An Ode to Mantı

Limitations have a sneaky way of turning you into a creative genius. You know what I mean.

I grew up in a middle-class family. Most of my clothes, toys, even my sense of style, hand-me-downs from my older cousins. Maybe that's why secondhand culture never really took off in Turkey: families were already master-level recyclers. Everything was passed down, swapped, repurposed.

I had this little black plastic briefcase. The kind that made me feel like I was transporting wads of cash to a bank. It had locks on both sides of the handle. It used to be part of a magician’s kit. But once I figured out all the tricks, I got bored, and the magic disappeared, literally.

There I was, seven or eight years old, clutching that serious-looking briefcase like a baby executive on a mission. Some days, I’d go to my dad’s workshop, where they made kitchen countertops. And there were two key reasons I’d jump out of bed at 6 a.m. for this:

· The dough they used between the wall and the counters.
· Half-bread grilled sandwiches from the industrial zone.

While grown-ups worked, I sat in the office and made little sculptures out of that grey, lifeless dough. It had no color—but infinite possibility. When I was done, I’d carefully pack my dough art into the briefcase, munch my sandwich, and we’d head home.

In the off-hours of my mini, full-time work life, if I was home, there was one thing guaranteed: dough was rolling. My mom would take her long, elegant rolling pin and stretch the dough paper-thin. No machines. No fancy tools. Just her hands, cutting it into perfect little squares. Into each, she’d tuck freshly ground meat from the butcher. That’s how mantı Turkish dumpling was born in our kitchen. While she worked, I had my own tiny rolling pin and scraps of dough to mold however I liked. My favorite childhood game was moving my hands from one ball of dough to the next. Pure joy.

I mentioned in my last post the company I just launched, KAVATA. The biggest reason I started it? I’m terrified of losing the culture I come from. Of seeing it fade because it wasn’t passed down. I want to cook it, document it, celebrate it, in Denmark, of all places.

Last week, I walked into the kitchen to test a few recipes. I pulled out the thin rolling pin my mom gave me and decided to make my favorite dish: mantı.

There are hundreds of ways to make it. Boiled, fried, baked. With spicy tomato sauce, or just butter. Always with yogurt. Always. But how did I love it?

Like my grandmother made it: pan-fried on the stove until golden. I loved it boiled too, but only in meat broth. I couldn’t eat it without yogurt, but yogurt always cooled it down too much. I needed to taste the meat inside. I hated the ones that were folded into tiny, ant-sized pieces. And what shape should I use? My other grandmother once taught me how to braid dough. It took so much effort, she rarely made it.

So we put it all together and created our mantı, one that belongs to Kavata.