Afternoons in Ithaka Read online

  Combine the flour and salt in a deep bowl or clean plastic bag. Toss the fish and squid in the flour mixture and shake off any excess.

  Heat the oil in a frying pan; if you are using both fish and squid, use separate pans for each, as the squid will cook more quickly than the fish. When the oil is very hot, fry the fish and/or squid in batches until they are golden. Between batches, add extra oil if required. Serve with thick wedges of lemon, a garden salad and Chrysoula’s tyganites patates (here).

  Stathi’s souvlaki

  The house is small, but the heart is big

  Greek proverb

  Theia Kanella won’t hear of us staying in a hotel.

  ‘Remember when you stayed with us when you were little? Your father got so angry at all the racket the kids were making that he threw a mattress down the stairs?’ she says fondly. ‘They were good times.’

  I remember the stairs, and my dark, skinny cousins, but not the mattress coming down at us. My three boy cousins were like a pack of wild animals and they teased my delicate brother mercilessly. Now, they are men in their forties. Stathi lives with my aunty and works down the street, managing a cavernous two-dollar shop. Dionysios has divorced from his Swiss wife and he is also staying with my aunty while he builds his own home. His three children stay with him every weekend.

  I can hear Emmanuel fighting over the PlayStation with Dionysios’s son Odysseas in the other room. Emmanuel speaks hardly any Greek and Odysseas hardly any English, but somehow they manage to negotiate a solution. Emmanuel is picking up Greek words with amazing speed, no doubt out of self-preservation. Thelo – ‘I want’. Thiko mou – ‘mine’.

  George has gone with Dionysios to buy meat for a barbecue, perched on the back of Dionysios’s motorbike. He has no helmet; as they pulled off, I could see the trepidation in his eyes. Stathi is already outside in the tiny rectangle of yard, tending to the fire. He happily dons an apron and waves an Australiana tea towel my mother once sent him under my nose, laughing.

  My aunty is now seventy-one. She looks weary. At this age, she didn’t expect to have her two grown sons still living with her. Her son’s divorce was a big blow. She is also worried about the diving economy and how it is affecting Stathi’s business.

  ‘Oh well, Spirithoula mou, we’ll survive – we’ve been through worse than this. Greeks are survivors. We still manage to have a good time.’

  George and Dionysios finally come back with the meat and a dozen bottles of beer.

  George grins and whispers to me, ‘We went up the mountain to see the land where Dionysios will build his new house. I was holding the meat in one hand and the beer with the other. We’d had a few beers at the cafeneion beforehand. It was fun, but I’m glad to be back here in one piece.’

  I’m glad too. My cousins seem as wild as I remember them, despite the middle-aged spread around their tummies and the fact that Dionysios is now the father of three children.

  My aunty and I prepare the souvlaki meat and cut a salad. Stathis brandishes his tongs and cooks it all up. A few friends of Stathis drop in and we sit around the kitchen table, picking at the food and talking about the state of the economy. The situation is getting dire in Greece. As they talk about the broader political and economic forces at play, I have very little to contribute; my Greek is nowhere near good enough to keep up. George, even more at a loss, just knuckles down and has another souvlaki.

  After lunch, we gather bathers, towels, goggles and floating devices. Stathis arranges four plastic garden chairs in the back of his work van and the kids pile in.

  ‘Hold on to the rail and don’t let go,’ he tells them sternly.

  I would never allow this in Melbourne, but we’re in Greece and it would seem prudish to put up a fight. As I close the van door, the scent of dope wafts out. Did Stathis sneak a joint earlier, as well as the beers over lunch? The beach is two kilometres down the road. I pray silently that everyone will be safe. George and I hop into Stathi’s sports car, along with Dionysis and his eldest son, Achilleas. The car is a reminder of more affluent times; there are no buyers for such things now.

  At the beach, my cousins tumble through the surf with the children, showing them how to dive into the clear waters. Stathis would have made a nurturing father, I think. He is smart, generous and articulate. I am fond of this charming cousin of mine. Before long, he whips out a bag of souvlaki wrapped in foil and we dig in yet again.

  I swim out much deeper than I ever would in Australia. The waters are still and I can see the bottom even at a depth of eight or nine metres. I let go of my conscious mind and focus on the sensation of salt on skin, of water and sun, of my limbs floating without effort.

  When the kids are back on the sand, their bodies limp with exhaustion, Stathi suggests we visit the tiny chapel of Saint Yioryios, up behind the town’s mediaeval castle. The kids and their garish, oversized floaties are crammed back into the van and we set off up the hill on an unsealed road. Halfway up, I look back and see the van stopped on the side of the road, smoke billowing up from behind it. We pull over and walk back down to see what’s wrong.

  ‘I think there’s too much strain on the engine. I’ll give it a rest and try again in a little while.’ Stathis doesn’t seem too concerned. The kids are having a great time in the back, delighted by the novelty of it all.

  Eventually, the van starts up again and we reach the little chapel behind the castle, set amongst olives groves. The township spreads out below us. We light a candle, take a photograph, finish the rest of the souvlaki and make our way down the hill again. Finally, we arrive at my aunt’s house, salt-encrusted, sandy, but still alive. I breathe a sigh of relief. Saint Yioryios must be looking over us.

  Stathi’s souvlaki

  Here is Cousin Stathis’s insider advice – a treatise of sorts – on how to make the perfect souvlaki.

  The skewer

  Souvlaki literally means ‘little skewer’. Anything that can be skewered can be turned into souvlaki: pork, beef, lamb, kid goat or fish. Various vegetables can also be used: carrots, potatoes, peppers, fennel, eggplant, artichokes or zucchini. Simply remember that the pieces must all be approximately the same size, so that they cook evenly.

  The marinade

  For the best flavour, marinate your meat in the fridge for at least 12 hours. The marinade I make for all meats has a base of olive oil, crushed garlic and finely chopped spring onion. I don’t add salt or pepper at this stage, as salt saps the meat of moisture and pepper interacts with the olive oil and gives a flavour to the meat that is not at all pleasing. Certainly you can add any fresh herbs that you like – rosemary, thyme, savory or oregano, for example – but they are best fresh, not dried. Lemon, salt and pepper can be added once the meat has been cooked and removed from the fire.

  In Greece we say ‘Peri orexeos kolokithokorfathes.’ This ancient Greek saying literally means, ‘When it comes to taste, anything goes, even eating the zucchini plant tops.’ You can add to the marinade whatever you or your invited guests like.

  Fish is best with a light marinade of olive oil and lemon, added 10 minutes before you grill it. Saltwater fish has very sensitive flesh. It doesn’t like too much moisture once it has been removed from its natural environment.

  For vegetables, I use a marinade of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, freshly grated tomato and sugar (1 tablespoon of sugar for each litre of marinade). Marinate your vegetables at least 2 hours before cooking.

  The barbecue

  The barbecue should be placed in a spot protected from the wind. To this end, it helps to have an enclosed barbecue, and one that you can move around. The taste of food cooked over wood cannot be beaten. Avoid using wood that has that white stickiness to it, such as eucalyptus or any other wood that has a resin that makes your hands sticky.

  The salad

  The salad that accompanies souvlaki should include whatever you and your guests desire. Personally, I prefer a Greek salad of sliced tomato, sliced onion, fresh parsley, tzatziki (yoghurt and
cucumber dip with garlic – but not too much garlic) and paprika.

  The pita

  Pita is a companion to souvlaki. The bready taste of pita – be it Greek, Arabic, Indian, American or Russian – makes for a more filling souvlaki. Ready-made, frozen varieties of pita are full of preservatives and indifference. If you can’t make your own pita, a few hunks of freshly baked bread (see here) will do nicely.

  The secret

  Finally, there are two simple ingredients that are present in every Greek recipe: love and instinct. When you include these ingredients in your dish, it will not only be tasty, but also hilionostimo – a thousand times tasty.

  Psaria, freska psaria!

  If you cannot catch a fish, do not blame the sea

  Greek proverb

  ‘Psaria, psaria, freska psaria!’ Fish, fish, fresh fish!

  The boats are coming in. They circle the small bay and drop their catch off near the makeshift stalls on the foreshore.

  ‘They’re not bringing much in today,’ Mum’s cousin Theia Magda whispers as she inspects the calamari, small fry and a few yopes that have just been laid out onto blue plastic sheets. It’s early, but already it is hot and the flies are out.

  ‘Let’s go and buy the bread and we can come back later. Maybe by then another boat will have come in.’

  We’ve been in Mum’s village for four days now, and this daily morning walk with Theia Magda is fast becoming my favourite part of the day.

  Many other women are out picking up supplies for the day’s meals. In the fourno, the bakery, the baker piles crusty loaves from wicker baskets onto the shelves. The smell almost makes me faint with desire, just as it did all those years ago from my grandmother’s oven down the road.

  At the greengrocer, we fill a paper bag with brown lentils. My aunt eyes the tomatoes. They are too ripe for a salad, but they are perfect for the lentil soup. As I know my kids won’t eat lentils (‘Spirithoula, you’ve got to teach them; my grandkids love lentil soup!’), I go into the butcher’s to pick up some mince for a Bolognese sauce. There is a whole lamb and what looks like a young goat strung up from the rafters, and an animal spread out on a cutting bench behind the counter. The butcher cuts pieces from the carcasses to order. I notice that people ask for small portions; each customer walks away with a petite package or two. Meat is so much more expensive than in Australia. There are a dozen women in the small shop, greeting one another and gossiping. I daresay there won’t be much meat left by mid-morning.

  Should I just ask for kimas, mince, or will I need to specify from which part of the animal? My aunt is suddenly by my side and after a few quick words in Greek, my package is handed over the counter.

  We walk around the foreshore, past the vrissi, the tap spurting fresh water from a deep well, and past Theia’s patriko spiti, her father’s home, where she grew up. As we walk, she reminisces about the good times she had in that house. It’s a two-storey archondiko, one of the stately old houses on the water, and once had a café out the front. I never thought of my mother’s village as having a middle class before, but Theia Magda’s family would have been described thus. Her father worked in the United States and returned to Petalidi with enough money to send his three daughters overseas to study, at a time when educating girls was unheard of. He taught himself French, practising new words in a notebook every day. Theia Magda has a masters in education and speaks a quaint, formal English, also rare for a Greek woman in her seventies. But still, she had to work in the fields as a child. She fondly remembers working alongside my mother, laughing and singing. Her own laughter is contagious, loud and musical. In my mind’s eye, I can see Magda and Mum giggling together. I have never met anyone quite like Magda – she is a delicious combination of city civility and village earthiness.

  We wind around the big house and enter the one behind it, where Magda now lives during the summer. On the TV inside, Tom and Jerry race across the screen, babbling in dubbed Greek. The kids eye the fresh bread and George cuts them a few thick wedges, which he drizzles with olive oil and oregano. My aunt and I put away our shopping and prepare the lentil soup and Bolognese sauce. Finally, I put on a pot of Turkish coffee and mix in a spoonful of tahini, a habit my aunt remembers from the Depression; she has now got me adding the nutritious sesame seed paste to the thick brew.

  Today we plan to visit Mum’s old home. I have been avoiding this, for fear of the state it will be in.

  ‘It’s a shame, Spirithoula mou, what’s happened to the home. It’s falling down. I’ve tried to ring your uncle, but he never picks up his phone.’

  I too have tried to contact my uncle, but on the one occasion he did pick up, he hung up on me. I was trying for my mother’s sake, but I am proud for her sake, too. I don’t plan to ring him again.

  We walk up the hill to the old house. A friend of Theia Magda’s, who is lame in one leg from a childhood disease, limps along beside us. We help her with her shopping. Her goat trails behind us, bell clanging. The kids are delighted; they’ve never walked a goat before. We wave goodbye when we reach her home and keep going up the hill. Magda tells me her friend looks after her bedridden father, who is now in his nineties.

  The front courtyard of my mother’s old home is covered with debris and weeds. We pull them away from the doorway to get in. I put the big metal key into the keyhole. After much tugging and pulling, the door finally opens.

  Inside, it is dark and cool. There is dirt all over the floor and fallen plaster on the faded nylon bedspreads. I step down into the kitchen. The table is covered in rubbish: a Raki bottle; a packet of flour eaten through by mice. An old calendar shows the year 1993, just a couple of years after I visited my uncle and his girls here. One wall has collapsed outwards; I can see a patch of yard through the gaping hole. In the bedroom, a black woollen coat hangs on the wall and I recognise it as one my mother sent to my grandmother many years ago. I recall my grandmother tending the wood-fired oven, my grandfather in the garden drying grapes, and I ache for them. My aunty looks at me sadly, as if she were to blame for the wreckage.

  ‘Perhaps the will is hidden somewhere here? Maybe we should look?’ Her big brown eyes dance. She really wants to see this home belong to someone, to see it brought back to life. But my grandfather died in the early 1980s. It was rumoured he made a will, but no one could find it. Surely my uncle has searched here already?

  Still, we have nothing to lose. We look under lumpy mattresses, in cupboards and musty suitcases. I find old clothes ruined by mould, newspapers dating back to the ’80s, a thin gold ring tucked inside a black wallet. As we hunt, I feel a pang of guilt; it feels like we are disturbing something we shouldn’t. When we don’t find the will, I am disappointed but not surprised.

  We lock up and go back to Magda’s house. For lunch we eat silky lentil soup with tomato, carrots and celery. We pick at olives and feta and wipe our plates clean with the bread. The kids eat spaghetti. My aunty berates me good naturedly for giving them too many choices. And she tells me again that I must make more of an effort to teach them Greek. I shrug. I know, I know.

  After lunch, we go upstairs to have a siesta. There is no breeze. An electric mosquito zapper pzzts intermittently. The kids read and I close my eyes; sleep does not come, but it’s nice to be still.

  In the afternoon, I tell Magda I’m going back to Yiayia’s house to clean up.

  ‘I feel I need to do it, for my grandmother.’

  I buy a hardy broom and industrial garbage bags from the hardware shop. On my way back to the house, I can hear voices from the porches I pass, feel eyes following me up the street.

  I start with the weeds out the front, filling a black garbage bag to the top. I am interrupted by a neighbour, my mother’s cousin, Theio Panagioti.

  ‘Spirithoula, esi eisai?’ Spirithoula, is that you?

  ‘Yes, Theio. We’re here with my husband and two kids, staying with Theia Magda. It’s nice to see you again. I’ve come to clean up.’

  ‘What a shame the house
has come to this. It was so lovely when we were kids. Now, I’ll expect you and your family and Magda will come for a meal before you leave, yes? My girls and wife would love to see you.’

  ‘Yes, Theio, thank you.’

  Mum often tells me stories about her cousins next door, of the good times she had here growing up. She will be pleased I have seen Panagioti.

  Inside, I collect all the musty clothes, the newspapers and anything else that has no value, monetary or sentimental. Into the bag it all goes. One by one, black bags pile up by the front door. I daren’t go into the kitchen for fear that the stone roof will collapse on me, but I clear every other room of debris. I sweep the floors, tidy the beds and arrange the scattered chairs. Finally, I salvage what hand-woven mats I can, shake them onto the road and lay them out on the floors. I leave the black coat hanging where it is. It has taken a few hours, but I feel my grandmother would be pleased.

  George, Magda and the kids come up the hill to check on me. They are back from a swim in the sea. I ask George to take photos so that my mother can see her old home. No doubt she will be upset, but I feel a pressing need to record this for posterity; who knows what will be here the next time we visit?

  Magda’s fakes (lentil soup)

  Serves 6

  Ingredients

  3 cups brown lentils

  1 cup olive oil

  1 bay leaf

  1 sprig rosemary

  2 medium carrots, sliced

  2 sticks celery

  750 grams fresh tomato pulp, or 1 can diced tomatoes

  4 or 5 cloves garlic, finely sliced

  1 brown onion, finely sliced

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Method

  Wash the lentils in cold water and discard any that float to the top. Place the lentils in a large, heavy pot with 2 litres of water and turn on the heat. When the water comes to the boil, skim the surface of the frothy grey scum that comes up. Add the oil, herbs, carrots and celery. Cook on a low heat until the lentils and vegetables are nearly soft. Add the tomato, salt and pepper, and cook for a further 20 minutes.