$500
Sleep next to it on the floor
Should have bought a tent
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Sydney's Question
The city is really a fright.
A toddler summed up the sight;
My little friend said,
With a tilt of her head,
Mommy, I thought snow was white?
A toddler summed up the sight;
My little friend said,
With a tilt of her head,
Mommy, I thought snow was white?
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Pita.
This fall I suddenly decided I needed to learn how to make cheese pie (the family calls this “pita”) and spinach pie. I compiled the recipes from YiaYia, Nouna Frances, and Thespina. Or, more accurately, they were compiled for me by Thespina, on the phone with me, while YiaYia and Fran helped compile in the background. Nouna Frances said she was the first in the family to use cream cheese. YiaYia seemed unconvinced about the cream cheese, and at the time I never thought she would try it. I’m not sure if she has yet.
So far I have made one pita and one spinach pie, with some success. I find it very relaxing to put down each phyllo layer, smooth it out. It’s cool and smooth and fragile. Go too fast and you break it. But if you do break it, no problem, just paint a little extra butter on the cracks. And also on the bubbles and the holes. But always, always remember to save a perfect layer for the top. And you should probably paint that one with extra butter too.
Making pita transforms me into an exacting person who wears aprons and uses pastry brushes. And it closes the gap between my family “Out East” and my Iowa childhood, where the only Greek words I knew were nicknames for cookies (KBs, melos, koulouria) and “ela,” which means “get over here.” (This is also a good word to know if you ever work in a diner.)
At Thanksgiving last year, Thespina reminisced about being the kid who brought pita to school for lunch, before it was trendy for fifth graders to eat “ethnic foods.” So I think about how Nouna Frances cracked all those eggs (maybe 10, maybe a dozen, I’m not sure where she came out on that) and while she was doing it thought about her kids, making sure they had a good lunch. And I imagine that many years ago, standing in her kitchen, that made her happy. Maybe she was tired, or bored by repeating the task, or it was late, or the kids were yelling, or my Nouno hadn’t taken out the skoupidia (I’m not sure why I know this word). But I am sure that at least once or twice (and maybe that is all you need) she stood there making pita for her kids and was completely utterly happy with making those layers for those kids, to take out into the world.
My Nouna Frances died in 2009. She must have made hundreds of pitas. She brought them to parties, weddings and funerals. She threw showers. She made two dinners (and pita) whenever we came over. And she laughed, laughed, laughed at all the loud fun times in her kitchen. And the triumph of her life, as I see it and as I’m almost positive she saw it, was raising three children to have joy. So I strap on that apron and crack those eggs and I hope over the years I will get the recipe right too. Or at least good enough that I can impress my son’s teacher at Greek school next September.
So far I have made one pita and one spinach pie, with some success. I find it very relaxing to put down each phyllo layer, smooth it out. It’s cool and smooth and fragile. Go too fast and you break it. But if you do break it, no problem, just paint a little extra butter on the cracks. And also on the bubbles and the holes. But always, always remember to save a perfect layer for the top. And you should probably paint that one with extra butter too.
Making pita transforms me into an exacting person who wears aprons and uses pastry brushes. And it closes the gap between my family “Out East” and my Iowa childhood, where the only Greek words I knew were nicknames for cookies (KBs, melos, koulouria) and “ela,” which means “get over here.” (This is also a good word to know if you ever work in a diner.)
At Thanksgiving last year, Thespina reminisced about being the kid who brought pita to school for lunch, before it was trendy for fifth graders to eat “ethnic foods.” So I think about how Nouna Frances cracked all those eggs (maybe 10, maybe a dozen, I’m not sure where she came out on that) and while she was doing it thought about her kids, making sure they had a good lunch. And I imagine that many years ago, standing in her kitchen, that made her happy. Maybe she was tired, or bored by repeating the task, or it was late, or the kids were yelling, or my Nouno hadn’t taken out the skoupidia (I’m not sure why I know this word). But I am sure that at least once or twice (and maybe that is all you need) she stood there making pita for her kids and was completely utterly happy with making those layers for those kids, to take out into the world.
My Nouna Frances died in 2009. She must have made hundreds of pitas. She brought them to parties, weddings and funerals. She threw showers. She made two dinners (and pita) whenever we came over. And she laughed, laughed, laughed at all the loud fun times in her kitchen. And the triumph of her life, as I see it and as I’m almost positive she saw it, was raising three children to have joy. So I strap on that apron and crack those eggs and I hope over the years I will get the recipe right too. Or at least good enough that I can impress my son’s teacher at Greek school next September.
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