Leeks & lamb for St. Davy's Day

with a Turkish-Welsh fusion recipe

Please tap the little heart up there in the lefthand corner. It builds my credibility.

It’s March in Maine, the gloomiest month of the year, in fact I would say the only gloomy month in a year that is otherwise dazzling from January snows to June peonies to the glories of autumn to the rose-crusted blueberry fields of winter. But March. . . what the old folks say is: If we can just get over March hill. . . . meaning, you can guess what, I’m not going to do it. Here’s what it looks like in my neighborhood:

As you can see, pot holes, cracked pavement, frost heaves, filthy snow, ice, mud, gravel, and frozen drains. We will survive this, we always do, but it’s a trial.

Saturday was March 1^st, in case you didn’t notice, and also St. David’s Day, and I’m pretty confident you didn’t notice that unless you come from Wales where David is the patron saint and leeks are his symbol. Why this is so is almost inexplicable, at least the vastness of the internet cannot agree on a reason. It is said that David’s last words to his faithful followers were: Be joyful, keep the faith, and eat your leeks.

If your name is Jenkins or Evans or Davies or Perkins or even Jones, most likely you can trace your ancestry, however long, back to Wales. Despite my name, however, I am not Welsh. I was only there once long, long ago when I hiked a pretty stretch of Mt. Snowdon, or rather I walked for a bit with a small child on my back while my then husband climbed. That was the way most of us behaved back then, even those of us who considered ourselves enlightened feminists, husbands got adventure and wives got kids. One of the reasons why he is my then husband and not my now husband—

But that is another story. My name is Jenkins, a distinctive Welsh name, but I am not Welsh, nor was the husband from whom I acquired the name. His grandfather received the moniker from immigration officials in Toronto to replace whatever ungainly name he had borne on arrival from Kyiv in the very early years of the 20^th century. “Call it Jenkins,” I can hear the boyos say, “it’s close enough.” Thus do Ukrainians become Welsh without ever crossing through Wales.

This discourse is leading me far from St. David’s Day. For whatever reason, leeks are David’s symbol and also, as Shakespeare reminds us, the symbols of Wales. In one of the bard’s great comic scenes, on the battlefield in Act V of Henry V, there’s a heroic encounter between Pistol and Fluellen (another fine Welsh name) in which Pistol insults the Welsh whereupon Fluellen, wearing a fine leek in his cap for St. Davy’s day, forces him to eat a leek in retribution. And then Fluellen explains it all to the king:

If your majesties is remembered of it, the Welshmen did good service in a garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps; which, your majesty know, to this hour is an honourable badge of the service; and I do believe your majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Davy’s day.

So, St. David’s Day, March 1st, and leeks are on the menu and what better way to prepare the leeks than in a fine dish of lamb—not Welsh lamb, alas, which is impossible for me to come across on my side of the Atlantic, but good lamb, probably from New Zealand and no doubt raised by a farmer of Welsh ancestry. And then, looking for ideas, I came across this ten-year-old photo of leeks with lamb, yogurt, and chickpeas, from a visit to Musa Dağdiveren’s Çiya Sofrasi restaurant in Istanbul.

Lamb, leeks & chickpeas in a yogurt-dill sauce at Çiya Sofrasi

There’s a link to the restaurant’s website here, but it’s skimpy on details. You’ll find more on this site. Next time you’re in Istanbul, be sure to pay a visit to this legendary eating place, across the Bosporus on the Asian side: take one of the sprightly ferries that zip like water bugs between Europe and Asia, stroll through the crowded streets of a most amazing and extensive market, and end up at Çiya for lunch. You will be very happy, I promise!

So, yes, leeks and lamb for Wales and chickpeas and yogurt for Turkey. Now to put it altogether, keeping in mind that the leeks must be carefully rinsed of all the soil that accumulates between the layers. This makes enough for four to six people, depending on what else accompanies it. I like to serve it with steamed rice when I’m feeling Turkish, and with small steamed potatoes when I’m feeling more Welsh. A little extra chopped dill scattered over the carb is also nice.

Recipe below is for paid subscribers.