Finding Magic in Food in a Time of Fear (Part One)

There’s not much magic in meal prepping. On any given Sunday- for the last five years or so- I would rush to the grocery store, hustling through the aisles with a fierce determination. Once home, I would proceed to cook food in mass amounts to get me through the week. Don’t get me wrong, this process has been a necessity for me in terms of staying healthy and saving money but, I struggle to find magic in tupperware and dry chicken breast.

One of the things that I have been able to rediscover my passion for during this health crisis has been food. The first time this hit me, I was standing in my kitchen, making my dinner. I then ate it. Like, right away. The fish was hot out of the oven, the vegetables still sizzling with oil. I even put these morsels on a plate. No tupperware, no microwave required. It was magic.

Every morning for the past 33 days, I’ve been able to sit down with my coffee and a book, eating my breakfast slowly, savoring every piece of bacon and chunk of cheesey eggs. I can’t remember the last time I stuffed a 5 day old egg muffin down my throat, nor can I recall scorching my innards with weak coffee that has not yet had time to steep.

This weekend is one that is particular magical. It is Greek Easter. The Orthodox Church uses the Julian calendar as opposed to the Gregorian calendar and so, our Easter typically falls on a different date than “regular-person-Easter”. Growing up, I remember stating this fact to my friends repeatedly, with a slight up-turn of the nose. It was a sense of pride for me, being a part of this religion so old and so traditional that we used a calendar implemented by Julius Caesar. Although the meaning of religion has changed for me over the years, the meaning of Easter has not.

I was supposed to be flying home today. If all was normal, my Grandma would be giving me my fill of spanakopita and dolmadas and koulourakia and feneki (sp?). I would be seeing my family, my farm, I would be seeing my uncle, who is unwell (but fighting). My heart would be full again, as opposed to feeling as raw and stretched as it has ever felt in the last few months. But things are not normal- not even close.

And so, I am trying to replicate that magic as much as I can. I have planned a feast for myself this weekend. And as Greek feasts go, it has turned into a three day event. Today, I made baklava. I first made baklava maybe three years ago now, when I had some friends over to celebrate Greek Easter. This dinner stands out to me, as I was able to share my heritage with others, and I felt like I had my own little family- even if was three provinces away from my real family. I am convinced that I have inherited this love of cooking for others from my mother and grandmother- and realizing things like that is also magical. To know that family- family you love- has left an imprint on you, and that this will stay strong and true long after they are gone.

Everyone raved over my baklava. I was especially proud because my grandma had serious doubts about my foray into this difficult phyllo dessert. “I’ve only made that once in my life,” “you have to be careful with the syrup,” she forewarned. But I puffed out my chest and followed the pinterest recipe to a tee. And what do you know- it was PERFECT. I facetimed my grandma to show her, as proud as I have ever been. She was pretty proud, too.

I have not made it since, until today. I pulled out that recipe- now scrawled in my personal recipe book- and got to work. The phyllo rolled apart, and my heart started racing. As I stood there, the puff pastry staring me right back in the face, I could only hope it would turn out as good as it had last time. And what do you think happened next? The honey syrup boiled over, the puff pastry dried out, and heck, THERE WASN’T ENOUGH PHYLLO! I ended up constructing my baklava like a jigsaw puzzle and as stressful as it was, it was also somewhat magical. Because yeah, your recipe isn’t going as planned but, can you still make it work? Yes. Will it still be delicious? Yes.

The pastry was perfectly golden brown as I carefully pulled it from the rack. The smell of walnuts and honey filled my apartment. The syrup sizzled with delight as a poured it carefully on-top. And when I took my first bite?

Magic.

This piece is the first of a series that will be written this weekend, as I share the magic of food and in particular, of Greek Easter. I hope it gives you some joy in these times of trouble- I know it is doing so for me.