Afternoons in Ithaka Read online

  Emmanuel is proud of his efforts, as if he himself, by some miracle, has conjured up the colours of spring: the lushness of the new pink flowers on the branches of our peach tree; the shocking red stalks of the silverbeet; the bright orange head of a tulip, which sways, as if in coquettish discussion, with a couple of daffodils.

  The calendar announced spring a little while back, but I feel as though I have only just woken from a long winter’s sleep. I feel my soporific body – plumped with too many roast dinners, chunky casseroles and Tim Tams dipped into hot chocolate – stretch towards the sun. A body sedated by early nights, hot-water bottles, mindless detective novels and the limbs of my husband wrapped around mine. The closed-up house reverberating with children’s footsteps as they run up and down the hall, bickering and watching too much television as winter has settled over us like a grey blanket. The ducted heating running almost non-stop, so that the only clean air we breath is in the mad dash to the car each morning. The kids standing over the heating vents to put on their clothes; damp sheets slung over the backs of chairs to dry.

  Grief has clung to me since Dad’s passing; the initial feeling of being hit in the chest has given way to a cloying sadness. I feel untethered by the loss of Dad’s strong presence. I wonder where he is now. One night he comes to me in a dream. We are in a house with many rooms.

  ‘It’s good here, Spirithoula. Mama is here. I’m alright.’ He touches my hair gently. ‘I have to go. They are waiting.’

  I speak with Mum, who for the first time really understands that she too will die one day. Both her parents died in Greece – perhaps she subconsciously feels that they are still alive, still tending their gardens. Dad, on the other hand, is most definitely not here. The finality ages her. The ever-growing band of Greek widows in the neighbourhood rally around her, bearing gifts of fruit and sweets. My brother, Dennis, who lives with her, takes on jobs Dad used to do: he mows the lawn, tries to fix things around the house.

  Time doesn’t slow down to give my grief the space it needs. There is the relentless march of domestic life and a demanding job. I find myself forever squeezing in another load of washing, mopping another floor, before wearily picking up a novel; eavesdropping on strangers’ conversations on the train to work, eyelids drooping with sleep; jostling with humanity at the Saturday markets, a frenzy of boxes and sweaty armpits; the endless churn of dinners and guessing games, school drop-offs and pick-ups, lunch boxes and broken crayons and crumbs and fingerprints; wet tiles at bath time, stories at bedtime, cuddles in the morning. Placating little bodies with their indefatigable frustrations – ‘It’s not fair’ sprouting from four-year-old lips.

  Today, I see the garden as if for the first time in a long time. Insects buzz around the sage and rosemary bushes. The tag on a young apple tree flicks about in the breeze. The kids are barefooted, jumping over a fledgling redcurrant bush. Clothes flap on the line and, inexplicably, I can smell chamomile flowers.

  The kids find a tub full of forgotten toys in the garage. They pull out a kickboard, an old floaty, sand-encrusted goggles and a few beach toys. They want to have water fights, spray each other with a water gun. After a firm no, they discover a shade shelter. George helps them erect it in the garden. Emmanuel bashes the pegs with an old hammer and the job is done.

  Dolores brings out a misshapen pram and a dolly that hasn’t seen the light of day for a few years. Emmanuel carts out boxes of activity books and a dump truck full of textas. He places his hammer carefully in a little compartment in the shelter and proceeds to work through the books.

  ‘Mum, Lilly’s hot,’ Dolores complains after a while. ‘Maybe she needs ice-cream.’ The sun is hitting Lilly the doll full in the face, as well as our two children.

  I am reading the weekend papers, all the while thinking that I should be doing something about those cobwebs. But the sun is making me lazy. And magnanimous.

  ‘Go and get Lilly and yourselves some ice-cream,’ I call out. ‘And maybe you could get me some, too,’ I add as an afterthought.

  I can think of no better way to celebrate the opening of the double doors onto spring.

  CHRYSOULA ON DRYING HERBS

  Mum grows and dries her own herbs so that she has them available all year. This air-drying method works well with low-moisture herbs such as Greek oregano, thyme, savory, dill, bay leaves, rosemary and marjoram.

  Hose down the herbs in the evening and cut them the following morning. Divide them into handfuls and tie these with garden string. Hang them in the shade where there is good air flow – under a veranda or in a shed is ideal. Or, for small-leafed herbs such as mint and oregano, place the cuttings in a tray and leave them on a windowsill until they dry. This will take around a week, depending on the herb. Check them periodically, as the leaves can get brittle if they are left too long.

  When they are dry, put the sprigs in glass jars and store them in a cool, dark place. Alternatively, rub the dried cuttings between your palms and collect the leaves in a bowl. Remove any stalks or woody stems and store the leaves as above.

  Where the wild things grow

  Hunger fights castles and hunger surrenders castles

  Greek proverb

  Dolores comes running as soon as I come in the door, bowling me over before I can put my bag down.

  ‘Mama, Mama, look what I brought home. Mousmoula. Yiayia taught me how to say it.’

  Dolores eagerly holds out a large branch full of plump, orange cumquats. She snaps one off the branch and carefully peels it. She nibbles at the juicy flesh, working her way around it until only the brown seeds and their translucent membrane remain.

  Mum is sitting on the couch, her chin dribbling with the juice of the fruit. She looks at me sheepishly.

  ‘Your neighbour, the Italian man down the street, said we could cut off a few branches. He’s a very nice man.’

  I feel briefly mortified. I imagine Mum complimenting Mario on his cumquats, and him generously offering her the bounty.

  While I’ve been at work, Mum and Dolores have been on one of their walks. I can envisage their trajectory. They might have strolled past the pomegranate tree at the local park to check if it was bearing any fruit, turned into our back lane to see if any of the overhanging trees had edible gifts to offer, and finally made their way past Mario’s. My brother would have been watching television in the lounge room with Emmanuel. He is happy to stay safely indoors and avoid these ‘village walks’, as he calls them.

  Mum has always been a forager, ever since she searched for mushrooms and wild snails in the hills near her village in times of poverty. Back then, she would not have taken anything from overhanging trees – the owners didn’t look kindly on children taking their fruit, as they would preserve any excess for the winter – but Mum is disturbed that in Australia, many people let the fruit drop and go to waste. Dolores is a most willing accomplice.

  I feel a mixture of pride and dismay. I know that the fruit they collect would otherwise go uneaten, and I am glad she is handing down her knowledge to Dolores. But still I feel self-conscious that my mother and daughter are walking our suburban street, foraging for food while I am at work.

  All the while, Mum will be talking to Dolores in Greek. Mum keeps reminding me to speak Greek with the children, but I find it difficult. More often than not, I lapse back into English after only a few minutes. Although Greek was my first language, it is in English that I am most comfortable.

  When I was about Dolores’s age, I too would set off with Mum. We always took a plastic bag and a knife to pick horta from a hillside in Collingwood. As my mother cut the greens on the lower slopes of the hill, she patiently explained why we shouldn’t pick them from the flat land, where passing dogs might have urinated on them. I remember her bent back as she cut the greens at the root with a deft sweep of her hand. On the walk back, my thongs slapped the hot bitumen, the plastic bag brimming full.

  At home, she would wash and boil the horta, draining and then dressing them with olive oil,
salt and lemon juice. We often had them with fish and scordalia. At other times, we would eat them cold as a salad. Some were bitter, some sweeter, depending on the variety. When I was older, I refused to go with her on these excursions. I imagined my friends looking on and laughing, although I needn’t have worried – our suburb was filled with new migrants with equally novel rituals. Gradually, the areas where she could find wild greens disappeared, replaced by freeways and new apartment blocks, and she had to go further afield to suburbs like Epping and Thomastown, blissfully far from my self-conscious gaze.

  Now I think what a shame it is that there are very few places to pick horta. Mum mostly grows her own now, but insists it is nowhere near as good as the wild ones. I love these bitter greens, but I only have them at her house. I can’t imagine my children ever eating them, and the fleeting, sad thought hits me that I may never eat them again after my mother passes on.

  My reverie is broken when Mum shows me a pot full of beef casserole, and another of rice.

  ‘The kids are probably full.’ She looks away, sheepish. This means they have eaten the potato chips and chocolates she brought with her as treats. ‘But I’ve made this for dinner. Maybe they could have it later.’

  ‘Thank you, Mama. That looks lovely.’ I give her a kiss, grateful that I won’t have to cook tonight after a big day at work.

  ‘The kids are fine. Dolores said she had a good day at school. And Emmanuel has been playing quietly since he got back from kinder.’

  I know she probably wouldn’t tell me if they had been badly behaved. I feel the familiar tug of guilt about leaving them with her a few days a week while I work.

  She picks up her bag and calls out to my brother.

  ‘Come on, Dennis. Spirithoula’s home now. Let’s go.’

  MARK DYMIOTIS ON WILD GREENS

  Mark Dymiotis has been growing fruit and vegetables in his Melbourne garden for over thirty-five years. He is a passionate proponent of the traditional diet of Greece and shares his skills – growing fruit and vegetables, bread making, building wood-fired ovens and wine making – through his writings, and through courses at the Centre for Adult Education. He speaks here about his passion for wild greens.

  The Mediterranean diet is based on simple, unrefined, unprocessed and unpackaged food that is ‘of the season’. This way of growing and eating food is good for our health and good for the environment. The traditional, everyday Mediterranean diet was mostly made up of locally grown, seasonal food, of which wild greens were an important part. These were a staple of the Greek diet and were collected from fields or grown in gardens.

  Some of these are self-sown. In Australia, such greens can be found in untended lots, beside railway lines or even in back yards – purslane, stinging nettle and dandelion, for example. Others can be grown from seed. I sometimes source these seeds from elders who produce fruit and vegetables in their home gardens using traditional methods handed down by family and friends – these people are the master practitioners of Mediterranean cuisine. Some greens, such as chicory, sorrel, radiccio, rocket, endives, mustard greens and beetroot tops, can be bought at markets.

  To wash greens, remove any old- or sick-looking leaves and immerse the remaining greens in plenty of water. Change the water until no dirt is left in it. As with mushrooms, it is best not to eat wild greens that you do not recognise, or that grew in a polluted area. With some varieties, only certain parts of the plant can be eaten.

  Many of these greens can be added to hortopita, a pie made from greens (see here for spanakopita). Another way of eating wild greens is simply to cook them in boiling water and dress them with olive oil and lemon juice. They go well with bread, olives or a little cheese. They are high in nutrients and fibre, often rivalling their more ‘civilised’ sisters such as spinach and silverbeet. They have also been associated with other health benefits, such as the low incidence of cardiovascular disease amongst Greek migrants. What’s not to like about wild greens?

  Wild Greens: A Whirlwind Tour

  Sow thistle (Sonchus oleraceus)

  Commonly known as zohos in Greek, this plant grows everywhere. It is best eaten young, when the shoots are bright green and can easily be snapped by hand from the bush. According to myth, the hero Theseus ate a dish of zohos before taking on the bull at Marathon.

  Season: Winter through spring

  To cook: Boil until tender. Add salt at the end of the cooking process. Drain and dress with lemon juice and olive oil. Also good in pies.

  Amaranth (Amaranthus spp.)

  Commonly known as vlita in Greek, this plant generally doesn’t grow wild, but you can harvest the seeds from a very mature plant. The young shoots are harvested before the plant flowers. Amaranth is coveted for its sweet flavour.

  Season: Summer

  To cook: Boil until tender. Amaranth is not often used in pies, except in small quantities.

  Stinging nettle (Urtica dioica)

  Commonly known as tsouknida, stinging nettles can grow to three- or four-feet tall. The young leaves are snapped by hand, preferably well before the barbs, which can irritate the skin, have had time to develop. Nettles grow wild, often in untended lots, or may appear in gardens where they were left to seed the year before.

  Season: Winter

  To cook: Nettles are beautiful in pies. They can also be boiled with other greens or used as a tea.

  Mallow (Malva parviflora)

  Commonly known as moloha (‘to soften’), the young shoots of this plant can be eaten, as can the immature seed pods. Mallow is considered a common weed and grows widely in neglected lots and gardens. The ancient Greeks used the leaves as a substitute for grape leaves for making dolmathes.

  Season: Winter

  To cook: Sauté with olive oil, garlic and chilli to lift the flavour; include in salads; or add to soups as a thickener.

  Purslane (Portulaca oleracea)

  Commonly known as glistrida or andrakles. The young leaves or shoots are used in salads – for example, combined with tomato and cucumber. They have a succulent texture and peppery taste.

  Season: Summer

  To cook: Use raw in salads or sauté lightly, dress with lemon juice and olive oil and serve as a side dish.

  Fennel (Foeniculum vulgare)

  Commonly known as marathos. The fronds of the fennel are used as a flavour enhancer.

  Season: Winter and early spring

  To cook: Use small amounts as an aromatic in pies, or to flavour fish.

  Dandelions (Taraxacum officinale)

  Commonly known as radiccia or agriohorta. The roots, leaves and buds of this plant are all edible. Cut the dandelions just below the base.

  Season: Winter

  To cook: Boil as for thistle or amaranthos, or sauté with olive oil.

  Cat’s ear or flat weed (Hypochaeris radicata)

  Cat’s ear is similar in appearance to dandelions and is even more widespread. These hairy leaves can be found in pastures and lawns, and along roadsides. Cut them just below the base.

  Season: Winter

  To cook: Boil, then dress with olive oil and lemon juice.

  Chicory (Cichorium intybus)

  Chicory plants grow along roadsides and fields and look similar to dandelions. They have blue (or sometimes pink or white) flowers. The leaves are eaten before the plant flowers.

  Season: Early spring

  To cook: Boil, then dress with olive oil and lemon juice. The roots can be used as a tea.

  For more information about wild greens and the Mediterranean diet, see www.markdymiotis.com.

  A very helpful booklet about identifying edible weeds is Doris Pozzi’s Edible Weeds and Garden Plants of Melbourne. Or, check out the many foraging sites online.

  The forest sighs

  The uphill road is followed by a downhill road

  Greek proverb

  ‘We need to have a trip without a map,’ Katerina says. ‘I’ll ask George to look after the kids. Let’s book in a date.’

  It
’s not quite Coober Pedy, but it’s still an adventure. We’ll follow our noses, see where we end up. It captures something of the women we were ten years ago. Admittedly, our escapades have been more sedate of late: Udon soups in Brunswick, sitting cross-legged on red cushions on the floor; bowls of phó in Preston, our elbows vying for space amongst the functional containers of chilli, soy sauce and chop sticks; reception-hall dinners at each of Katerina’s siblings’ weddings.

  Katerina pulls me away from the family for our monthly dinners out, where we speak Greek the whole night, reveling in words picked up on the streets of Athens and Salonika, hamming up our accents and making up words when we’re not quite sure of the real one. She keeps abreast of Greek music events, often inviting our family along. Whenever ‘our’ song comes on – ‘Enteka’, Eleven – Katerina and I get up to dance to its lyrical rhythms. We are still Thelma and Louise, just a little older, a little tamer.

  We never did get back to Cooper Pedy. I have the children to think of now, George and our home; I can’t just take off on a whim. As for Katerina, it’s not easy to get away on long trips either; there’s her neurotic cat, Spicy, who doesn’t like to be left alone, a mortgage, and the small problem of the cancers that keep coming back.

  ‘I’ve been diagnosed with a rare, aggressive lymphoma – more common in older African men than young women of Greek heritage,’ Katerina quipped when she first found out a few years back. Her finely tuned sense of irony is still her greatest asset. ‘At least now I might lose some weight.’

  But it hasn’t all been jokes and laughter. For the past few years her cancer has been like a shadow, following her wherever she goes. The treatments are relentless: chemotherapy, bone marrow transplants, blood transfusions. There are conversations about low blood counts, diarrhea and exhaustion. Her long, curly hair falls out in tufts onto her pillow; there are tears over the phone, and then the subdued chatter of family and friends as we gather in her back yard under moonlight and help her shave it off.