My Big Fat Greek Family…

Doing Ya-Ya’s Greek grilled chicken for dinner opened a flood gate of memories and thoughts about being Greek.  In a proxy sort of way.

God rest him, my husband’s brother Ken* married a Greek girl.  A typical all-American kind of white bread Catholic guy from a small town in Michigan, married too young and divorced, somehow found himself head over heels with a tall, beautiful Greek girl.

His brother-in-law, a nice Greek guy who married my sister-in-law’s younger sister, tells me that My Big Fat Greek Wedding could be the story of my brother-in-law’s marriage.  Yeah, it was a lot like that, Pete says.  Nah, can’t be, wasn’t the movie a bit of a parody?  Pete says, Yeah, a little, like the statues on the lawn part.  But not the Greek father or the daughter.  Pete said their mutual father-in-law was actually more uptight, wanting assurances that my brother-in-law was an upstanding guy, that he’d be willing to work hard to make up for the shortcoming of not being Greek as well as divorced.  Ken jumped through every hoop possible, being totally and completely besotted with Leni*.  He was re-baptized and converted to Greek Orthodoxy.  He escorted her to the door date after date, night after night.  He even asked her father for permission to marry her.  Damn.  The whole old-fashioned parlor room courting thing.

Fortunately, Leni was every bit as much in love with Ken.  Utterly and sappily in love, holding his hand through all the fatherly harassment and the trials of conversion.

Their wedding was phenomenal; I’d never been to anything like it before in my life.  The whole uncut three-times-around-everything orthodox wedding, church brimming over with family and guests like an overfilled champagne glass.  Leni’s father rented ballrooms (two of them) for the reception at the largest hotel in town; there were 500 guests (all in attendance!), two bands (one to play dinner music and one to play Greek dance music after dinner).  Celebration is a feeble word to describe this occasion.  One truly awesome stream of energy palpating on the dance floor – every woman present, every man present, dancing traditional dances in spiraling lines around the floor.  It was an omen, a portent that everything they did would be large and energetic for the thirteen years that Ken and Leni were together in this world.

They were soul mates, the two of them; both of them beautiful people who became somehow more beautiful, glowing, in each other’s presence.  Under the influence of that glow, Ken became every bit as Greek as the rest of the family into which he’d married.  He learned to greet all the aunts, married and maiden, in Greek; he slaughtered it at first, but eventually could manage small social chit-chat with them.  They tittered and fawned over him, completely taken with the man who’d married their Leni.  The men introduced him to Greek brandy – no, not ouzo, this stuff will take the hair off the back of your throat – and he learned to appreciate it.  Ken became a parish council member and eventually a leader in the parish.

Somehow the rest of husband’s family became Greek by-proxy – by osmosis or contagion, or some such method.  Ken and Leni invited us to every family get-together, but then they invited EVERYBODY.  Every aunt, uncle, cousin, second-cousin-twice-removed, came to their family gatherings.  It was loud and busy and packed at every family function, but so much laughter and joking and hugging and hand-holding.  My husband’s family is more reserved; even though they have an appreciation for a good joke or story, family functions were more likely to be Heh-heh, how’s it going Bud, great to see you, how’s that golf game…somehow not as intimate or animated as Leni’s family gatherings.

Gradually, my in-laws learned to fit into the Greek groove.  It took me a while to get my bearings; I was trying to find my own place in my husband’s family let alone as an adjunct member in Leni’s family (my husband and I married only a couple years after Ken and Leni).  Evenutally I knew which aunt was the best baklava baker and which aunt was likely to fuss over all of the kids at the family functions; which uncle was the jokester and which one was the stock market maven.  There was still a little layer to this onion that needed to be removed, though; I could feel a distance, but couldn’t put my finger on it. 

For the hell of it, I decided to learn more about Greek culture.  I learned some Greek words from audio tapes and taught myself how to cook some Greek dishes.  I asked more questions about the foods the different aunts brought to family gatherings, then made and brought my own quasi-Greek creations to festivities.  I’ve learned about dolmades and tiropita, spanakopita, haloumi, mizithra and feta cheeses, so many different kinds of olives and wines, roasting lamb and pork.  I’ve even learned how to pick and preserve grape leaves.  The desserts to which I’ve been introduced are countless: koulourakia, kataife, baklava, halvah, galaktoboureko, loukoumades…

The dam broke.  I was no longer watching this vortex of family energy, I was caught up in it.  No more polite handshakes, big crushing bear hugs instead.  Intimate questions from the aunts (When will you have a baby like Leni and Ken?…). 

The babies did come, and then cousins had babies, and it was more raucous and heady than before with all the fussing and kissing of mothers and aunts and godmothers over babies.  Birthday parties were all-day events, with an unending stream of relatives coming to share in the giddiness.

But large and energetic came not only in happy gatherings.  Leni’s father passed away only three years after they were married.  Hard for Leni and her siblings in their mid-twenties and late teens to lose the bedrock of their lives.  Ken stepped up and became the head of the family, at Leni’s father’s deathbed insistence.  Ken became even more Greek, if that’s possible, keeping his promise to his father-in-law.

He lasted as the patriarch for the next ten years, until he died suddenly of a massive heart attack at the age of 45.  It was just as large and energetic a goodbye as his wedding; three Greek Orthodox bishops came to attend the funeral of a young church leader.  Heartbreakingly tragic, taking sudden unforeseen leave of his beautiful wife and little ones after all the care and effort Ken had taken to acquire them.

My husband and I still get together with Leni and her family as we’ve done in the past.  We don’t spend as much time as we used to with them, but then it is more difficult to schedule time together now that Ken’s and Leni’s kids are in soccer and dance lessons and school.  Saddening, less large and energetic than in the past, but it’s somehow to be understood and accepted.

I still cook Greek food; it’s kind of understood now that I’ll be the aunt bringing the tzatziki and hummus to the family gatherings.  I still don’t speak a lot of Greek yet, but I’m still learning bits and pieces whenever the family gets together.  I’ve learned how to make halvah, and am now perfecting a fudge version of the original halvah recipe.  I guess the other more senior aunts will be expecting me to bring this new Greek concoction at the next family party.

*Names changed to preserve the family’s privacy.  

9:35:02 PM    comment []

What’s for Dinner?:  Tastes like chicken…

I’m going to extend my run, being a bad mom yet again tonight.  My five-year-old has his very first sports class early this evening (nuts, a scant hour from now!).  He and his sister are usually quite ugly on Monday evenings; getting back into the routine of school and taxing their brains sucks all the energy out of them.  They usually demand to be fed almost immediately as they walk in the door, then flop like fish until bed time arrives.

That’s going to change for a month; this Mommy Dearest will take the little guy to his sports class while she power walks with the older child at the local community recreation center.  This might improve their dispositions or make them INCREDIBLY ugly, but something’s got to change the Manic Monday Madness that sets in each week. 

Being on the run means yet again we need to do something quick yet nutritious.  Hubby’s tied up entertaining clients this evening, so I can’t count on him for backup.  Means I head to Ya-Ya’s. 

Some of you in Michigan or Florida are familiar with the chain; Ya-Ya means grandmother in Greek, and refers to the cuisine which inspired this restaurant.   The feature is flame-grilled chicken, hot and fresh, with various sides like a very nice green salad with Greek dressing and rice pilaf.  The chicken is marinated, has a pronounced cumin-scent and flavor, very flavorful and juicy.  I know the owner of the chains but I’ve never had the moxie to ask him about the marinade and preparation.  Gus is very picky – he insists that the chicken is cut to order, that the preparer sever each piece with a single blow of a butcher knife (making for clean, neat portions of chicken), and that the entire chain is immaculate and comfortable for dine-in or take-out.  The salads are exceptional; most better dine-in restaurants around here would be pressed to match or beat the quality of the produce used.

The grill runs the length of the kitchen; chickens are split and lie flat as they cook.  It’s an awesome sight to behold, 50 chickens grilling away and it’s not even picnic season.  The smell is wonderful, next best thing to home cooked.  What chicken isn’t sold immediately is used to make Chicken Caesar Salad or Barbeque Sandwiches, or Chicken Noodle Soup.  (When I’m sick, this is it, just get me a quart of this liquid gold and I’ll be healed in no time. Mmmm…)

I’ve been trying to find a Greek marinade which will produce something comparable.  I’ll post it if I find it.  In the mean time, Ya-Ya’s take-out is a lot easier than experimentation.

Besides, the kids will love it, it’s one of their favorite foods.  Almost as good as having a ya-ya of our own.

4:23:05 PM    comment []

All synapses are resuming normal function…

Yeah, I was a bad girl.  Bad, with a capital B.  Okay, maybe even all caps.  B-A-D.

I had an overly good time on Saturday while dining with friends.  A glass of white wine before dinner, the better part of a bottle of Zinfandel with dinner, a cognac after dinner, a vodka on the town.  Too much for someone who’s very much out of practice.

Mind you, they all made it too easy.  Companions were all charmingly entertaining (if all a bit more rightist than I am), the food at our favorite bistro was fabulous as always.  The near Full Snow Moon threatened but brought no snow, making walking about town between pub and restaurant a little too easy.

Yesterday I couldn’t move.  Called my best friend, bailed out on a perfect good winter’s morning escape to the coffee shop because I was far from myself.  I didn’t boot up my computer until, hmm, sometime in the afternoon.  (Which is rather remarkable, since it’s usually a toss as to which gets turned on first each morning: coffee maker or computer…)

Still not quite myself today; I’m physically moving at normal speed but don’t ask me to speak.  My speech center is still not working properly, wasn’t last evening even after a gallon of water, much caffeine and NSAIDS applied at regular intervals. 

I called my friend to chat since we didn’t download at the coffee shop yesterday morning; at least a half dozen times my mouth opened and nothing came out.  Unh.  Uh.  Like trying to pull start a grotty old Poulan chain saw.  Unh.  Uh.  Ideas and concepts bottlenecked in my brain, unable to manifest as syllables on my lips.

Damn it all, I’m becoming a soccer mom.  A tee totalling SUV-driving don’t-be-out-after-dark soccer mom.  Next thing you know my head will ossify with all those backed up thoughts and I’ll become a Republican.

Omigod, HEELLLLPPP!!!!!

1:41:10 PM    comment []