Yogurt is a constant presence in my existence. It is not though the type of presence that is always at the forefront; or the type of subtle but critical presence where you only notice when it is missing. No, I could easily endure weeks without yogurt if necessary. But it is not necessary: yogurt simply is always there.
A lazy way of putting things would be to say yogurt is in my blood. It is perhaps a reflection of my Turkishness, as if the culinary proclivities of generations of Turks before me echo in my blood (and my dietary tract), like the similarly constant presence of tea in my daily diet, or the feeling of world realigning to its proper order when aubergines are in season. Indeed the English word yogurt comes from the Turkish, not as a borrowed word or pass-through but from the old Turkish of the Central Asian steppes. Some Taiwanese claim that they invented shaved ice; I would not be quite so bold as to make such a claim of Turks and yogurt.
I eat plain yogurt. As a child I would eat flavored yogurts but as my palate and mind matured I found the perfection in the austere simplicity of plain yogurt. The allure of plain yogurt is perplexing at times as I would not say yogurt tastes good nor have I ever craved yogurt. Sometimes I think of clear, cold, wind-swept mornings on the open plains when I eat yogurt. There is a raw and realness to yogurt even in its mass-produced form. It invites and welcomes the most natural part of you, that part with the strongest connection to the earth.
