I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but I cried the first time my daughter poured milk into her tea. I’m not exaggerating; I took what I now call ‘the cultural betrayal’ pretty badly.
“What are you doing?” I screamed as I watched the stream of white liquid flow – almost in slow motion – into her mug. “Milk doesn’t belong in tea!”
I made a run towards the cup. I was too late.
The rest of the family was bemused, to say the least, as I continued to rant about what had just transpired. “Milk in tea – what’s next? Why don’t you just throw a can of baked beans all over your toast while you’re at it, Judas.”
My daughter simply shrugged her shoulders at my dramatic display. “What are you getting so worked up about, mum? It’s just tea. Seriously.”
Well, that’s the thing. This isn’t at all.
It’s common knowledge that when you marry and start a family with someone outside ‘your kind’, it’s likely that the culture you were born and raised with – your language, the way you eat, the way you communicate – will die with you. Sure, some second-generation Australians among us are absolute warriors when it comes to keeping their cultures alive and I take my hat off to them, but I have failed. My kids cannot speak Turkish (oh, I’ve tried) and they roll their eyes whenever I listen to Turkish music or watch Turkish movies.
Drinking Turkish tea (çay) has been a familiar family ritual for Dilvin Yasa. Source: Flickr / captain.orange
So what's the one area (outside of our pre-pandemic annual trips to Turkey) where I’ve managed to retain the traditions of my ancestors in our family home? In the kitchen.
Until recently, keeping my daughters connected with a sense of Turkish-ness through food hasn’t exactly been what you could call a challenging task. It means long, leisurely on the weekend (or going for a brunch at places like in Sydney's Auburn), school night when time is not on our side or (rice pudding) when we’re feeling low.
Until recently, keeping my daughters connected with a sense of Turkish-ness through food hasn’t exactly been what you could call a challenging task.
My cultural identity not only informs what I cook, it informs the way we eat and how we interact with others. My kids are no strangers to bringing friends from school home for some post-lesson pişmaniye (Turkish cotton candy) or at the markets and it makes my heart sing when my kids insist on packing diced cucumber, feta and olives in their lunch boxes (we’ve come a long way since the '80s when we were all forcing ourselves to eat Vegemite sandwiches in order to fit in).
The main problem in our household is that my husband hails from England and as such enjoys a Sunday roast, tea with milk served alongside a slice of and sandwiches loaded with . As an immigrant, he misses the food he grew up with and of course, he also wants to share his culture with his children. I’m on board with most of it: 90 per cent of the time, we manage to live in harmony – but once the kettle comes out, the battle lines are drawn. I guess my concern is that the rejection of their mother’s culture will begin with tea and then keep growing. It sounds silly, I know, but it happens.
The other day I discovered the one thing worse than this ‘cultural betrayal’. I watched my daughter glumly pour herself a glass of black tea and take a seat next to me so I could clearly see just how dark the liquid was.
Hot stacks of gӧzleme at the markets have kept her children connected to their culinary roots. Source: Tammi Kwok
“You haven’t put milk in it?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
“No, I knew it would make you sad so I’m trying to only drink it black from now on.”
Ouch. You know what happened next, don’t you? Straight after I collected my ‘Worst Parent Ever’ award, milk was immediately placed back on the menu and four flights to Istanbul were booked. Tradition is said to be peer pressure from dead people and I think I’ve done my part. I’m just going to let my relatives take it from here.
