Bloom with the spring

I was once warned not to eat my neighbor’s flowers. It was not as though I was grazing in the garden next door; however, we were an atypical community living in a foreign country for a project, and we were all trying to hold on to something we were passionate about. My neighbor was into gardening, and my latest interest was edible flowers. It was a year of living strangely. DefinitelyAll of our houses were prefabricated housing units, each one identical. We were all architects and engineers in Algiers to design presidential buildings, much like the new "külliye" in Ankara. Our housing belonged to the military and was located in the coastal area of Algiers; Sidi Ferruch or Sidi Fredj, to be precise. These houses were fully equipped and top-luxury by Algerian standards.

We all tried to personalize our homes with handicrafts we bought in Algiers. Some among us were keen to make their gardens outstanding by trying to grow whatever was possible in the small plots of land around the cubicles. I do not have a green thumb at all, but I love nature. My take on nature was always looking from the angle, "Can I eat this?"

I was not a food writer back then; that was in the 1980s, when food writing was not even on the agenda. However, I was an avid reader of cookbooks and anything related to food. Anyway, there I was in Algiers, wondering why I had ended up there. But on the first night I arrived at our privileged, military-protected enclave of Turkish architects, I fell in love with the country without even having seen it. It was because of the intoxicating smell of orange flowers that greeted me upon my arrival.

Eau de Fleur d’Oranger

Orange blossom water is a magical potion. Whenever I catch a whiff, I am transported back to my first night in Algiers. The first words I mastered in French, spoken almost in a whisper, were “eau de fleur d’oranger,” which I thought had a poetic flair. It must have been the magic of the night or simply the perfect moment. Our uninteresting prefabricated lodging was right next to an orange orchard and the orange flowers were in full bloom. That changed everything. I fully embraced our year of living strangely. Then came my discovery of Algerian or Maghrebi pastries, all laden with almonds and that mind-blowing smell of orange blossoms. It was love at first bite.

This was not my first encounter with orange flowers, of course. Growing up in Türkiye, we traveled many times to Antalya, Alanya, Mersin, Adana and all those southern Mediterranean provinces, as well as Cyprus. Most of these travels were during the spring season, the perfect blooming time. Moreover, it was not my first taste of the magical “eau de fleur d’oranger”; I was familiar with the aroma from Morocco. How can one taste “Cornes de Gazelle,” those Moroccan crescent-shaped delights, and not remember them? Though I had experienced both the smell and the taste before, I associated the scent with the place, and it totally belonged to Algiers. That is how it was engraved in my memory.

Portuguese Fruit

The orange flower aroma belongs to all the lands around the Mediterranean basin. However, in reality, orange blossom water is not even made from common orange flowers. Before oranges arrived in the Mediterranean, there were only bitter oranges. In Ottoman cuisine, it was the bitter orange flowers that provided the hidden, intoxicating perfume added to sweets, sherbets and all manner of delicacies. Associated mostly with Seville, Spain, these trees have a distinctive smell; it is the bitter peel that is the most sought-after part, primarily for making marmalades. The fruit itself is astringent and not pleasant to eat, but a good squeeze of its juice adds brightness to any salad or meal.

Oranges arrived in the Mediterranean around 1635 with the Portuguese, which is why many countries named the fruit after Portugal. Examples include “portakal” in Turkish, “portokáli” in Greek and “portocallo” in southern Italian dialects. There were further borrowings as well from the Ottomans, Romania called it “portocală,” Bulgaria “portokal” and Albania “portokall,” all of which are nearly identical. The orange was a novelty: Something exciting, juicy and sunny — almost thrillingly sour and sweet at the same time. While Mediterranean countries were already familiar with the citrus family, the rest of Europe was confused by the new fruit, viewing it as a peculiar sort of "Chinese apple." Thus, the word “Apfelsinen” entered the Germanic vocabulary, along with its derivatives in several Northern European countries.

In the early years of the Turkish Republic, the cultivation of oranges was heavily promoted by the state. Interestingly, as oranges became more popular, bitter oranges — also known as Seville oranges or "turunç" in Turkish — were almost forgotten. The turunç still grows abundantly in citrus zones but only as a street ornament; it is not commercially grown as a fruit. It adds a tangy, sour kick to many dishes, but unfortunately, it is not available in markets. Though the fruit is not seen in shops, when April comes, you feel its presence through its blooming flowers. Even a drop of their essence makes a difference. Make yourself a Lebanese “Café Blanc,” which is neither coffee nor a milky drink, but simply hot water perfumed with orange flower water. A droplet or a single blossom will bring all the citrus orchards into your cup, creating an invisible, magical bond across the Mediterranean shores.