Afternoons in Ithaka Read online

  Over the road, we cross the black bitumen of the schoolyard and enter our classroom. The room echoes with thirty pairs of shoes as we clamber to get to our desks. The scrape of metal on wood makes the teacher grimace. He glares at us. We lift our chairs and sit down.

  I pull out my books and look up expectantly. I want to put my hand up and say I have finally mastered long division. I look around at my classmates. Apart from Megan, who wears thick black-rimmed glasses, I know no one else will appreciate the information. I put my head down and start my work.

  Chrysoula’s pan-fried glykathakia (sweetbreads)

  Serves 8 as an appetiser

  Ingredients

  1 kilogram lamb sweetbreads (pre-order these from your butcher)

  1 glass dry white wine

  ½ cup olive oil

  ½ teaspoon oregano

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Method

  Wash the sweetbreads carefully, removing the fine hairs. Place in a saucepan of cold water and bring to the boil. As soon as the water bubbles, transfer the sweetbreads to a colander and rinse them with cold water.

  Place the sweetbreads and the wine in a frying pan over low heat. Cover and simmer until the wine has reduced. Add the oil, oregano, salt and pepper and cook until tender. Serve with crusty bread and salad.

  Inky squid sandwiches

  A priest blesses his own bread first

  Greek proverb

  ‘That’s disgusting!’

  ‘Urrrgghh, what is that?’

  ‘It’s squid.’

  I look down at my sandwich. Black inky squid on white sandwich bread. It seemed a good idea this morning, but now it has turned into a dark, soggy mess.

  My friends shuffle along the wooden bench, staying well clear of my smelly sandwich and me. I eat quickly, then make my way to the monkey bars, where I might redeem myself with my flips. But before lunch is over, everyone knows. Spiridoula ate squid sandwiches for lunch.

  It’s Easter week and we’re fasting at home. This means we don’t eat milk, eggs or meat. Mum fasts for forty days, but she’s satisfied if the rest of us fast for the week.

  ‘Mama, tomorrow I’ll take tomato-sauce sandwiches for lunch,’ I announce when I get home.

  ‘Oti thelis,’ she says absently. Whatever you want. She’s standing on a chair, taking down curtains. There are piles of them on the floor. She plans to wash them in the bath. It’s important to have everything clean for Easter. This is what they did in the village, and this is what she does here. ‘Please can you get a rag and start dusting?’

  I do as I am told. The house must be spotless before we can get on to the cooking. Once the curtains are soaking, Mum starts on some bread. I watch as she expertly rolls out the dough, putting her whole body into it. She lets me have a go, but my strokes are nowhere near as good. She puts the dough into a huge basin and covers it with a few blankets, just as my grandmother did when we were in Greece. When the dough has doubled in size, she places it into large round tins and puts these in the oven. The house fills with its heady aroma. Before we go to sleep, she lets me have a wedge with oil and oregano on top.

  The next day we make koulourakia, coiled Easter cookies. I place my clumsy shapes next to Mum’s. ‘Bravo, Spirithoula, bravo,’ she says. Then we dye a few dozen eggs. Mum drops them gently into the pot and I watch in wonder as they come out, blood red. The egg is a symbol of the renewal of life, representing victory over death. It’s my job to polish them with olive oil and place them in the blue bowl with the ornate silver handle.

  Good Friday arrives and in the evening we pile into the Valiant and head down to Ayia Triada, the Holy Trinity church in Richmond.

  The smell of honey, incense and perfume assaults me as we enter the church. Rhythmic chants cut through the stifling haze. High above, mournful Byzantine saints look down at us. The immense gold chandeliers look dangerously heavy and I wonder whether we would survive if they were to fall on our heads. I look up, expecting God to say something, but He doesn’t.

  My father lifts me to kiss the myriad icons; I am careful to avoid the lipstick marks. A middle-aged man guides us to the front, away from the aisle.

  ‘Yriyora, min stekese stin mesi,’ he says impatiently. Quickly, don’t stand in the middle. There are many hundreds of people in the church, and it’s his job to make sure they move in an orderly fashion.

  We are ushered to the Epitaphio, the symbolic bier of Christ. I look in awe at this ornate casket, its canopy of chrysanthemums intricately woven like a rich tapestry. I have to stand on my toes to kiss the image of Him. Then we are pushed onward and outside by the mass of bodies behind us. The cool night air is a welcome relief. I clutch my father’s hand tightly so that I don’t lose him among the thousands of people lining the streets.

  The priest finally emerges from inside the church. In the doorway, he seems immense in his vestments, a dark figure backlit by the light from inside. The jingling of his incense holder announces that the bier is approaching behind him. Men strain under its weight. We part to give it room. The bier is carried slowly down the stairs like a coffin, step by careful step.

  We follow behind, each carrying a candle. As far as the eye can see, lights flicker in the night air. We slowly follow the bier and the sound of chanting. I play with the warm wax of my candle, seeing how close I can get my fingers to the flame before they burn. My father takes a firmer hold of my hand, concerned for the skirt of the woman in front of me.

  Locals come to their front gates to watch the passing parade. The dark bodies and little lights buffer me. I feel protected, part of something so much bigger than myself. I think back to the week of squid and tomato sauce sandwiches, the cleaning, the cooking; it all leads to the service commemorating the resurrection of Christ tomorrow night. There will be fireworks and laughter at midnight, and we will go home to eat soup and crack our eggs and say Christos anesti, Christ has risen. I clasp Dad’s hand a little tighter. I’m glad to be here.

  Chrysoula’s bread

  Makes 3 or 4 loaves

  Mum regularly bakes both for the family and as a prosforo, an offering for church. In Greece, she baked from a sourdough starter, but in Australia she usually uses the live yeast available from most Greek delicatessens. There is a hefty dose of intuition involved – she will know instinctively if a little more flour or water is required, and if the dough has risen enough. Below is her recipe translated into cups and grams.

  Ingredients

  30 grams fresh yeast or 2 tablespoons dry yeast

  3 cups lukewarm water

  8½ cups flour (whole wheat, barley, white and/or cornflour)

  1 tablespoon salt

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  1 tablespoon sugar

  Method

  In a small bowl, dissolve the yeast in half a cup of lukewarm water. Cover with cling wrap and place a blanket over the top, then set it aside for an hour.

  In a large bowl, sift the flour with the salt and make a well in the centre. Add the oil, sugar, yeast mixture and 2 cups of lukewarm water. Using your hands, slowly mix everything together, pulling in the flour until it all comes together. If more water is needed, add a little at a time. Turn out the dough onto a floured surface and continue kneading until it is smooth and no longer sticks to the hands.

  Lightly oil another mixing bowl. Place the dough inside and roll it around until it is coated in oil. Cover the bowl with a clean, damp dishcloth and a light blanket. Allow to rise for around 1 hour.

  After an hour, punch the dough down and knead for 5 or 6 minutes on a floured surface. Divide the dough into 3 or 4 portions and form them into round, oblong or baguette-shaped loaves. Place the loaves several centimetres apart on floured trays and cover with a damp tea towel and a blanket. Allow the loaves to rise for 1 hour or until they have doubled in size.

  Preheat the oven to 220°C, then bake the loaves for 1 hour. When the bread is golden and makes a ‘hollow’ sound when tapped on the bottom, it is ready.

>   The sacrificial lamb

  The good housewife cooks before she gets hungry

  Greek proverb

  I try not to look at the lamb’s eyes, or at the mouth clamped shut with wire, the sharp teeth still visible as it turns around, slowly, slowly. The lamb’s body has been secured to the spit so that it doesn’t move, metal skewers pushed through the flesh and clamped on. I feel sorry for the animal, but I know I will not be able to resist eating it – it smells delicious.

  The spit has a small motor attached, perhaps from an old lawn mower or washing machine, which is connected to a rubber belt. The spit itself is made from a 44-gallon drum cut in half. When I was very little, we used to turn the lamb by hand. Sometimes I was allowed to have a turn, but my face quickly burnt with the heat and the job would be handed back to the men.

  There’s a regular ssszzz sound as fat drips from the lamb into the coals. The heat is unbearable, but I reach out to pluck a piece of skin. I’ve been waiting so long. I pull away a large strip, much bigger than I expected. I stuff it into my mouth before anyone sees. It’s crisp and salty and leaves a pleasant oily taste on my tongue.

  Soon after, the motor stops. All the men are off their vinyl seats and talking loudly, arguing about the best way to stop the whole lamb catching fire as the fat pools on the coals below. My uncle pulls out an old piece of corrugated iron; he puts it between the lamb and the coals while he fixes the motor. I scurry off, my cheeks burning.

  Inside, my cousins are playing cards, my Theio Niko dealing. They move over for me and hand me a stack of one-and two-cent coins. The card game is one in which luck plays some part, but the willingness of players to pit themselves against the dealer is what makes or breaks them.

  Theio Niko flips the cards over, counting like he’s working at the casino.

  ‘Se efaga!’ he says when we bust, with a dramatic flourish of his trump card and a smug chuckle. I’ve eaten you.

  John, his son, itches to deal so that he can ‘eat’ his dad in return.

  My stack of coins dwindles quickly. I take too many risks and am too distracted by the lamb smells emanating from the back yard.

  It’s New Year’s Eve and Cousin Tom’s house is full of people. The women are putting the final touches to the food on the kitchen table; the men are outside drinking and talking, keeping an eye on the spit; the teenagers have holed up in the front room. I am restless and move from room to room.

  Tomorrow, New Year’s Day, is Saint Basil’s Day, when we will visit all the people we know by that name. Theio Vassili in Collingwood will have enough chops, sausages and rissoles on his barbecue to feed the whole street. Then we might go to my godfather Vassili’s house – perhaps he’ll have another lamb on the spit going. I might not want to eat it again tomorrow, but I doubt it.

  ‘Why don’t women have parties on their name days?’ I ask Mum. It seems men get all the honours – parties on their saint days, pride of place at the head of the table.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘That’s how it’s always been in Greece.’

  Her answer doesn’t make sense to me. I see that most women we know work in factories and shops just like their husbands. It’s not like Greece here at all.

  When the sun goes down, the lamb is ready, and the table in the kitchen is brimming. There are three types of everything: roasted potatoes, potato salad and scordalia (potato and garlic dip); Greek salad, coleslaw, and lettuce and cucumber pieces; taramosalata (caviar dip), tzatziki and melitzanosalata (eggplant dip). There’s a basket of bread piled high and the platter of juicy chunks of lamb, as well as sausages and other meats. I fill my plate with meat, bread, salads. We sit wherever there is a free space, eating and talking.

  At the end of the night, Theio Niko lines us kids up and gives us the money he has won, saying ‘Fai yiati pinases’ – Eat, because you are hungry – as he hands over the coins. His son John pipes up ‘Akoma pinao’ after he gets his share: I’m still hungry. His father tells him not to be a smart-arse. His mother overhears and gives her husband a serve for swearing at the child on New Year’s Eve; it is bad luck. She asks John if he really is hungry. ‘Not for food,’ he replies with a grin.

  Finally, the clock strikes midnight and we kiss and hug one another. ‘Hronia polla.’ Many years to you. ‘Panta me uyeia.’ May you always have good health.

  We cut the vasilopita, the New Year’s cake. The first piece is dedicated to God, the second to the home, the third to the man of the house, and so on until everyone has been covered. There’s a coin baked into the bottom; whoever gets it will have luck for the rest of the year. I miss out this year, but I am hopeful that next time it will be my turn.

  I’m tired, but it’s time for sweets, so I perk up. The kitchen table has been cleared of savouries and is now filled from corner to corner with baklava, melamakarona (honeyed sweets that look like oversized macaroni), kourabiethes (shortbread dusted with icing sugar), galahktobouriko (filo pastry filled with custard) and karithopita (walnut cake). This year someone has brought pavlova. My aunts and Mum gather around; they wonder at how the egg base can be made so crisp on the outside and so soft in the middle. I love the crunchy shell and the soft eggy mixture that melts in your mouth. Then there’s the freshness of the fruit and the delicious fattiness of the cream. It’s so different from the syrupy cakes I am used to.

  I go outside with my cousins and we pick up coals and throw them against the concrete, watching them burst into sparks until the adults tell us off.

  The lamb looks nude now, its bones showing, the fat coagulating. I secretly whisper a ‘thank you’ under my breath for being so tasty and then I join the others inside.

  The women are washing the dishes and soon we pile into the Valiant to head home. Dad drives especially carefully, going through the back streets of Richmond and Collingwood to avoid police. Mum is alert; she hates it when Dad drinks and drives. But I rest sleepily in the back, knowing that with his hands on the wheel, and with a belly full of roast lamb, we will get home to greet New Year’s Day safe and sound.

  Lamb on the spit

  Serves 20 to 25 people

  Whenever someone in our family wants to roast a lamb on the spit, my Uncle John is called in to help. He kindly shared his secrets to the perfect fire-cooked lamb.

  The lamb is usually skewered and marinated the night before and put onto the fire early in the morning. An early start is called for if the lamb is to be eaten for lunch: the fire will take some time to get going, and a 10- or 12-kilogram lamb requires around 3 hours to cook. Care needs to be taken: that the lamb doesn’t catch fire, that it cooks evenly, and that your fire chiefs don’t get so drunk they can’t lift it from the stand. It’s an acquired art, but one worth perfecting; a slow-cooked, beautifully marinated lamb is an unforgettable eating experience. I still make a habit of thanking the lamb for giving its life for my pleasure.

  Equipment

  1 spit roast, about 120 centimetres long

  20 kilograms briquettes or charcoal

  A large sewing needle and very fine wire or cooking twine

  A few bags of ice if the weather is warm

  Ingredients

  1 whole lamb, between 10 and 12 kilograms

  1 cup olive oil

  1 cup dried oregano

  12 to 16 whole cloves garlic, peeled

  A few sprigs rosemary or oregano

  1 cup salt

  Freshly ground pepper to taste

  3 lemons to serve

  The spit

  Gas spits are available for hire, but traditionally the lamb is cooked over a fire, giving it its distinctive smoky flavour. The best spits have a movable stake, so that you can easily lower it once your lamb is cooked.

  The lamb

  Order your lamb a week or two in advance. Most butchers remove the head, but you can ask them to keep it on if you prefer. Pick up the lamb the day before you need it. The butcher generally removes the innards, so no cleaning of the cavity is required. Have a clean surface rea
dy on which to marinate and store it – a table covered in a clean sheet is ideal. If the weather is warm, cover the lamb with a sheet and pack a few bags of ice around it. Keep it away from pets and other animals.

  Before putting the lamb onto the spit, wash and dry all the components of the skewer. Push the skewer through the cavity of the lamb, starting at the neck (or the mouth, if the head is still attached) and coming out under the tail.

  Use the U-bolts to brace the lamb’s legs, then secure these with the nuts. Repeat the process to secure the back of the lamb to the middle of the spit. Use wire to tie the lamb’s legs to either end of the spit; there should be very little movement as the lamb rotates. There is nothing worse than dropping your lamb into the fire. Takeaway, anyone?

  Combine ¼ cup of salt with ¼ cup dried oregano and pepper to taste. With clean hands, rub this mixture into the cavity and massage it generously into the flesh of the lamb. Make a few small incisions with a small, sharp knife in the fleshy parts of the lamb, such as the shoulders and thighs, and, with your fingers, push peeled garlic cloves into these as far as they will go.

  Using the needle and cooking twine or wire, stitch the abdominal cavity up securely from one end of the lamb to the other.

  The fire

  If you are using charcoal briquettes, place about 20 kilograms of briquettes in the tray of the spit, lining them up along one side. They should be well lit before you load the lamb on. Ensure that the thicker parts of the meat (such as the shoulders and buttocks) have more coals under them than the thinner parts. Aim to start with a very hot fire for the first half hour of cooking, and slow it down as the meat cooks.