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

There are certain foods that you cannot imagine life without. Maybe it’s your mother’s chicken noodle soup, which always makes you feel a bit better. Or a chocolate chip cookie recipe that brings you up, when you feel at your worst. Or your grandma’s mashed potatoes- mashed just the right way- that, try as you might, you have never been able to fully perfect.

I can think of a couple of foods that fall into this category, both of which are usually enjoyed at Easter. Tsoureki is the first, a sweet, braided bread. My grandma would make loaves and loaves of it, and give it to us to take home. I remember them, wrapped in aluminum foil, the sweet aroma engulfing the car on the way home. For the next week- or however long they lasted- me and my siblings would slice huge pieces, warm them in the microwave, and lather them with butter. Unfortunately, my grandma isn’t able to make them anymore, but I was lucky enough to find one at my local Greek market this year. Not quite the same, but the sweetness filling my car on the way home was similar. As soon as I got home, I warmed up a piece, lathered it with butter, and as I sunk my teeth into it, I was brought back to all those years ago- how I felt when I awoke before my siblings and got the first crack at that bread. The ability of food to bring back memories that real is pure magic.

Spanakopita is the other food that I can’t imagine my life without. You’ve probably had it before if you have eaten any Greek food. It is a spinach and feta filled phyllo pastry, either in square, circle, or triangle form. We have them at every big holiday, and as many hours as my grandma spent slaving over them, there never seemed to be quite enough. It was the first thing we would reach for, as they were laid out on the small table before lunch was served. Still piping hot, as we reached for them, “grab a plate!” my grandma would demand, as the crunchy phyllo broke off and undoubtedly fell to the floor. “Don’t fill up on the pita!” she would bark minutes later, as we all gorged ourselves on it, as if there was nothing to come afterwards.

I was in University when I decided to make it myself for the first time. My grandma was so excited as I talked to her on the phone, and she laid it out, step-by-step. How to make the filling, how to keep the phyllo from drying out. Over the years, I’ve made it quite a few times, and whenever I do, I find myself full of pride. In that moment- even though my grandma isn't there- I'm inexplicably connected to her. It's just a simple pastry, but I know the magic that it holds, and where that came from. It came from my grandmother. It came from her making hundreds of them over the years. It was the first thing we ate during all those Easters. How many times did me and my siblings fight over the leftovers? And during the time I am slaving over them now- using just the right amount of filling, folding them ever-so-carefully- I feel as if I am carrying on my grandmother’s legacy somehow, and replicating the magic that used to fill the room whenever the pita came out of the oven.

This piece is the second 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.