Turkish Delight

At the young age of 12, my palette for food had already been well developed, and my tastes matured beyond my ears. There were no hesitations for me to try anything that would appear strange to a typical American pre-teen. So, when I arrived in Turkey, I was elated to find a dish of dulma sitting on my grandmother's table.
She embraced me in a hug as warm as the stuffed grape leaves I eyed behind her shoulder. As I sat down, a salad and bread was placed in front of me, which I was instructed to finish before I could move onto the next course. "Good for the before eating," she explained to me in broken English.
The next morning, there was no need for her to wake me up; the aroma of sausage filling the room did that on its own. I gazed at a table graced with hot tea, tomatoes, feta, olives, sausage and eggs, in place of the cereal I was accustomed to. Before I could eat, I was to walk down to the market, and ask for "ecmeck." Confused, I relayed the message to the man at the market, and was given a loaf of fresh bread. I came to find this would be the routine every morning.
A trip downtown for lunch opened my eyes. For Turks, a cup of hot tea accompanied every meal, as well as a cigarette for most. Fish was not only the main export of the little seaside town of Foca, but also the main course of most meals. To the Turks, lunch was not a hamburger from the drive through, but a social hour. I watched them eat, mouths open as they talked loudly and roared with laughter over their plates.
Later, back at her apartment, she slaved over lamb, as I prepared the salad which I learned was to precede every meal in Turkey. I was to put on a dress, and welcome company. As my aunts and uncles poured in, so did the wine. I found it amusing, but was not prepared for it to be a nightly occurrence.
At the end of my trip, I was full; my stomach full of food, my heart full of love for my culture, and my mind full of knowledge. The only thing not fulfilled, was my desire for more.