Zep's Table: Semolina Halva for a Beloved Grandmother

I love living in Sydney and in many ways it reminds me of the Istanbul of my childhood.

But as the summer hits my calendar and the school holidays begin, a pang of nostalgia starts to build up and I find myself longing to be a student again, finishing yet another school term, on my way to our summer house to enjoy my summer holiday with Canim Ananem (My Dear Maternal Grandmother.)

My grandmother was only 150cm tall and had the smallest feet. Her height was never an issue as she always said "all good things come in small packages." The only thing big about her was her ears, her bosoms and her hearty laughter.

Two of us enjoying a day out on the Bosphorus

She was full of life, energy and laughter. She had a story to relate to every situation and a saying for every lesson that is worth learning in life. She was also an amazing cook and a tailor.

She had an obsession with the arms of any kind of clothing. She would buy a jacket, then rip off the arms and sew them back again. She once undid a whole sweater she had knitted without hesitation because it did not sit right on the arms.

She also was her own toughest critic. She baked and cooked amazing food from scratch, but according to her, it was always never good enough; too salty, not enough salt, cooked too long, did not cook enough, flour was not right, the dough was not as thin as it should be, etc.

She taught me how to read, sew a button, and cross-stitch. She would stay up many nights through the night wiping my arms and legs with vinegar to help reduce my fever. She sewed dresses for my dolls, played games with me, cooked me whatever I craved for, scaled my fish and peeled my apples and never ever complained for having had enough.

I loved putting my head on her lap as she stroked my hair with her cracked fingers and demanding her to tell me the story about how I was born:

"As soon as you were born, the midwife placed you in my arms. You were so little. I bathed you and put the yellow jumpsuit on you. Then we took you home while your mother was recovering from her cesarean. Your granddad would scream from the bedroom, "Ayhan! Ayhan! Quick come here!" And I would run into the bedroom in a panic and he would say "Look she has moved her hand or look she yawned!" He was crazy about you."

Our last summer in our summer house with my grandmother

I had an amazing childhood thanks to my grandmother. I was the apple of her eye and she was my fairy godmother. In our little kingdom everything was beautiful, full of laughter and excitement.

My grandmother died in the end of June last year, merely two months before my flight was scheduled to land in Istanbul. She has been unwell for sometime suffering from dementia. She was 84 years old.

The hardest thing about living overseas is not being there at times like this. If I were in Turkey, I would have had a chance to prepare myself when the doctors told us the inevitable is near, hug my mother and hold my grandfather as he cried, bury her little body, say my goodbyes and be with my family to grieve and have closure.

Instead here I was, on the other end of a telephone trying to register all that was happening. My mother, having the superpower to know what I need even before I realise, advised me there is one very important thing I should do for my grandmother. “Make helva (halva)” she said “and distribute it around.”

See, in Turkey, when a loved one dies, it is a tradition to make halva and share it with everyone who comes to the wake. It is a beautiful ritual where all women gather in the kitchen and every one of them takes a turn stirring the huge pot of halva cooking over the stove while praying for the soul of the loved one who died.

The ones who are waiting for their turn talk, cry, hug and exchange stories about the departed. Then when the halva is cooked and given to the guests, everyone whispers a little prayer and blessing before eating it. The remaining halva is then distributed to all the neighbours.

So, on the seventh day of my grandmother's departure, I woke up at 6am and started cooking my first halva. I cried, prayed, laughed and bid my grandmother farewell. I then turned off the stove, wiped my tears, and took some halva to work to share it with my colleagues and gave some to our neighbours.

In honour of my grandmother's memory, I picked on it when I offered it to people; it is too sweet, not warm enough, not enough cinnamon on top. She would have been proud of me.

Even though halva is the most preferred dessert for a wake, as a little goes a long way, it is not reserved for mourning only. The word helva originates from the Arabic word "halwa" meaning sweet, beautiful. There are many forms of helva, made from semolina, flour or tahini. In Turkey, the tahini helva is almost always bought and never made at home. It accompanies a fish course as a desert. Flour semolina is formed into little balls and served in tea parties.

Semolina halva is by far the easiest one to make and in my opinion it is purely an indulgence for the taste buds. Even before you have the first spoonful, the smell of butter and cinnamon starts to tickle your senses. Then the sweetness starts to ooze into your tongue and fills your mouth with a piece of heaven. Then a little roasted pine nut catches you by surprise as you bite into it, as you savour the contradiction of crunchiness of the nut with the softness and sweetness of the semolina.

It is addictive. One spoon is never enough so you always find yourself going back for more just to preserve the taste in your mouth.

I remember the winter nights when the neighbours used to bring a plate down randomly at my grandmother's house. She would say “Such and such Hanim (Mrs) made some halva” and put it on the kitchen table. I would then find excuses to go back and forth in the kitchen to have a spoonful then another one and another one.

I miss my grandmother. I miss picking up the phone and hear her laugh. I miss her asking me when I am coming back to Turkey, or telling me “it is because you don’t wear a singlet” whenever I get a cold.

But she always finds a way to remind me of herself, every day. One day the wind brings me her perfume, one day I see petunias just like hers on the garden, another day I find myself repeating one of her sayings to a friend.

So this one is for her, my way of bidding her farewell.

Irmik Helvasi (Semolina Halva)

Ingredients:

500gr coarse semolina

500gr sugar

500ml milk

300gr butter

100gr pine nuts (if desired)

Ground cinnamon (to serve)

Here is how:

On low heat, melt the butter in a large wide and deep pan, add the pine nuts (if using) and coat them in the butter.

Then add the semolina to the with the nuts and butter. Fold and stir the semolina mixture until it changes its colour to slightly darker shade.

The key to a heavenly halva is not to rush. To get the consistency right, you need to be patient and stir it over a very low heat for a long time. This could take about 15-20 minutes. If you are using the nuts it makes it easier as when the nuts change colour it means it is ready to mix the liquid in.

Meanwhile, in a separate pan, mix the milk and sugar and heat it until the mixture is warm (not boiling) and the sugar is dissolved.

Then add the liquid into the semolina mix carefully (as it may splash a little) and keep stirring until the mixture absorbs the liquid and thickens.