The planet continues to host the dreams, handprints and curiosity of billions of people. The handprints of every mortal who passed away on the planet were embroidered into the culture. There are flavors and colors that will never be forgotten in the memory of geography. Spring is at the door, we are restless. We have been shaken by the earthquake, our hearts are full of grief. Next to us, ancestral scents that make us who we are, differentiate us and enrich us are giving off smell. Bread kneaded with love, dough entrusted to the fire with patience. Each of them came to life with the flavor of the soil they were rooted in, the skill of the hand they were kneaded with, and the color that the sun gave life to. Dozens of civilizations took root in these lands, tested by climate, geography for thousands of years, the tears of the fertile crescent are in the water of life. Hundreds of recipes are transferred at Halil İbrahim Tables, none of them are less valuable or inferior than the other, each one of them has turned into indescribable flavors cooked in time.

All over the map, in the ancient wisdom of geography, there are breads of which memories are exhausted from wars, harsh winters, separation and migration. The flavor of a thousand and one kinds of bread took refuge in time, came to life in the tandoor, and took on color in pilita. Those of each region is invaluable.

It took inspiration from Yunus’s patience and courage from impassable rivers. Anatolian bread keeps thousands of years of Anatolia in itself. 

Crops from the vineyard and garden are ground at the mill, as life grinds our dreams. In the millstone, there are seeds that turned the winter into summer, sprouts that took shelter in the ground, and wheat that came to life in its roots. As the millstone turns, grandmothers whisper advice to children about the wisdom of nature that turns wheat into flour. Wheats contain hundreds of thousands of years of history of the lands where they are rooted. While some are agile, strong, and resilient, the others are more delicate. Inside, there is yet another Mesopotamian sun. The furnaces of Vakfikebir leave the smell of sourdough bread in the shade of the alder trees and gallop towards the plateau. Its story is difficult, the slopes are steep, the passages are unrelenting. Craftsmen from Vakfikebir are trained by Master Artin. 

Anatolian breads are be encased in 1001 nights, and in neverending winters, cheeses between phyllo dough offer a bite to taste to kith and kin. 

Each region leaves the fate of the geography to the breads that it nurtures with its own history and kneads with love. In some, the summers are dry, iron sheets are set up in the village squares, fires are lit. Young girls break out into a song, it’s almost time to meet. 

Sister Nuran, who paints the streets of Germiyan village with her colorful dreams communing with ancient einkorn ash in Kastamonu, checks the furnace from time to time and draws her ash-scented colors on the walls. Here goes the story: “Her ancestors made ash leaven as a dowry on their cheesecloths and migrated from the Balkans, the other side of the water.” Her chitchat is not the kind that will end. Every spring, the journey of Germiyan bread hitting a sticky patch is celebrated with festivals.

If you talk about the Mediterranean, every autumn carries the most precious treasures of the Yörüks from their mountains to their tents. The long summer nights are illuminated with the legends of great-grandfathers staring off into space. Bread is being heated in the hands of young girls with blue eyes. The story of rapata bread is beyond history. 

There are never-ending migrations in the bread atlas of Anatolia. Some took refuge in a secluded place on the migration route and rested in its shadow. “If you have some bread to eat in the evening, life will continue on the table and everything will be fine,” says the pale grandmothers. Not only her table, but millions of people who set out with azan on the sparkling streets of the modern world set out in pursuit of bread money. Bread is still in the mouth of the lion in Anatolia. The one who gets up early takes the road and becomes a comrade to his future. Children who say “buy some bread for us for the evening daddy”, rely on time with the smell of bread bought from the bakery. Wherever you go in the world, the smell of childhood bread never leaves you. Although the eyes of those who are after their bread are focused indoors, their dreams sometimes fall far away. The bread map of Anatolia carries this land to the world with the memory of taste, in the memories of those who left.

In Anatolia, children grow up with the advice of taking care of your bread, wherever you are on the map, every table is opened to similar conversations. If you haven’t squatted cross-legged in Kars and added the old cheddar kara kılçık bread, you cannot be deeemed tasted the blessings of the world yet. The streets of Kars are so sad that the locked doors wait for the day when they will be opened like bread. In houses with high ceilings, the flamboyant stories of great-grandmothers come to life in the ears of children trying to learn the alphabet in gaslight. Some of their stories come from far away. There are taste bread on their tables coming from the far provinces of Caucasus, Russia, and many other lands.  

Summer, winter, spring, Ramadan, holiday... Whichever you count, as many breads decorate Anatolia’s bakeries. If you look at the map every day, it changes every day. Lamentations are made for Çanakkale’s salvation donut, in the shadow of the hundred-year-old Republic.

Can Gaziantep’s bitter wild apricot seed be forgotten? The story of those who passed away is hidden in the heroic stories of a nation that has sheltered their lives. What about the rusk that took place in soldiers’ menu? Haven’t we written the epic of salvation, unprecedented in the world, with a piece of dry bread? What map has such a priceless memory?

Drawing the bread map of Turkey, we sometimes take a bird’s-eye view, sometimes we move forward by falling in the landscape from the coast. 

Regardless of the form, internal structure and flavor of Anatolian bread, its most important feature is that it describes Anatolia. No matter which region you go to, the dowry chest opens and you get magnificent slices of bread with local variations that tell the story of the region and reflect the feelings of the people. At Anatolian tables, each slice of bread is in perfect harmony with the other plates and flavors around it, creating a traditional richness. 

Come to think of Black Sea region, there is a reason why the legendary lavash of neighboring Erzurum is popular all over Turkey. The natural conditions here are so hard that when bread needs to be made fast and delicious, the right option is lavash. Bazlama competes with the Italians’ Ciabatta. The most traveler of the map is cooked all over Turkey. You can find the best village breads in Afyon. Here, potatoes find a place in the heart of the bread on the bread map. The gastra of Antalya comes next. The Torbalı bread is now the favorite of Istanbul’s organic markets. It is the most traveler of the map, whichever market you go, you can see it with its exclusive name. Gilik bread is shared with the mourning of funeral homes in Sivas, Kübban, the domed balloon of Gazinatep, Konya’s gülbaye, Aegean çapala, Cihanbeyli’s gömeç, Ottoman Fodla, Cypriot nanali, Niğde’s bagel, Elazığ’s fetil, Bolu’s gartalaş, Artvin’s kakal, Tekirdağ’s şipit, Çorum’s pıt pıt, Zonguldak’s kömeç, İstanbul noble Has bread... Each of these is the taste memory of both the map and Anatolia. After all, oh, Rize’s corn bread, which is kneaded with corn instead of wheat? It is the sultan of my heart, I would not trade it for the world. 

In Anatolian villages, ovens are lit, stoves fume, hearts meet, dough is kneaded and rolled out. The food of winter begin to be prepared in the cellar of autumn. Autumn has been the time of planting in Anatolia for thousands of years. You sow hopes, you sow seeds. The bread map of autumn smells of gloom, separation is in the wind. Poets seek solace in poetry, line by line, preparations for migration begin. The bread of the homeland is missed, and whenever the table is set, gloom is remembered.

Each of them including tırnaklı, cooked in ash, thrown into the furnace, put on a sheet, cooked in a tandoor, leavened/unleavened, thin/thick, is a treasure. 

Every region has a trademark, whether you look at its trees or its soil or ask for a slice of bread. Each slice tells the craftsmanship of thousands of masters. Each one of its pores, moisture, shell thickness and color is another experiment defying the scientific studies of the whole world. Do you think that 7 regions are 7 breads? The number of bread in Anatolia is infinite. Memories of thousands of years are cooked in neighborhood bakeries.

The spoils of nature releases their temper to Anatolian breads, those who knead the dough accept the endless treats of nature and give life to the bread. The sorrow of the geography, which the seeds keep secret, turns into the art of taste with slices of bread. Spring festival is celebrated with the dew falling on leaves in Anatolia. The taste of life is transferred to bread with dew yeast.

The bread of Anatolia is nurtured by Rumi’s tolerance, its crumbs give life to the wolf and the cooked food, their crumbs give life to the wildlife. Breads kneaded with tail fat are also Anatolian. Bread types kneaded with tail fat, Ninda Gurra inherited from the Hittites, who protected their babies with black cumin, and Gobit, which is popular among mechanics are all Anatolian.

Sac, pilita and tandoor belong to us. Let’s enjoy all.