Honey, Olives, Octopus

If you can’t travel to Greece this summer, go down to your local bookstore and order a copy of Christopher Bakken’s Honey, Olives, Octopus: Adventures at the Greek Table.  When it arrives, set up your own little table under a shade tree in the back yard.  Fill a bowl with olives — preferably the black, wrinkly ones from Thasos, though any Greek variety will do!  Fill your glass with wine.  When you are ready, open your book, take  a deep breath, and drop into the backseat of the little car driven madly by Tasos of Thasos, as he careens around switchbacks snaking along his island’s southern point, taking him, the author, and you, to his olive groves for a day of harvest.

Thus begins Bakken’s culinary travelogue, which takes us to Thasos and Crete, Serifos and Naxos, Chios and Kythira, tasting intensely local breads, cheeses, olives, roasted goat, Imam bayildi, raki, barbounia, fasolada. Bakken leads the way as we stroll passed white-washed houses, and dive for octopus in cobalt seas, and accept spoon sweets from black-clad, wizened women.  We sing with Cretans and throw our legs up high, our dance fueled by raki and kefi until dawn.

But Bakken, unlike so many culinary travel writers whose books now crowd the shelves, doesn’t stop at such outward, simply nostalgic signs of Greece.  He has written an idyll, not a fairytale.  He does not block out Athens, or the European Union, or the crushing economy, as no Greek can for very long.  He lets the modern world intrude quietly but profoundly, as it does, in village life:  through the snail making its imperceptible way up the leg of a plastic garden chair; through the stainless steel counters installed in the kitchens of an old taverna; through the roar of an Italian-made, gas-powered tsougrana (mechanical olive-picker) that drowns out, as Bakken writes, all “placid conversation” and precludes “the traditional harvest songs I imagined we’d sing.”

But again, the modern world under Bakken’s pen is about more than these outward sights and sounds.  It’s Kyria Eleftheria, a sublime bread-maker from Crete, sharing a quiet meal with Bakken in her cottage, momentarily engulfed by a loneliness that advances and retreats like the tides, her children long gone, having been lured away by the promises of the city.  It’s about Maria of Serifos, uncharacteristically soured into suspicion by experience, accusing Bakken of trying to plunder her culinary secretes for his own profit.  It’s about the old woman who trudges up the hill each night to light her abandoned village’s only street lamp, so she doesn’t feel so alone. It’s about Eleni and Yannis, stewards of Kythira’s bees, staving off the colony collapse disorder threatening hives and humans world-wide.

Bakken understands this darker side.  He feels the deep sadness and inherited anxiety carried by a people who have endured centuries of catastrophic earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, brutal wars and military occupations, and more years of hunger than of plenty.  He understands the Greek resignation in the oft-heard phrase, “alla ti  na kanoume” (“but what can we do?”)  He also understands the inextinguishable optimism that allows the three brothers-in-spirit, Tasos and Bakken and Georgos, whose cancer has recently returned, to dream up plans of conquering Mount Olympus next autumn, and to seal their promises with a toast, entangled in grief and joy, heard at the end of every glorious Greek summer, to “tou xronou,” to “next year.”

Bakken is a poet, who was raised in Wisconsin and now teaches at Allegheny College in Pennsylvania. He first visited Greece more than 20 years ago, and has been returning whenever possible ever since.  When he writes of Chios and Naxos and Crete, of Tasos and Georgos and Eleftheria, I respond with deep recognition.  I know that the portrait he offers is not just accurate, which is easy, but true.  And I am grateful that he has written this book.  At a time when the country is wracked again by pain and anxiety over an uncertain future, we really need to be reminded of everything that is beautiful about Greece and its Greeks, from its hard, scrubby mountains, fertile valleys and breathtaking seas to its spirit of endurance, generosity and hope.

When I finally close the cover on Bakken’s book, I do so reluctantly, saddened to leave the places I’ve visited and the friends I’ve made.  Such is Bakken’s power, and his gift.  So go down to your local bookstore and when your book arrives, set out a little table under a shade tree in your yard.  Fill a bowl with olives and a glass with wine.  Open the book’s covers, take a deep breath, and drop down into the car driven madly by Tasos of Thasos, joining him as he careens toward his olive groves and an increasingly uncertain, but still hopeful, future.

Greece, this summer

I have been in Athens for a few days now with 21 of my students.  We have climbed up to the Parthenon and walked through the magnificent Acropolis museum.  We have eaten gyros at Thanasis and Savvas — the two competing shops located across a narrow street from each other in the Plaka.  We have bought oregano and olives and apricots at the Athens Central Market.

There are some signs of the economic crisis and the tension of the upcoming elections.  I notice more graffiti than last year, marring even the walls of the old churches, and the plate glass windows of the post office on Syntagma Square that were shattered during one of the demonstrations are now covered over with sheets of corrugated metal.

My friends who live here, of course, are much more aware of the crisis, having to figure out what to do in the face of drastically reduced pensions, rising food and utility prices — and a noticeable drop in tourism.

One woman who lives in Athens told me that even her sister, who lives abroad, was hesitant to return to Greece for her customary vacation.  She was worried that she and her children would be endangered by pepper spray and molotov cocktails, and that the ATMs would be empty of Euros.

None of this is true, of course.  We are staying in the center of Athens.  Yesterday, when we visited the Tomb of the Unkown Soldier, we walked through a congregation of a few hundred cyclists who had gathered at the square.  They had ridden from Faliro in an organized protest, ending up in front of the Parliament buidling.  We chatted for a while and then we — and they — moved on.

We also stopped at ATMs and successfully withdrew Euros, and even traveled around the city on trains and buses, unhindered by the impromptu strikes for which the city is well known.  The only problem we encountered was when we tried to book ferry boat tickets before leaving the United States.  The Ministry of Tourism had not managed to approve the schedules or fares, so companies could not release them to the public.  This was a small inconvenience; we simply visited a travel agent in Athens who helped us out.

Many of my friends here depend directly or indirectly on tourist dollars to make ends meet. They are feeling the effects not only of the crisis, but of the international news coverage as well.  They wish to tell people that despite the images they might have seen, Greece is still safe, beautiful and welcoming — and yes, it still has money in its banks.

So if you had been thinking of coming to Greece but had changed your mind, I hope you will reconsider. You will have a wonderful time and, in a small way, you will help shopkeepers, hotel managers, waiters, museum guides, and many others, earn a living for yet another day.

Persephone and the Pomegranate

When my father and my aunt Ione were children in Athens, they were awakened each New Year’s morning at 5 a.m. by the persistent ringing of the doorbell.   Their grandmother Eleftheria would have slowly limped up the exterior stairs to the second floor of the house in which they lived, one hand holding onto the railing, the other onto a ripe pomegranate.  When the sleepy children opened the door, Yiayia Eleftheria would smash the pomegranate against the stoop, scattering deep red seeds across the threshold.  The more seeds that scattered, the greater the prosperity the family could expect to enjoy in the coming year.

For Greeks, scattering pomegranate seeds on thresholds is a New Year’s ritual that many still enjoy.  The seeds are also an ancient symbol of the earth’s bounty — and of the underworld.  It was the seeds of the pomegranate that Hades compelled Persephone to eat in order to bind her to him, and in order to set her free.  You see, Hades had abducted Persephone while she was out walking in the woods one day, and carried her down to his kingdom.  Her mother, Demeter, the powerful goddess of the seasons and the harvest, was so devastated by the loss of her daughter that she ceaselessly searched for her far and wide, leaving the earth’s bounty to wither and die. 

Zeus, Persephone’s father, knew he had to intervene.  He struck a deal with Hades:  Persephone could remain with him for half the year, if he agreed to release her and allow her to return to Demeter for the other half. 

Hades agreed, but one one condition: before Persephone could return to earth, she had to eat a few pomegranate seeds, which would bind her to him and to the underworld indissolubly. 

Since then, Persephone’s yearly journey to the underworld has brought to us mortals autumn, winter, and the death of earth’s bounty; and her journey back has brought  to us spring, summer, and bountiful regeneration.

Now if you choose to honor Persephone and the Greek New Year tradition by smashing a pomegranate on your own doorstep, you may wish to save some of the seeds.  They are delicious sprinkled over a salad of arugula and toasted walnuts, or in a champagne punch.  Or instead of smashing your pomegranates, you can work them into a wreath, like the one that I spotted adorning a balcony in Nauplion.

A pomegranate wreath adorning a balcony railing in Nauplion, a symbol of the family's wish for a bountiful year.

Here are some web sites offering my favorite pomegranate recipes.  May you and your loved ones enjoy Persephone and Demeter’s bounty throughout this new year!!!

How to seed a pomegranate (from The Kitchen Generation)

Arugula Salad with Pomegranates and Toasted Pecans (From Epicurious. I substitute walnuts!)

Pomegranate Champagne Punch (From Bon Appetit)

Sparkling Pomegranate Punch (From Andrea Meyers)

Pomegranate Granita (From My Persian Kitchen)

Persephone and the Pomegranate (A beautifully illustrated children’s book — for reading, not eating! You can order it from Greece in Print.)

Olive Pies by the River Styx

Through the village of Akrata in the northern Peloponnese runs the River Styx, one of five waterways separating the living from the dead.  If you follow its many twists and turns, it will lead you straight to the entrance of Hades, its gates fiercely guarded by the many-headed hound Cerebrus.  The Olympian gods bowed before the river’s power, and the sea nymph Thetis dipped her baby Achilles in its sacred waters, so that he might become immortal.

A few years ago, the Styx exerted its power once again. This time it gave new life to a dying agricultural tradition, with the aid of two mortals, Christina and Dimitri Penteleimonitis.

Christina and Dimitri had discovered and slowly restored an old abandoned mill that had been  used for generations to grind small batches of flour from local wheat.  The modest building stood snugly in the shelter of Mount Helmos.  Water from the Styx flowed mightily down the mountain, forming a waterfall just a few feet behind the mill house, turning the heavy grinding stone. 

"Ta Mylelia," Christina and Dimitri's restored "little water mill" powered by the River Styx.

Today, the mill produces several grades of durum wheat flour, the finest being as soft as talcum powder. 

Adjusting the mill to grind the finest durum wheat flour.

Christina uses the flour in her workshop in the Agios Stefanos suburb of Athens where she employs a dozen or so women to make the tiny, square pastas known throughout Greece as hilopites.  They also make pastas flavored with squid ink and dried herbs, and my favorite, a pasta kneaded with feta cheese and ouzo, as well as jams, marinated cheeses, and spoon sweets, all of which they sell to small shops around the country.  They do not sell to supermarkets because Christina doesn’t want to have to meet such demand – or to create products made and preserved for shelf life rather than taste.

Pasta produced by Christina in her workshop.

The Akrata mill is the second one that the Penteleimonitis’s rescued.  Their first, a mill that is more than 300 years old, stands on the island of Lesvos, just a stone’s throw from Turkey’s western shore, where Christina grew up.  She loves her water-powered mills and the company she founded, “Ta Mylelia,” meaning “little water mills.”  Christina believes that small scale, sustainable agricultural production can be a viable source for emotional, physical, environmental,  and economic health, for herself and her husband, for the women she employs, for the farmers and shopkeepers she works with — and, most importantly, for her children who are on the brink of adulthood, and who are faced with an economically uncertain future.

Pies for the Lunchbox

When Christina’s children were young, she would often make and freeze big batches of savory pies that she would then have on hand to put in their lunch boxes.  Her youngest son, Nikolas, loved these treats, which no other kid had, but sometimes he craved food from the cafeteria.  Having inherited his mother and father’s entrepreneurial spirit, Nikolas set to work. He identified the most promising customers – two boys who were always throwing longing glances toward his lunchbox– and then drove a hard bargain.  In the end, he earned enough money to buy his cafeteria snack — and had ample change to spare.

 Here are recipes for Eliopsoma (olive breads) and Kourou Cheese Pies, two of the savory pies that contributed to Nikolas’ business acumen.  The recipes were generously provided by Christina.

Eliopsoma

Olive Pies. Photo courtesy of C. Penteleimonitis.

2 cups coarsely chopped pitted black olives, such as Kalamata

1 cup coarsely chopped green olives

3 cups finely chopped yellow onions

2 Tablespoons dry mint

1 teaspoon sugar

6 Tablespoons brandy

salt and pepper to taste

4 sheets frozen puff pastry (follow instructions on packet for thawing)

1 Tablespoon olive oil for the pan; more for brushing on top of the pies

3 Tablespoons sesame seeds

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees F.

Heat a Tablespoon of olive oil in a saute pan over medium heat.  Add and saute the onions until they become translucent.

Add the black and green olives and saute for about 4 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Add the mint, sugar, brandy and a few fresh grounds of pepper.

When the liquid has been absorbed, remove from heat.

When the puff pastry sheets have thawed enough to handle, cut them into 3 x 4 inch squares. 

Place 1-1/2 teaspoons of the olive mixture on one corner of the pastry square.  Roll the pastry over the filling so that it looks like a croissant.

Place the pies on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper, brush lightly with olive oil, and sprinkle with sesame seeds.

Bake at 375 degrees F for 20 to 25 minutes, until golden.

Makes about 35 pies.

 

Kourou Cheese Pies

Cheese Pies. Photo courtesy of C. Penteleimonitis.

For the dough:

7 oz.  plain whole milk yogurt

1 teaspoon baking powder

2 egg yolks

1-1/2 cup grated sharp cheese such as Graviera, Kasseri, or Gruyere

9 oz. butter

4 cups self-rising flour

For the filling:

14 oz. feta cheese, crumbled

2 egg yolks

freshly ground pepper

1 Tablespoon ground mint

Preheat the oven to 355 degrees F.

Make the dough.  Knead all the ingredients for the dough until a soft dough forms.  Allow to rest for 1 hour at room temperature.

Prepare the filling by lightly beating the egg yolks with a fork.  Add the feta, pepper, and mint.

Take a bit of dough about the size of a tangerine and pat it into a flat disk, about 1-1/2 centimeters thick.  In the center of the disk drop a Tablespoon of the filling. 

Fold the pastry in half to cover the filling, pressing the edges with the tines of a fork to seal.

Place the pies on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and bake for 15 to 20 minutes, or until golden.