing or scratching our nose .

Mother had started complaining of headaches and dizzy spells. She started spending more time in bed resting with a cold towel draped over her temples. It was frustrating for her to remain inactive, for she was a woman of action. She liked attending meetings at the city council, the neighborhood association, P.T.A. ; and enjoying afternoon tea with her friends. She also took pride in being a good mother who spent quality time with me and my sister.

Since her discomforts started, however, we were left in the care of a hired nanny to look after our meals and chaperone us to the park. Annie and I could sense Mother’s unhappiness with the state of affairs. Father, too, seemed very concerned so he called in a renown physician to attend to her

Mother had to stop wearing high heels. Stuffing her feet into those pointy shoes was impeding circulation of her blood and supply of oxygen to her brain. She was not a sleek woman by any standard. Soft, fair and pleasantly plump, she was the paradigm of the classic female figure. She was fashion conscious and concerned about appearances .

This prognosis was a big blow to her.

Father tried to make light of it by joking that at least her condition was not due to a brain tumor or some other incurable illness. She should at least try the good doctor’s suggestion and see if it worked. Annie and I looked at each other puzzled not knowing what a tumor was .

Next day, there was a delivery at the door. Our nanny signed for it. It was for Mother. We rushed the package to her room and awaited anxiously to see what was in it. She pulled out the pink ribbon and gently tore the pink, white and silver wrapping to uncover a rectangular box. In it was the most beautiful pair of burgundy, cushiony velvet slippers with white feather trimmings. The note read:

"It’s not the wrapping I care for; it’s You!

Love, H."

That was so thoughtful of Father!

Doctor Holm was right. Within a week of slipping into her mules Mother’s headaches and dizzy spells vanished. She was her old cheerful self again, although she insisted that she felt a lot shorter than she actually was. The house was also quieter without the sound of her clanging heels, tattling her whereabouts.

Annie and I were back to our carefree play world, stuffing fruits in our shirts and Lego pieces into our shoes. One day I decided that we needed some color on our face. After a momentary silence we yelled out simultaneously, "Lipstick!" and ran to Mother’s room as if we were on cue.

Mother had gone out to order our Christmas turkey. Like children in a candy store, we were full of delight and greed. I immediately picked a cherry red and Annie settled for the dark pink color. We smeared our lips generously first puckering and then rubbing them back and forth over each other just like we’d seen Mother do.

Then I rubbed my index finger on then I rubbed on the lipstick and applied some color on my cheeks. Annie copied my action without delay. Our lips looked fuller than their usual size because we’d gone over our natural lip line. The faces in the mirror looked nothing like our own at all. Maybe we’d gone overboard a bit; so I suggested we wipe some of the rouge off. A lace trimmed handkerchief next to the ivory jewelry box caught our eyes.

"You first," challenged Annie. I obliged, boldly. Then she pulled it from me and wiped her mouth. When I saw the soiled kerchief she handed back, I started feeling a little uneasy about what we’d done, so I said we go and wash the rest from our face with soap and water before Mother came back. We returned the lipsticks back to the ornate maquillage tray and turned toward the door in a hurry.

I wish that instant could have been captured in celluloid. It must have certainly been a Kodak moment. Mother was standing at the doorway, her eyes and mouth wide open in horror at catching her angels red handed. Annie and I with rouge smeared faces and unevenly sagging breasts which had developed in the few hours since her departure, stared back dumbfounded.

We hadn't heard her return in those soft, padded slippers. She couldn’t have been standing at the door too long, but long enough to catch us at the scene of the crime. Then an orange, rolling out of Annie’s cardigan and stopped right at Mother’s feet, causing her to break the silence with a resounding laughter.

She was a good sport. We weren’t punished for what we did. Instead, Mother said she’d make us up just that once, and we’d have tea with her. Annie and I couldn’t believe our ears! Mother told Annie and then me to stand in front of her as she sat on her velvet cushioned chair at the make-up table. With the expertise of her steady hand, she lined our eyes with black kohl. Then with a large brush she brushed a pink powder on our cheeks and finally painted our lips with the color of our choice. Occasionally she used tissue paper to wipe off the excess color.

Then she opened her jewelry box and took two pairs of dangling earrings- one with green stones and another with gold leaves. We could select the one we wanted. When we looked at the gilded mirror again, what Annie and I saw were quite different from the clownish faces of a while ago. Then Mother led us to the garden room for tea and heart shaped cinnamon cookies.

My sister and I were so happy that afternoon, seeing Mother take part in a conspiracy which none of us would tell our father. The memory of that day when we played grown-up with Mother, was something that’d stay among us girls for the rest of our lives. Annie and I must have had our fill, however, because after that episode, neither of us wanted to put on make up or stuff fruit in our shirts any more.

Mother didn’t wear her mules any more after that day. She tossed them to a corner of her shoe rack and went back to walking around in her high heels again. Her dizzy spells and headaches returned slowly but surely. When they were terribly unbearable, she retired to her room for a few hours with an ice pack and a couple of aspirins. Annie and I felt guilty; but Mother was a good sport about it. She insisted that hers was really a small sacrifice to keep us in line, and make her presence well known around the house.

Copyrighted Material ~ Copyright © 1998 ~ All Rights belong to Füsun Atalay

Flattery ~ a shorty story ~ Fiction

Flattery

by:

Füsun Atalay

Copyright © 2001

Author's Note: I was inspired to write this story after having read similar ones by Somerset Maugham and Geoffrey Archer. As they say, "Imitation is the best form of Flattery". Thus there is a double purpose to my selection of the title for this story. I brought into it not only my own extensive culinary knowledge, but also first hand personal experiences from attending many literary galas of the various Writers' Federations and Guilds of which I have been a member for over a decade.

a short story

Our eyes met over the masses of people who had crowded into the Salle Mont-Blanc on the mezzanine. She did not look totally unfamiliar although at that instant I could not recall where I had seen her before. She reached out to grab a glass from the tray carried by a white gloved waiter in black tuxedo, and started weaving among the chattering crowd towards me with a Cheshire cat smile displaying a perfect row of teeth behind her bright crimson lips.

"Dah-ling, how are you?" she cooed throwing her free arm around me before I had a chance to recollect her name or where I’d met her before.

Her familiar greeting did not help at all since everyone calls everyone else darling at these occasions. We were at the annual awards gala of the Literary Society and it was customary to socialize a bit and get over the jitters with the flow of wine and finger- foods passed around during the cocktail hour preceding the presentations.

She was quite a sight in her long, black velvet dress and several rows of large imitation pearls that dangled down to her waist. Her streaked, shoulder-length hair looked as if it were combed freely; and the charming little curls around her face detracted attention away from the reluctant age lines around her lips and the crows' feet around her eyes.

"I am just fine, and how are you?" I could not help but retort to an unimaginative strategy in reply.

"I see your "Moon Worshippers" is short listed for fiction. Wonderful!" she stopped another waiter and exchanged her already emptied champagne glass for a full one .

"Thanks. And how is the family? " I asked obtusely.

"Oh, what family !" she waved her hand supporting a rather oversized, square ruby in a dismissive manner. "Rodrigue and I are no longer together, you know. I mean, everybody knows. How is Mireille?"

"She’s fine," I replied. "I’ll be joining her in New York next month for her pastel exhibit". There was a brief pause in the conversation as I tried to think of what to say next.

"You don't really remember me, do you?" she asked amused as she wolfed down a mini quiche.

Just then, by some divine intervention, memory came back to me and I replied with a smile,

"How could anyone forget you, Evangeline? You may change your hairstyle, but the eyes never tell lies."

In all honesty, it was the way she had devoured that mini quiche after gulping down the champagne that helped me recall her name in the nick of time.

I had met her a little over two years ago in February during a book signing at Les Mots and continued chatting after I had written brief pleasantries and autographed all the books that were pushed in front of me by my numbered fans. The charming praises she lavished so generously on my novel must’ve made my head spin. After all, which budding new author could pass up such recognition by a lady who turned eyes upon her just by her dazzling presence?

It was approaching one o'clock when the book signing and a brief media interview were completed. It had been a fine morning, but now the real test of success came as I had to wait for the royalties to start rolling in. After having paid my airfare to France to join Mireille for her water colour exhibition, and the month's rent for the little pad we kept on St Denis, I had only a hundred and forty-seven dollars left in my pocket to last me through the next two weeks.

I noticed she was waiting for me, and as soon as I slipped on my coat to leave the book store she floated towards me wearing an alluring smile and a shiny, ankle-length mink..

"How about doing lunch, ?" she asked. "I’d be so honoured to dine with a promising young talent as you, and talk about your Archer's Revenge .

I was taken by surprise and instead of making up an excuse to get out of the proposal, my ego replied without thinking, "The honour would be mine. Did you have any particular spot in mind?"

She hadn’t given much consideration to it but The Torch, she remembered had a light lunch menu that should be agreeable. And besides, they had recently acquired Anton from The Plaza Athena. The names did not mean much to me who was more preoccupied with their budgetary implications rather than their culinary credentials.

The dining room was furnished with plush burgundy carpets, white linen covered tables, gold-rimmed china and sparkling silver. I realized one surely paid for the decor although one did not ingest any of it. There seemed to be too many waiters to attend to one's dining to allow one to relax and enjoy it.

We were shown to an intimate, round table near the fireplace and immediately handed gold embossed, oversized menus by the waiter in white gloves who asked if we would like to take an aperitif. I suspected that, as is the custom in such establishments, the guest's menu did not include the prices, and I bit my lips nervously.

Evangeline wasn’t a picky person. She knew what she liked and went for it right away.

Champagne would suit her just fine. The waiter brought a bottle nestled in ice inside a silver bucket. He poured the bubbly into two champagne glasses and disappeared with a reverent bow. I thought I might as well have some since I had not even planned on a drink of any sort.

Evangeline proposed a toast to my success and we clinked our glasses lightly. She was very animated and talkative mentioning names of people in the publishing business and captains of industry whose titles rang no bells in my mind. Then she went on to talk about Rodrigue, her third husband and his latest documentary project which had taken him to Papua, New Guinea until late spring.

When a lanky waiter appeared out of no where to take our lunch order, Evangeline confessed that she was very particular about her diet. So she ordered the Belgian endive salad with Chablis dressing, to be followed by filet of grilled Arctic Char served with chanterelles and fresh artichoke hearts drizzled with lemon-shallot butter. I swallowed anxiously when I made a quick mental calculation of the total of our luncheon at that stage and my eyes searched desperately for the lowest priced item on the menu.

Finally sensing that I was challenging the patience of the waiter who looked as if he had far more important business to attend to than to be detained by my indecisiveness, I picked a pasta dish whose claim to fame was described as having being lightly tossed with spring vegetables.

"Would Monsieur like a fresh salad or potage du maison?"

I looked straight into his eyes with resolve and assured him, "No, the pasta will suffice."

Evangeline appeared to be amazed at how little I selected to eat. "I have a theory," she was saying when her endives, glistening with the raspberry vinaigrette and sprinkled with fresh dill were served.

"A while ago I read this in a culinary text and I must admit that the source is quite an authority on his subject. She advises that one should eat like a king in the morning; like a queen at lunch; and like a pauper at night. It is much better on the digestive system."

I made up an excuse that I never ate much, if at all, at midday.

"Darling," she continued, "that is when you should fill yourself up so that you can burn all the calories you've acquired before you sleep. Now, I am a late riser myself, so I cannot partake of my king's share in the morning. But dining like a queen at midday and a pauper in the evenings is quite agreeable with me."

I forced a smile and a nod of compliance as I cheerlessly wondered what cruel twist of fate drove me to her at lunch time instead of dinner which might have been more affordable for a pauper like me.

Meanwhile Evangeline dug into her succulent, grilled Arctic Char with the gusto of someone who had not eaten since the night before, and like a pauper at that. My pasta primavera was more palatable than the disdainful expression on the face of the waiter who served it.

"I enjoy a well prepared seafood dish," Evangeline was saying as she wiped her mouth wickedly on the crisp, white, linen napkin where she left imprints of her crimson lips. "One should consume fish at least twice a week, you know." Then she launched into another topic of conversation on the theatre and the latest movies she had enjoyed.

Somehow my instinct had warned me that the queen's meal would not end without a royal dessert, so I tried to prepare myself , as much as I could, for the onslaught of the next round of order. Nevertheless, I could not help entertaining scenarios of my washing the dishes in the kitchens of The Hermitage until my hands turned into prunes in order to pay for the queen's lunch while the bold headline in the Daily Herald announced :

Writer Rights his Wrong !

The waiter, who seemed to know which side his bread was buttered on, inquired deferentially if Madam would like to see the dessert menu. "Would a cat like a canary?" I thought as I grew more uneasy trying to think of a reason why I would not take any sweets myself.

They all sounded scrumptious: Napoleons with fresh whipped cream, peach cobbler with a dollop of vanilla ice cream, chestnut souffle napped in creme Anglaise, a dessert named "Death by Chocolate", and exotic fruits served in chocolate coated tuilles. Evangeline picked the most expansive concoction on the menu: a rum-pecan tart with slivered truffles served over fresh cream au Grand Marnier.

I was beyond shock, more resigned to my fate as it was being shaped by this painted creature whose mouth never stopped. Whether it was to receive food or to disperse lavish compliments on Anton's culinary expertise interspersed with comments on my writing technique, her lips were constantly moving. And all I could do, besides listen with a feigned interest, was try to convince myself that I disliked sweets- especially at midday.

Her hearty laughter caught me off guard when I signalled the arrogant waiter with the intention of asking for the addition. "Oh, you must be a mind reader! I would love a digestif after this wonderful fare."

The waiter who did not look like he was too worried about where his next meal would come from was only too happy to oblige by producing a list of digestifs as if he had been anticipating her request.

Then he looked at me with the same disdainful glance, and hissed, "I suppose Monsieur is not in zi habit of taking a digestif at midday?"

I replied with a confirming smile - if only smiles could kill! "I would, however, like a double espresso," I added. My mouth was dry; I had run out of water and saliva with all the gulping at the sight of the gourmet displays laid out in front of me. Coffee was the cheapest way of wetting my whistle and frankly, I was beyond caring at that point.

"You should get into better eating habits," my guest was advising me. "A sharp mind thrives on a healthy body. If you fill it with unnourishing foods and lethal doses of caffeine, you'll burn your candle at both ends, Darling. Remember the king, queen and pauper theory."

It was difficult at that instant to think of the king and queen, but I could somehow identify easily with the pauper. When she ran out of room in her belly and compliments to bestow upon me, she looked at her platinum watch and announced, "This has been a wonderful luncheon. I am so delighted to have dined with an up and coming talent such as you."

The waiter brought the verdict encased in a leather billfold. Discreetly I placed my hundred dollar note on top of the twenty and the ten dollar bills, and stood up to lead my guest to the vestibule. I really did not want to face the condescending waiter when he saw the paltry change that was left for his tip.

"Thanks again, Darling. Let's do this again sometime soon," Evangeline was saying as she eased herself into her black mink. "I hope by then you'll have another book out to autograph for me. You should also meet Rodrigue- he's such an adorable pussy cat in tiger's skin!"

I saw her out and into the taxi that was awaiting. Then I put my hand in my pocket to feel the ten dollars I was left with and started walking along Somerset Lane contemplating creative ways of stretching it until I flew to join my wife Mireille in Provence where I would probably have my first decent meal in two weeks.

All Rights belong to Füsun Atalay ~ Copyright © 2001

So Much

Füsun Atalay Copyright © 2003

Dedicated to P.D

July 23, 1998

Kindly click on the poem to view a larger version.

Dinner with Appeal

Story and Photos

by:
Füsun Atalay Copyright © 2007

"The banana plant is not a tree; it is actually the world's largest herb!" www.banana.com

Many of us were brought up with the old adage that "An apple a day keeps the doctor away".

Compared to an apple, however, a banana has five times the vitamin A and iron, four times the protein, three times the phosphorus, twice the carbohydrate and other vitamins and minerals. In addition to being a good fibre, potassium and vitamin C source, bananas are also said to contain all the 8 essential amino-acids our body cannot produce by itself. All considered, that makes bananas one of the best health foods around.

Research has proven that two bananas provide enough energy for a strenuous 90-minute workout as they contain sucrose, fructose and glucose as well as fibre. (from "Diabetes-talk" - A Banana A Day - Eileen Scrivani ) A number of studies have also shown that a banana can help prevent or overcome a substantial number of ailments and conditions such as depression, PMS, anaemia, constipation among others.

The vitamin B6 in bananas regulate blood glucose levels which can affect mood. They also contain the natural mood enhancer, tryptophan, which can help sufferers of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). The high potassium- low salt content in bananas is said to make it an ideal fruit for those with high blood pressure.

A banana milkshake, sweetened with honey is recommended as one of the quickest (and tastiest) ways of curing a hangover. This is how it works: The banana calms the stomach and, with the help of the honey, builds up depleted blood sugar levels, while the milk soothes and re-hydrates your system.

As with all good things, however, those of us who are weight - conscious have to monitor our intake of these wonderful tropical fruits as they contain a lot of sugar which contributes to a large portion of the calories from this fruit.

Bananas are always in season and they are available year round. They're also an easy maintenance fruit which don't go to waste since even in their softest, mushiest state they can be used for breads, muffins and blended drinks.

When you buy bananas, choose according to the desired ripeness as indicated by their skin color.

Green bananas are not ready to consume right away but they will ripen at room temperature in three to five days. That's good to know so that you can stock up a little when the fruit is on sale. Fully yellow bananas are ready for immediate consumption as a fruit, in salads or cereals. Bananas with speckled skins are fully ripened —perfect for mashing and using in recipes.

I like to take advantage of very ripe bananas I find at reduced prices on bargain trolleys of the supermarket. At home I peel, cut into chunks and freeze them in zippered freezer bags. A little squeeze of lemon or other citrus juice keeps the soft flesh from browning prematurely. These frozen chunks are excellent for making smoothies or (defrosted) using in baking muffins and banana loaves.

Plantains look like the unrefined cousins of the banana, but they are firmer in texture and lower in sugar content than bananas . Like the banana, they change from green to yellow and to orangish brown as they ripen.

People in the tropical regions of the world use plantains as a staple food. In their under-ripe or over-ripe stages they have a flavor similar to potatoes and sweet potatoes respectively. So, they can be mashed, fried, broiled and grilled, making delicious side dishes with chicken, meat and seafood as well as stand on their own for vegetarian fare and snacks.

* To bake: Rinse and dry plantains (one medium-sized fruit per person). Cut off the tip and stem end. Slit in each fruit lengthwise just through the skin. Place slit-side up in a foil-lined pan and bake at 375°F for about 40 minutes. Serve them whole in lengthwise strips or sliced crosswise in rounds or diagonals. Top with honey, brown sugar, cinnamon, lime juice, or nuts.

* To fry: Peel and cut plantain into thin slices. Arrange slices on a baking sheet and spray lightly on both sides with oil. Bake at 400°F until crisp. Sprinkle with coarse salt and serve as an appetizer, snack or a side dish.

* To boil: Peel and cut each plantain into two or three pieces; boil until tender, and serve as a side dish.

Cream of Plantain soup
4 green plantains, peeled and sliced into rounds
3 Tbsp olive oil
1 large onions cut in half
4 garlic cloves finely chopped
4 cups chicken stock
salt and pepper to taste
3 bay leaves
1 cup whole milk

In a medium saucepan heat the oil and sauté the chopped onions and garlic for a few minutes.

Add the plantains and cook until golden brown, stirring occasionally. Add the chicken stock, salt, pepper and bay leaves and bring to a boil. Lower to a simmer and cook until the plantains are soft.

Transfer the mixture to a blender or food processor and blend until the mixture is creamy and smooth. Return mixture back to the saucepan and add the milk. Bring to a slow boil for about 8 minutes. Season to taste. Serve garnished with parsley or cilantro sprigs.

Plantain curried chicken ~ Serves 8
2 onions, chopped
¼ cup vegetable oil
4 Tbsp flour
1 cup chicken stock
3/4 cup raisins
1 tsp salt
1 seasoned, baked chicken, deboned and cubed
2 ripe plantains, sliced
2 apples, grated
1 ½ Tbsp curry powder
1 Bay leaf
4 Peppercorns
1 cup coconut milk

Fry onions in oil until golden brown. Add flour and mix well. Add chicken stock gradually while stirring. Add the rest of the ingredients, except coconut milk. Cover saucepan and simmer for 20 minutes. Remove bay leaf. Add coconut milk and simmer 5 more minutes. Serve with Basmati rice.

Banana Pecan Loaf
Baking this loaf at a lower temperature prevents the edges from burning .

1 cup sugar
3/4 cup butter, softened at room temperature
½ cup buttermilk
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 ½ cups flour
2 (medium) ripe bananas, mashed
½ cup chopped pecans

Preheat oven to 300°.

Grease a 9 x 5 loaf pan.

Cream butter and sugar well.

Add buttermilk, eggs and vanilla and mix well.

Add salt, baking powder, baking soda, and cinnamon, mixing well.

Slowly add flour, half cup at a time, until well mixed.

Peel bananas, mash and add to mixture.

Add pecans and mix until blended.
Pour batter into prepared pan and bake for 65-70 minutes or until toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Copyrighted Material ~ Copyright © 2007 ~ All Rights belong to Füsun Atalay

A Grain of Truth

Story and Photos

by:

Füsun Atalay Copyright © 2006

A survey suggests most people are unaware of the health benefits of whole grains.

A recent BBC News for World Edition report gave me food for thought. Its Whole Grain for Health survey shows that: 70% per cent of those surveyed were not aware of whole grain health benefits,

* 70 % per cent did not know what whole grain is,
* 77% per cent of those surveyed do not check the ingredients in foods,
* 72% per cent said they would eat more whole grain if they knew the health benefits, and only

* 15% per cent eat three servings — the recommended amount — of whole grain a day.

I like to think that Canadians in general are more aware of the link between good health and whole grains than our British counterparts, yet oftentimes we don’t pay enough attention to what we consume and still reach for the habitual white bread, potatoes, instant rice or oats, and overly processed cereals.

Dr. Susan Jebb, head of nutrition and health research at the Medical Research Council Human Nutrition Research centre (HNR) in Cambridge, U.K., says: "The evidence is compelling that a diet rich in whole grain foods has a protective effect against several forms of cancer and heart disease."

Whole grains are believed to be far superior to refined grains because they contain antioxidants, dietary fibre, protein — particularly the amino acid lysine — dietary minerals, and vitamins such as vitamin E, vitamin B6 and niacin, which are lost in the refining process.

The greatest health benefit of whole grains is thought to be that of its dietary fibre, as it has been shown to reduce the incidence of coronary heart disease, diabetes, certain types of cancer, digestive system diseases and obesity.

The most common grains we know and consume daily are rice, wheat and corn. But there’s a world of grains, such as buckwheat, farro, kasha, spelt, rye and quinoa, to be discovered and enjoyed.

A whole grain is the least processed version of any grain. Grain kernels are made up of three parts: bran, germ and the endosperm. Only a grain that retains its bran, germ and endosperm qualifies as whole grain. Common whole-grain products include oatmeal, brown rice, whole-wheat flour, barley and whole-wheat bread.

White bread, white rice and pasta are products of refined grains which retain only the endosperm and consequently don’t supply the body with the full nutrition of the whole grain. The precious bran and the germ are removed during the refining process, thus taking away with them much of the fibre, minerals, vitamins and antioxidants.

Buying and storing

It is not difficult to identify whole-grain products. One way is to check the ingredient list. If "whole wheat," "rolled oats" or "whole corn" is listed as the first ingredient, the food item is a whole-grain product.

Another way is to look in the nutritional facts information on the package and check if the food itm contains a significant amount of dietary fibre. Always read labels to see that whole grains or whole-grain flour is the first ingredient on the list — many products which look healthy may actually be refined. Many breads are often coloured brown with molasses and look like whole grain, but wheat flour is not a whole grain unless it is specified as whole wheat.

Unfortunately whole grains are more expensive than refined grains because the former have their kernel intact and the healthy oils in the germ render them susceptible to going rancid faster, complicating their processing, transport and storage. Therefore, when you buy whole grains, or whole grain flours, purchase small quantities and store them in an air-tight containers in the fridge. Whole grains such as barley, brown rice, oats and quinoa can be kept in a cool, dry place in an airtight container to stay fresh longer.

Once you try breads, soups, casseroles or salads using whole grains, you’ll quickly acquire a taste for the nutty, chewy, wholesome goodness of these grains. Start by substituting whole grains for their refined versions, whether you are buying products at the supermarket or cooking at home. Buy multigrain or whole-wheat breads. Switch to steel-cut oats instead of instant, and to brown rice instead of white.

Copyrighted Material ~ Copyright © 2006 All Rights belong to Füsun Atalay

Silencing the Ghosts

Fiction
Füsun Atalay © 2000

I come down to the kitchen for coffee and toast. Wanda and Wayne are sitting at the table, rolling their day's supply of cigarettes. They look suspended in time sitting at the kitchen table, facing each other but neither looking at the other.

Wanda has dark circles under her eyes and she's quiet as if she's absorbed in deep thought. With her yellow discoloured thumb, index and middle fingers she picks loose tobacco from the open pouch, places mounds of equal portions on the rice paper and spreads out the contents of the pouch evenly’ rolling the cigarettes with amazing agility. She licks the glued edge securing the tobacco inside, and stacks her treasure in a zip lock bag.

Wayne prepares his with the same precision. This is the highlight of their day. After this Wanda will remain in her seat, occasionally getting up to make herself a cup of instant coffee, then sink back onto her worn out, red-vinyl chair to stare blankly out of the little window by the sink.

"Morning, you two," I chime, hoping to elicit some sign of life from them. Wayne acknowledges my presence with a nod of his head. Wanda doesn't move; she is far away in her own world. Wayne motions a downward spiral with his index finger. I understand. It's time again for Wanda to check herself into the Waterford.

Wanda must weigh close to three hundred pounds, and she exudes an odour of tobacco, sweat and fried food. Wayne differs from her only in his weight. I shudder when an intimate picture of the two flashes through me, but sometimes we have no control over our own minds and what they conjure against our will.

The image disappears almost as instantly as it appeared and I feel annoyed at myself, but I cannot help my bizarre fascination with both.

"Why don't we open the window?" I ask. "It's so nice out- the air's fresh."

Wanda's eyes turn to me briefly but their look suggests that my words didn't register. I point at the spades of Easter lilies and bearded irises grown wild in the little patch of land that passes for the backyard. They survive and multiply in spite of the owner's neglect of this place.

Wayne gets up from his chair and lifts the window as far as it'll go. He's been more responsive lately since he found part time work building cabinets at the Waterford. His pride and slowly building self-esteem are reflected in some of his actions.

"They don't take just nobody," he assured Wanda. "They're picky. " I'm happy for him because the privilege that goes with his skill is a free monthly bus pass. That gives him mobility to go anywhere in the city anytime he wants. It's a new thing for him.

Sometimes he goes out to use his free pass, but he has nowhere to go. He's mobile without a destination, as Wanda's alive without a purpose. They sit in this old, painted clapboard house- in this bare kitchen all day smoking cigarettes, bored, depressed, lost in their own void.

They must eat before I return home, for everyday, the same odour of fried food greets me. I feel nauseous until I get used to it. I think they're awed by my shake and bake chicken, boiled carrots and broccoli.

Sometimes I offer them what little I can afford on my student loan, but they shake their head . Perhaps they're aware of my budget, or perhaps they're not used to diverse food. I feel relieved. The left over will be my lunch the next day.

Wanda has checked herself into the Waterford.

Icould see it coming.

I've grown accustomed to her cycles by now. She goes in, starts her treatments, improves, gets released, continues her medication for a while and then fools herself into believing that she's cured for good. That's when the melancholy and the downward spiral begin and her hidden ghosts sneak up on her until she can no longer endure.

I've seen her smile for brief periods after she comes out of the Waterford. She's affectionate towards Wayne then. When they receive their checks, they go out to eat chips and gravy at Chess's on Freshwater Road.

They return, hand-in-hand, sit on the steps for a while smoking before they enter into the decrepit place we all call home. Sometimes in the middle of my sleep I hear Wanda walking around confined within the impenetrable walls of her enclosure, devoid of sleep. She hardly speaks during those periods- not even to Wayne.

Wayne looks totally lost when Wanda's at the Waterford. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he goes there to build cabinets, but he's not allowed to see her. ards are locked, the patients are allowed out only at mealtimes to congregate at the dining hall. I tell him there is a free Easter concert at the Masonic Temple. He can get there by number 3 bus. He might like it.

He stares back at me as if I've spoken to him in a foreign language. Then, in a delayed response, he mutters that he doesn't understand music without words. I assure him music can be beautiful and soothing when it is free of words that obstruct its purpose.

I want to tell him that instrumental music can liberate his spirit, open the iron doors that've imprisoned his soul and clear the cobwebs in his head. But he's already staring far away at something, at nothing in the distance. I feel enraged. I'm angry at what I cannot name.

Maybe it's me for failing to reach him. I'm mad at myself for not shaking him up from his comatose state and snapping him into some kind of action that resembles living.

"Shit, Wayne! Snap out of it!" I rebel. "You can't go on like this for the rest of your ***** life! How old are you- thirty? Thirty-five? Look at you sitting here unshaven, unwashed, reeking of smoke and grease! Stop feeling sorry for yourself, for Wanda and for your miserable life . . . . and do something about it!"

He wipes a tear with the heel of his palm and reaches out to his medicine bottle- his blessing and his curse. Dave, the previous boarder, told me those pills sedate Wayne into oblivion. That's the only way he can silence his ghosts, escape flashbacks of the accident in which both of his parents perished, and the memories of his grandmother who raised him while she was fighting the cancer that slowly reduced her to skin and bones before claiming her when Wayne was barely sixteen.

What a lousy hand he's been dealt! I wonder if it's better not to know one's parents than to know and lose them in such a horrendous way. We all carry our ghosts in one form or another.

Wanda returns from the Waterford.

The cycle is on again. She looks relaxed, teases Wayne about being a good boy in her absence and smiles bearing her bad teeth. Wayne plants an awkward kiss on her cheek. They go out to buy a case of coke and replenish their tobacco. It's May, nature is bursting with life and new promises. Blue jays and sparrows alight on the solitary spruce in the lot. I've completed my degree and I'm ready to move on.

I cannot wait to leave this miserable place: the decrepit room covered in torn blue wallpaper, creaky narrow bed, splintery desk, the ugly chair. I box my books, my records, my computer and the mismatched plate, fork, spoon, knife and mug. I pack my clothes in the small, worn-out suitcase and load up my car. My sentence is over.

As soon as the landlady shows up, I'll turn in my keys and flee. I sit at the greasy kitchen table, in what's Wanda's chair. The seat has sunken with her weight and conformed to her shape. A dog barks far away in the distance punctuating the existential feeling of the day.

The landlady arrives. She brought a new boarder to rent my room. He goes upstairs to see the place while we settle the account.

Wanda and Wayne return with their case of coke and a plastic shopping bag.

They exchange trivialities with the landlady. Bruce comes down- he'll take the room. I bid goodbye to my companions of the last eighteen months. I wonder how many different faces they've seen and adjusted to in the seven years they've been boarding here. People must've come and gone like waves on a beach. Wanda and Wayne have been the only constant on this shore surviving the storms with the help of their Lithium or Prozac.

They'll succumb to their distraught lives and endure their insignificant presence in time and space on these shores until the day when they'll be no more. I get into my hatchback, roll down the window, turn on the ignition and insert Dvorak's "Ninth Symphony From The New World" into the tape deck.

I catch a sight of Wayne and Wanda standing at the door of the clapboard house, waving goodbye. They remind me of the old couple in "The American Gothic". I honk an acknowledgement and turn up the volume of music to drown my thoughts.

As I drive away, the two figures grow smaller and smaller in my rear view mirror until I'm so faraway from them that they become specs of dust swallowed in the still life I leave behind.


Copyrighted Material ~ Copyright © 2000 All Rights belong to Füsun Atalay