Afternoons in Ithaka Page 23

  Greek proverb

  When I see the cement truck parked out the front of our house, I know my dream of a village oven is dead. The sentiment is village – but the construction is most definitely city.

  George has been mumbling about formwork and besser bricks and rebars in his sleep. He is on a first-name basis with the staff at our local hardware store. I was worried the project might be getting out of control, but the cement truck confirms it beyond a doubt.

  ‘They didn’t have cement trucks in the village, George. This is going to be the most over-engineered oven in the Southern Hemisphere.’

  ‘Well, the slab has to be solid enough to hold the oven.’

  ‘How big is this oven going to be?’

  ‘Big enough to bake eight loaves at a time, a few pizzas and a roast. But maybe not all at once. When we fire it up, it’s got to be worthwhile.’

  I have to admit, I am excited. ‘Maybe we can have a once-a-month firing at our house, book our family and friends in. We’ll let the neighbours know – they can bring food to put in it too.’

  ‘I hope it works.’ His brow furrows. He’s in deep now.

  I hope so too. This is turning out to be a much more expensive project than we envisioned – cement trucks don’t come cheap. Not to mention the space the oven is going to take up in the yard. What with the garden beds, the clothesline, the barbecue, four bikes and the trampoline, our suburban yard is looking very congested.

  George’s friend Joseph knocked on the door at 7.30 this morning, just before the cement truck arrived.

  ‘Sorry I’m late – I slept in. No, we can have coffee later. Let’s get to work.’

  Joseph’s family is from Lebanon. In his mother’s village, every house had a wood-fired oven. He too is a cartographer, but has also run his own tiling business in the past. He knows a thing or two about concrete. My husband gets his level and his T-square out. He is worried that the wooden frame has buckled with the recent heat, but his friend shrugs. It should be right.

  My husband carts the concrete in his new red wheelbarrow and Joseph spreads it out. By 8.30 they are done. We have a shiny grey concrete slab in the middle of the yard. When it dries a little, George will smooth it over and neaten the edges.

  ‘It looks so beautiful,’ I proffer. ‘Maybe we should just keep the slab and not build the oven on top of it. Perhaps it could be a dance floor.’

  The men laugh. Joseph says he has never heard a concrete slab called ‘beautiful’ before. But they quickly turn their attention back to besser bricks, the best way to cut them in half, and how to hold up the second cement slab that will go on top of the stand. Clearly it is time for me to go inside.

  Later that evening, the kids admire the slab. It’s too late to initial it – the concrete has already set – but they are excited about mosaiking the oven once it’s ready.

  ‘I think a sun would be good,’ Dolores says. ‘Perhaps on top of the dome, with rays coming down the sides.’

  ‘I love that idea. But you would need to look at it from the top to get the full effect. What about if the entrance of the oven represents the sun, and the rays come off that? Maybe in mirror tiles – lots of gold and burnt orange …’

  George has other ideas. A map. A Maltese fishing boat. A portrait of our family. All in little bitty tiles. Dolores and I roll our eyes.

  ‘Maybe let us project-manage the mosaiking,’ I say. ‘We’ll need a name for the oven. What about Helios? That’s Greek for sun.’

  We all agree that this is a fitting name. But we’re a long way off from accessorising. George’s Zeki comes to help pour concrete between the besser bricks to stabilise the base. Zeki, an engineer, is originally from Ankara in Turkey. Afterwards, over a lunch of frittata, olives, tomatoes, feta, bread and some leftover okra stew, Zeki suggests we place a time capsule in one of the hollow bricks in the base of the oven.

  ‘Like the ruins at Petra or Pompeii,’ pipes up ten-year-old Emmanuel.

  In coming weeks, we schedule blocks of time between work and family commitments to finish building the oven. George scribbles constantly in his notebook. One morning, as I am preparing lunch boxes, his brow furrows.

  ‘I don’t think it’s going to be ready by Easter, Spiri. Perhaps by the first day of winter?’

  That afternoon, I consult Mum. ‘How long did the wood-fired ovens in the village take to build?’

  ‘Oh, about a day. There was a man in our village who built them. He made them with branches. He’d bend them into the shape of a dome, then pack rocks and mud around them. I think it was done by the end of the day.’ We laugh. They didn’t have hardware stores or Gantt charts in Mum’s day, but their ovens managed to stay up for generations.

  Despite George’s worries and the mirth of our friends about how long it’s taking, I have no doubt that the oven will work – so much thought and careful engineering has gone into it. I respect that George has done it slowly, thoroughly. My mother-in-law’s words come back to me. A successful partnership is based on patience.

  GEORGE ON BUILDING A WOOD-FIRED OVEN

  In countries like Italy and Greece, the skills to build wood-fired ovens would have been passed down from person to person. In Australia, it’s not part of our heritage, so those of us who want to build one generally have to draw on books, courses and online forums.

  I enrolled in a one-day course to build a wood-fired oven run by a Cypriot-Australian baker, Mark Dymiotis. But kids came along and I just kept putting it off. Then my father-in-law got seriously ill and so I postponed doing it. That was nine years ago.

  There are many books out there about building wood-fired ovens. It can be a bit overwhelming choosing a design. After doing a lot of reading, I decided that I wanted an oven that heated up quickly, cooled down slowly, and wouldn’t collapse. I also wanted my favourite baking dish to fit into the entrance of the oven.

  If the oven or its door is too small, dishes won’t fit into it. If it’s too big, it will take a long time to heat up. Your choice of design will depend on what type, and the amount, of food you want to cook. I wanted to fit eight bread loaves into a single firing, so I decided on a 90-centimetre diameter. When fired, the oven should stay hot for a day or more, and so that you can stagger the cooking process.

  One of the books I sourced was The Bread Builders: Hearth Loaves and Masonry Ovens by Alan Scott and Daniel Wing. It is very comprehensive, particularly when it comes to the history of ovens, how to build a barrel-style vault oven, and how to make sourdough bread. Vault ovens are rectangular and ideal for baking bread. There are many books out there on building clay ovens, too. These are cheaper and quicker to build. You can use materials from the back yard, but these ovens can crack and need to be rebuilt every few years.

  In the end, I decided to build a dome-style oven. This is the traditional type of oven you find in Italy. It heats up quickly, is self-standing, burns fuel efficiently, and holds its heat for a long time. It also heats more evenly, as (unlike in vault ovens) there are no pockets of cooler air in the corners. There are thousands of dome-style ovens in Italy. More than thirty such ovens have been uncovered in Pompeii. If it’s good enough for the Romans, it’s good enough for me.

  I found free online instructions on how to build an authentic Italian wood-burning oven from a company called Forno Bravo, based in California. You can download a very comprehensive guide that outlines each step – from building the slab to completing the oven enclosure – as well as a good materials list. They also have great tips on firing and cooking in the oven.

  Forno Bravo also has a huge user forum, which is like a global village of oven builders. Here you can share your experiences and frustrations. The forum is good if you have a problem and you want to know how to resolve it. However, sometimes there is a little too much information, and of course different opinions, so it can be a bit daunting. Many people put forward their own designs and their own ideas. For me, it was best to stick to one set of instructions.

  I underes
timated the time it would take to build the oven. If you’re working full time and have kids as we do, you might only be able to do it on the weekends. I would allow six months if this is the case.

  You can buy kits with all the materials to build the hearth and dome, or you can buy the materials separately. If I were to do it again, I would buy materials from one place rather than trek across the suburbs to different suppliers, hunting for the cheapest supplies. Our oven will end up costing around A$2500. I know that in villages they would have used found materials, clay and rocks for example, and it would have cost a fraction of that, if anything at all. This oven is a long way from those found in the village.

  Through this process, I’ve learnt that you need some basic skills in carpentry, engineering, concreting, tiling, masonry, bricklaying and insulating in order to build a wood oven. As a qualified cartographer, I have none of these skills. But, I do know about straight lines, angles and measurements. I also know how to wield a level and a T-square. The challenge, but also the joy, has been in developing skills I didn’t have. Some of these I learnt by reading, some by asking and most through doing. I took pride in completing many things myself. In order to do things like lay the concrete properly, I got help from mates who knew more than I did. Working with friends isn’t just about the skills; it’s about bonding, having a bit of fun, sharing the experience.

  I walk past the oven-in-process in the mornings. I admire the dew over the freshly laid concrete, the lemon verbena casting a little shadow over it, and it makes me smile. The kids stir me about how much work I’ve put into the oven, how long it’s taking, but that’s part of the fun too. People at work have teased and encouraged me in equal measure. Some of my colleagues did an oven-building course years ago but never got around to making one. I think I’ve motivated them to put it back on their agenda.

  Perhaps constructing a wood-fired oven is about a primal urge to go back to basics. There’s the attraction of the fire and the appeal of a simpler way of cooking. There is an element of obsession once you get started; I’m already wondering about building a second oven, improving on the first. Spiri shakes her head in dismay.

  One of the joys for me has been seeing our daughter get excited about what she wants to cook in the oven, about creating the mosaic, and about inviting her friends to eat with us. And our son made the time capsule with great gusto.

  I can’t wait to bake bread. I want to see how long the oven stays warm and how many dishes we can cook in one firing. But most of all, I’m looking forward to sharing and eating food with our family and friends. That’s really what it’s all about.

  Epilogue

  Mesmerised, I watch as blue-orange flames lick at the pile of twigs collected from our winter garden, framed by the arch of the oven. I take in the first breath of smoke and am catapulted back through time: to my grandmother’s village, watching plump orbs of bread come out from the oven’s hearth; to a sepia-toned image in my Greek-school reader of twigs atop an old-fashioned cooker; and to a half-barrel filled with burning wood, ready to accommodate a whole lamb on the spit. As the flames get bigger I feel a deep-seated pleasure at creating something so beautiful. I carefully place a log on the flames and turn to George and Dolores.

  ‘You lit it on the first go,’ says Dolores, surprised. She and George went through a whole box of matches trying to light the fire earlier.

  I’m not surprised. It’s as if all these collective memories are guiding my hand – instinctively, I know what to do to get the fire going.

  What does surprise me is my fascination with the fire. On this, the first day of firing, George and I tend to it in turns. I stoke it carefully, blowing it when it threatens to die down, exalting as the flames reel up when I add another log. I push the fire around the hearth, curing the virgin bricks. All of this feels strangely right. I feel calm, as if I am stepping back into myself. The smell gets into the wool of my jumper, into my hair, so that the fire follows me even when I leave it.

  In the afternoon, George and I pull up plastic chairs, facing them at the entrance of the oven. In a show of chivalry, George dramatically takes off his jumper and wipes the grime off my chair. I laugh, reminded of my father-in-law making a similar gesture for his wife the first time I met him fifteen years ago.

  Light drops of rain fall into our coffee cups as we sit in front of the dome. Emmanuel comes out intermittently, placing eucalyptus branches into the fire. He stands on the stepladder to see the thermometer and announces the temperature: 120 degrees Celsius, 150, back down to 120. We need to get the balance right – heat the oven too fast at this early stage and it might crack, but if we don’t get the heat up, we won’t be able to cook pizza tomorrow. Perhaps prematurely, we have invited our families over for lunch to celebrate the almost-finished oven. We have even made a special trip to an Italian supermarket on the other side of town, stocking up on anchovies, artichokes, mozzarella, prosciutto and Sicilian salami. Dolores has helped to make the dough. I stood by, ready to teach her how to knead properly, but she has been making bread with George for years and pummelled the flour and oil and water into a silky dough without my help.

  As the rain comes down, we hunker deeper into our coats and watch the fire. I think of my grandparents living off the land in Greece, of my parents sailing across the world to make a home here in Australia, of my family and me, drawn around the strange dome-like structure in the middle of the yard, with its time capsule embedded deep within. Now that George has built the oven, it will be harder for us ever to leave this home we have made for ourselves. I remember the dreams we had for our garden in the early days of our courtship: ‘Our garden will flourish and be noisy with boisterous bees and sensual smells as our kitchen will be generous with tall tales and arousing aromas.’ I take hold of George’s hand and smile.

  Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

  The village that grew the book

  Just as it takes a whole village to raise a child, so too it takes a whole village to grow a book.

  First, there were the midwives who delivered the baby. Thank you to my agent Jacinta DiMase, publisher Helen Littleton, editor extraordinaire Denise O’Dea and the team at ABC Books/HarperCollins for bringing this book into the world.

  There were those who oversaw my fledgling creation in its infancy, reading and commenting on early chapters. Thank you Nicolas Brasch, Kerrin O’Sullivan, Fiona Samios, Kathy Petras, Myfanwy Jones, Sam Lawry, Maryrose Cuskelly, Wendy Meddings, Jane Woollard, Shelley Kenigsberg, Jane Scully, Debbie Murray, Lina Scalzo and George Mifsud.

  There were those who fed this book with their beautiful recipes and stories. Thank you Kerrin O’Sullivan, Vlasios Tzikas, Chrysoula Tsintziras, Georgia Poulis, John Tsimiklis, Christina and Sevi Skaleris, Lina and Maria Scalzo, Mary Coustas, Irine Vela, Fiona Pirperis, Miranda Chiappini, Panayioti Stathopoulos, Kanella Karydomati, the New England Cheesemaking Supply Company, Natasha Blemenos, D.O.C Gastronomia Italiana, Katya Goodall, Asimina Tzanoukaki, George Mifsud, Gracie Spiteri, Nikos Vlahos, Mark Dymiotis, Tina Tasiopoulos, Stathis Karydomatis, Magda Softi and Evangelia Skevofylakas.

  And finally, to those that gave this book body and soul. To Katerina, whose wisdom and spirit still guide me. To my father, who taught me about the importance of a story well told and embellishments convincingly executed. To my mother, who still gives me daily lessons on how to show love through food. To my husband, whose exquisite photographs grace this book; not only did he complete our wood-fired oven, but he still makes me laugh daily (sometimes even more). Finally, to our delicious children Dolores and Emmanuel – how blessed are we that we wished for you, and along you came?

  ‘Ithaka’: written by Constantine Cavafy, from C. P. Cavafy: Selected Poems, translated by Edmund Keeley and Phillip Sherrard; © 1972 Edmund Keeley and Phillip Sherrard. Reprinted with permission Princeton University Press.

  Excerpt from ‘Mycenae’: written by George Seferis, from George
Seferis: Collected Poems, translated by Edmund Keeley; © 1967 Princeton University Press, 1995 renewed PUP/1995 revised edition. Reprinted with permission Princeton University Press.

  Extract from ‘The Axion Esti’: written by Odysseus Elytis, translated by Edmund Keeley and George Savidis; © 1980 Anvil Press Poetry, 2007 edition.

  Excerpt from Mermaid Singing: written by Charmian Clift; © 1958 Angus & Robertson, 1992 edition, NSW/Aust.

  Excerpt from The Picture of Dorian Gray: written by Oscar Wilde, edited by Peter Ackroyd; © 1891 Penguin Books, 1985 edition.

  Photographs on here 10, 26, 54, 68, 76, 109, 114, 132, 136, 148, 197, 206, 229, 265, 273, 280, 305, 308, 311 and 322 used with permission of George Mifsud; © George Mifsud.

  Photographs on here 151, 162 and 335 from Spiri Tsintziras; © Spiri Tsintziras.

  Photograph on here used with permission of Georgia Metaxas; © Georgia Metaxas.

  About the Author

  With a keen interest in people and their stories, Spiri Tsintziras has a background in social work and freelance journalism and has worked in marketing, publishing and policy roles for more than fifteen years. She has had numerous stories about food, family and connection published in The Age, and is the co-author of Parlour Games for Modern Families, the winner of the Australian Book Industry Award for Book of the Year for Older Children (2010). Spiri lives in Melbourne with her husband, two kids and a bunch of pets. Visit Spiri at her blog www.tribaltomato.com

  Copyright

  The ABC ‘Wave’ device is a trademark of the

  Australian Broadcasting Corporation and is used

  under licence by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia.

  First published in Australia in 2014

  This edition published in 2014

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517