When my 17-year-old mum told my dad she was carrying his child, he was in such a state of shock that he crashed his car into a tree. As the truth unravelled to his horrified parents, he was hastily shipped back to Turkey to marry a nice Muslim woman and start a family the right way.
I’d never really missed this phantom father. My mum went on to marry a man who would fill that paternal role. After they got divorced, I began to ask questions about where I came from. And so I was taken to meet my Turkish grandparents for the first time - Babaane and Dede.
Upon entry to their Auburn home, Babaane had grasped me and kissed and kissed and kissed my cheeks.
“I have been praying for you darling. I pray to Allah to look after you.”
Bloody weird, I’d thought. Who the heck was Allah?
For a recipe on how to cook gozleme, visit
Brittanie Shipway. Credit: Kate Williams Photography. . Source: Supplied
I’d been surprised when my father wanted to meet me. My mother wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but I had turned 18, and I’d grown curious. As I’d approached the man on the bench, I could feel my heart thumping as if it wanted to burst out of my chest. I could see trickles of sweat dripping into the collar of his jacket. I’d spluttered out an awkward introduction.
“Umm. Hi!”
As the olive neck turned, I’d greedily searched the man’s face for clues, as if it was a treasure map. What had I inherited from this stranger?
“Ha! So it’s your fault I have such a big nose!” I said, cackling at my own joke, but the man’s eyebrows creased with confusion and worry.
He's with my aunty, Ayse, who prods her older brother towards me, nodding her encouragement. I’d suddenly realised who Ayse was protecting him from: me. I scared this man. I represented 18 years of guilt and shame and abandonment.
“You should know… I’m not like, upset with you or anything.” Great effort Brittanie. I almost rolled my eyes at my own half-hearted attempt to allay his fears.
I watched his eyes as they darted behind me. I turned to see the entirety of my mother’s extended family – aunts, uncles, grandparents, children – pretending to picnic, but really keeping watch, a mere 10 metres away.
“It’s really nice to meet you…” Dad?
The man remained silent. I’d panicked. What on earth could I talk to this stranger about? How could we ever have anything in common?
Ayse mumbled something about getting a bite to eat; she was nervous too.
My stomach was churning, but probably not from hunger. I was always looking for an excuse to tuck into my favourite food.
“We could grab some gözleme?"
The man’s eyes shone bright; it was the first common connection he had with his daughter. Turkish food.
Brittanie Shipway making gozleme. Source: Supplied
Even now, as I dust the dough, my Dede goes inside to pray. Babaane catches me glance back at him.
“We pray six times every day darling. For our friends, our family, our enemies. Very important to pray. That’s why you come this week, after Ramadan so we can eat, you see?”
I don’t see. After all these years, that amount of devotion is still strange to me. But I smile to show I understand. She beams back.
Her almond eyes crinkle like mine when she smiles. Her skin is olive like my skin too. My mother quickly turns dark in the sun, probably because of our Aboriginal heritage. But I would always go an olivey golden-brown. The people I break bread with today are the hidden piece of that puzzle.
Dede returns and fires the hot plate. He looks up, catches me staring, and shoots back a cheeky, rueful grin. He is a quiet man, but very gentle and likeable. The first time we met, he’d sat in the corner of the room and I’d felt the heartache pouring out of him. Tears had welled in his eyes and a sad, soft curve had formed on his lips as he watched me prattle away.
To this day, Dede still doesn’t speak much English, and often enlists Ayse to translate on his behalf. But I don't mind anymore. I like to hear his voice, coated in an accent almost as dark and rich as the Turkish coffee they serve with candied dates after meals.
“Oi!”
Startled, I look up at Ayse.
“Do you wanna try some gözleme with Nutella? It’s heaven kid.”
Babaane gives an exasperated sigh.
“Ayse, it is not meant to have the nut-ella on it.”
My aunty adopts a sulky whine. “She likes it too, don’t you Brittanie? Don’t you?!”
I nod. Who doesn’t like Nutella?
Brittanie Shipway is a freelance writer and Turkish/Gumbaynggirr woman, who is currently in the process of learning her ancestral tongue Gumbaynggirr. You can follow Brittanie on Instagram .
This story was originally entered in the 2020 and forms part of a special SBS Voices and SBS Food collaboration series: 'Food of My Childhood'. For a recipe on how to cook gozleme, click .
