Bowl and memory
Roasted Chickpea Bowl
If I could pick a single ingredient—a spice, a flavor, a fruit or a nut—that reflected both my past and my future, the essence of what my culture is… It’d be a bowl of roasted chickpeas.
An elderly man from Mongolia who immigrate to Denmark more than three decades and his second-hand shop. Glass ashtrays that couldn’t hold their ashes, floral-patterned plates from a classic Danish restaurant that likely closed in the ‘90s, mismatched silver cutlery, tiny schnapps or liqueur glasses, glass vases, gas chandeliers, creaky yet well-designed chairs, and a bowl full of walnuts.
You know, the shortcut to add soul to chandelier-less homes with stark white walls. The scent of dampness… I was wandering through an antique shop, the final resting place of hoarders and their treasures. He smiled at me, his small, wrinkled crow’s feet crinkling.
After a while, having already forgotten my intention to embrace the famous minimalist lifestyle of Scandinavian culture, I made my way to the register with pieces I was sure would add Danish warmth to my white and empty home. I have no idea how or when we warmed up to each other, but ten minutes later, he had already found someone to help move my sofa set the next day. He even gave me a nice discount.
Then, here it is… He offered me a bowl full of walnuts.
I had been cycling through Copenhagen for months, working in a restaurant under terrible conditions, and not once had I remembered to buy nuts.
You might think, "So what?" And to be honest, I didn’t react to the moment with an overly dramatic, heart-wrenching realization. But if you've ever visited a Turkish home—or if you've ever walked past a shop in Turkey that sells nothing but nuts—you’d understand the importance of eating nuts. Every Turkish citizen has an unspoken daily quota of dried fruits and nuts. It’s an unwritten law.
That day, walking down the street with my odd antique finds, I felt inexplicably strange.
This is how it happens, isn’t it? Little by little, as small as a cherry pit, yet steadily—you forget. Everything that once made you who you are: your culture, traditions, habits... your nuts.
"LEBLEBI!" ( aka roasted chickpeas )
I suddenly said out loud while walking. You know, the famous roasted nut in Turkey. They’re never invited to a bowl on their own. Always mixed with something—peanuts, almonds, hazelnuts—just in case accidentally someone might eat them. They keep getting tossed around in luxury mixed nut packs and in the end, all that remains in the jars at home are those roasted chickpeas. Few people actually enjoy them. But I do. Especially the hard, white ones. I was thinking about those chickpeas I’d willingly risk a few teeth for in the future. I searched everywhere, but I couldn’t find them. My bowl remained empty till my next visit to Istanbul.
If I could pick a single ingredient—a spice, a flavor, a fruit or a nut—that reflected both my past and my future, the essence of what my culture is… It would be a bowl of roasted chickpeas. A culture that some can never erase from their memory, while others push aside.
My father used to tell me stories about how roasted chickpeas were once sold with dried raisins on the streets. They would eat them from cone-shaped newspaper wrappers. The scent of his childhood… A time when shops were constantly roasting nuts, and the streets smelled of them. They even sold chickpeas in powder form. He and his friends would stuff their mouths with it, only to burst into laughter, choking on the dust as they coughed. He would laugh while telling the story of it.
My sister, on the other hand, would get furious if they were chocolate-coated. She’d mistake them for almonds, take a bite, and scrunch up her face in disappointment—"Ew! Leblebi!"
When I got home that night, I imagined a table. A long table. A migrant’s table. Inspired by Istanbul—the monster that has swallowed, digested, and transformed countless cultures. Built in honor of old Istanbul, the city of seven hills. Seven migrants, seven dishes. Each ingredient representing a hero, a person, a story.
The roots of this small wooden table I’ve dreamed of for so long have started to grow even deeper. Now, I’m slowly setting things in motion to make it real. Like a snail climbing Mount Fuji, I weave my way around obstacles. I plan, I write, I sketch—and eventually, I realize that most people won’t stay with me until the end. I thank them halfway through and continue on my way.
But I wonder…
If you were an ingredient, which one would you be?
Until this table is set…
May your bowls always be full.
Nesrin Eren
