I saw two women in an Istanbul restaurant using a thin rolling pin to roll pastry for gozleme, a thin flat pastry folded over various fillings. A very tasty and simple dish, something I think I could make. So when I saw a rolling pin in Amasra, a pretty town on the Black Sea, I bought one ( 2 Turkish lira, 1 AUD).
Later when visiting the old fort overlooking the town, eight Turkish women our age had engaged Sharon in a hand signal conversation when I entered the fray. I whipped the rolling pin from my bag like a sword from a scabbard and began miming the rolling of pastry.
“Gozleme,” I said smiling, pouting my lips and rubbing my fingers and thumb near my mouth.
They began to laugh and said things which we took to mean that Sharon did the cooking. One woman placed her hands wide beside her hips and pointed to me, chewing at the same time an imaginary gozleme. Another puffed up her cheeks and poked out her already large belly. Then another got in on the act and pointing to the rolling pin began to beat the air in my direction, flailing the air either side of me while her seven companions and Sharon took great delight in my torture. Men don’t belong in the kitchen in Turkey.
