Fire Pit Baklava: A Summer Story

The week before I graduated college I lost my last baby tooth. I was 21 years old and it came out on a pineapple of all things. The tooth sat right in the center of my mouth and I wasn’t sure if I looked more like a Beverly Hillbilly or a pirate, but either way, the look was not becoming for a young doctor on the rise. It was far more reminiscent of the recluse I so longed to be at that time. In the same week, my best friend passed away in a fiery car accident. Even through tears and nights of attempting to numb the pain with sugary cereal and liters of soda, I still had to chuckle every time I passed a mirror thinking, Jay would have said pirate.



The following week, semi joyous friends and colleagues of his crossed the stage and the week after that, his sister decided to throw a bonfire in his honor. Ideally, I would have liked to spend the next 21 years of my life in my dorm room bed, going no where and doing nothing. But my cousin, and the college I was formerly attending, had different plans. The bonfire was set for the last day any student could be in a dorm. She and my mother had somewhat packed my things, but the true feat was getting a depressed me dressed and presentable. 

She’d tried to lure me out of bed with promises of roasting spongy vegan marshmallows over a crackling fire or the smell of Beyond burgers on the grill, but that’s not what eventually got me up. I hated those things. I preferred my beets to burgers and marshmallows were far too messy. What got me up and in my flowy floral summer dress was a text from Jay’s sister: Could you pick up some eggs before you get here? Just a small pack.

Eggs? At a bonfire? My curiosity was peaked and though I would have much rather hid in my empty closet the rest of the day, I had to know… what were the eggs for?

I used to imagine telling my grandchildren this story one day when I was old and gray. But as I sit here now, trying to rack my brain and remember the intricate details of this next portion, I realize, many of those details have escaped me. I wanted to create a highly detailed account of all that happened next, but the truth is, I’m older now and don’t remember much of them. At least, I don’t remember the things that do not pertain to Nico, the eggs and that baklava. What I do remember, whether in high detail or not, is this:

We made a pit stop at the Von’s Grocery around the corner from the dorms and began our hour-long trek to the beach. While my cousin munched on Cheetos and slurped down some foul, gasoline smelling energy drink, I spent the entire time with my head pressed to the widow singing sad songs to myself trying not to burst into tears. When we arrived, there were about 50 people there already. I was hoping it would have been a more intimate event, but Jay was popular and well missed, so I suppose the large throng of party goers was fitting. My social meter, however, was still rapidly plunging and my cousin had immediately abandoned me for some boy she’d been hanging out with. Though I’d spent the last four years of my life with most of these people, I felt like an outsider and needed to find a safe space.

 A few years before, the city had begun a major reconstruction on the beach. During that period, they installed a surfer’s lounge inside of a very large rock. And though “surfer’s lounge” is about the most nauseatingly Californian sounding thing I can imagine, it was a very peaceful place to be, especially when you needed to escape. I’d wafted into that lounge on several anti-social occasions and today was no exception. Few remembered it was here in the excitement of the waves and tanning, so it was almost guaranteed to be empty. As I took my normal tour of the familiar place, however, I found two foreign elements in my presumably quiet space.



“It’s called an egg WASH! They wash the dough for you!” Jay’s sister was yelling at a boy I’d never seen before.

“Who’s been making this longer? Me or you?” He yelled back. I couldn’t tell if they were joking or not, so I kept my distance, fumbling with the half dozen carton of eggs in my hand and pretending to be interested in a seashell photograph on the wall. She finally noticed me and excitedly called for me. I slow walked over to the bouncing friend of mine, avoiding eye contact with the boy who’s eyes were burning a hole in my head. 



“Where have you been?” She asked, in my opinion, way too happy for a girl who’s brother just died.

“I brought the eggs,” I mumbled out. She squealed with delight and took them from me, shaking them gently in the direction of the boy.

“SEE!” She said to him, “I told you she’d come through.”

He put a hand on his head and shook it slowly.

“What have you done?” He said jokingly towards me. He extended his hand along with a bright, wide smile and his name, Nico. He was bronze colored, like coffee with only a bit of creamer, and his nose was a bit wider, but other than that, he was the spitting image of Jay. It startled me a bit and I hesitated to take his hand, but when I did, he brought it to his mouth as though to kiss it. I gently pulled it from his grasp and looked at him, confused.

“He’s used to Greek girls, sis,” Jay’s sister laughed.

“And Greek baklava!” He snapped at her, “which doesn’t include eggs!”

“It does! Pinterest said so!” She said trying to show him the recipe on her phone.

He looked at me, wide-eyed, begging for me to settle the dispute. Jay would have done the same thing.

“D, what if they don’t cook all the way? We’re at the beach, you know? You don’t wanna make anyone sick on accident.” I said. In response, she slammed the towel she was holding down on the table, loudly whispered “fine” and stormed out. I watched her stomp through the sand and out to the crowd, wondering if maybe I should have stayed quiet.

“That wasn’t your fault. She’s grieving still,” Nico said, reading my mind, “But now you can help me make the baklava,”

“Don’t you need an oven for that?” I asked

“And that’s the only thing that will not be authentic about it,” he laughed, “this is fire pit baklava. We’re going to make it in a large bowl and put it over the fire.”

“That is not beach food,” I asserted.

“It's food at the beach. That makes it beach food. Go wash your hands,” he said firmly. A part of me wanted to argue, but the other half took comfort in the familiar mannerisms of this stranger. So, I did as told and met him back at the counter.

We became fast friends standing there together. Every ingredient had a story, whether his or mine, and every story deserved telling. Our words danced together over nutshells and flour, making sweet messes on the stone surface. We were only there for about an hour or so, but it felt like centuries as we exchanged stories from long before either of us had been born. His stories were sweet, and I devoured them as he spoke. For a moment, I wondered if it was just me grasping on to his every word, until I realized he was doing the same thing to me. As he laid out the phyllo dough from a thick floral bowl, he reminisced on watching his mother make that dough in Greece time and time again.


“Hers is way better than mine. She wrote out the recipe for my sister and I, but hers is always better.”

“You have a sister still in Greece?”

“Yeah. So mama and my dad had me, Jay and Dionne and when they split I stayed with her in Greece and she had my sister with her boyfriend.”

“How old were you when they left?”

“Five.”

He slid me a bag of pistachios and an empty wine bottle, so while he flattened the large lump of dough into several, thin, flat pieces, I was to crush the nuts into crumb sized chunks.



“Some people put almonds in their baklava, but I hate that,” he said passionately.

“I hate almonds!” I laughed, “When I was 13 I caught some sort of stomach bug and had to stay home from school for 2 weeks. I’m an only child and so is my mom so she knew nothing about stomach flus or anything. I think someone told her that almonds help settle your stomach or something because that’s all she would let me eat if I threw up. And I think they did help a little bit, but now every time I think about almonds I think about the stomach flu and… blech!”

We laughed hard at that one, with him threatening to give me a pack of almonds every year for my birthday from now on. He laid the first layer of dough in the pan, his butter brush then cascading over creases and crevices, saturating the entire piece. I followed the buttery masterpiece by sending perfect sized crushed pistachios, sweet cinnamon, and his secret ingredient, a dash of allspice, dancing down my fingertips and onto every layer.

“How do you know when it’s enough?” I asked, referring to the filling.

“You’ll know,” he said.

And he was right. It felt like enough. And when I was done, he wouldn’t ask me if I was finished, he could tell that too. It was a rhythmic dance we created, our families learning it along with us. His mother’s dough, my grandfather’s pistachio tree, the cinnamon tree his parents fell in love under, the butter my mother broke her wrist learning to churn for my father, the sugar from the Cuban plantation his great grandfather was born on, the cloves my aunt was arrested for selling in her Jamaican shop in DC. Our stories intertwined effortlessly, like our baklava: flavors that had somehow met in the same place, and were quite bitter all on their own, but together, created a sweet taste unworthy of being limited to special occasions or indoors. How foolish I was to believe that this unique dessert wasn’t beach food. It told the story of generations of ancestors who’d raised and lost families, fell in and out of love, and all came back for one ingredient or another. The recipe was Greek, but each piece brought us across continents and seas, deserts and wetlands, mansions and villages. I hadn’t known this boy but for an hour, but we were connected through our meal. When the layers were finished, he drizzled the top with honey and covered the pan. He sighed.

“I guess we gotta go out there now,” he said staring at the world outside. The sun had begun to set, and it was beautiful, but not nearly as beautiful as what we’d created inside.

“I guess so,” I said, anxiety beginning to well up in me.

“Can I ask you something?” He asked. But before I could respond he finished, “We’re you and my brother… together?”

I laughed a bit. There was a point in time where I was utterly and completely in love with Jay. I couldn’t see myself with anyone but him, but at some point, before he died, I stopped thinking that way. I grateful to have not gone through college alone, and to have had a consistent friend. He wasn’t my only friend, just the only one who never changed. I think that’s what I miss most about him.

“No,” I finally said, “We were just friends,”

“Oh,” Nico responded. I got this sinking feeling he wanted to say more but chose not to. And if this were a John Green movie he would have, or I would have, or something more romantic would have happened. But instead, he chuckled, handed me a wad of trash paper, lifted the large pot of baklava and walked outside, quickly disappearing with the crowd. Since there were no trash cans around, shook my head, I tossed it into my beach bag and followed suit.

I only saw Nico one more time that night. He’d roasted our baklava over the fire pit, gently but firmly shaking it the entire time. The second it was finished, the party goers devoured it, I couldn’t even break through to taste what was rightfully half mine. Nico watched me silently from the other side of the pit, before standing up, breaking his small piece in half and offering it to me. I took it, and had just opened my mouth to thank him, when a girl in a tiny bikini grabbed his hand and pulled him away saying something about a volleyball game. I was left standing alone with my small piece of baklava, but the solace was almost necessary to enjoy it.

The crowd was completely wrong. You cannot scarf down baklava like ours. You had to slowly enjoy it, almost slurping as you bite down on the crunchy dessert to catch the bits of escaping honey. The setting sun had to be beaming on your back, while staring out to the vast ocean, finally, for the first time since you’d lost something so dear to you, feeling at peace. I needed that bite. I needed to meet Nico. I needed to be there, at that bonfire, still missing Jay, but grateful for the time I was able to have known him. 



The next events were a blur, but they aren’t all too important anyway. We left the beach shortly after that. My cousin got into a fight with the same girl that pulled Nico away. Someone called the local security and we scattered, as college kids tend to do. The next day I finished packing my room and officially moved out of my dorm. I’d been charged a heavy late fee for moving out a day late, but I was already $20,000 in debt. What’s an extra hundred? I moved back home for the summer and the following school semester, got an apartment in Texas with a friend. She was going to Texas A&M for her masters and I’d decided to throw away 4 years of studying biology and went to culinary school instead. I’d left the bulk of my belongings in my mother’s shed in California and, though I’d kept telling myself I’d go back for them, for another two years, I didn’t. My mom eventually moved to another suburb and sold her house, so that winter, I had no choice but to drive down and pack my things. My junk consisted of mostly shoes and purses that I had to have at the time, but at the bottom of everything was that beach bag I had the night I made the baklava with Nico. I held onto it for a bit reminiscing, before noticing a strange crinkling sound coming from the bottom of the bag. I had emptied it out completely except for the piece of trash Nico had given me. Except, now, it looked more like an old grocery list than trash. I opened it, just for the sake of being nosey. Nothing out of the ordinary was written on it, mangoes, rice, flour; but on the other side were the instructions for “Mama’s Baklava” along with Nico’s phone number.

I wanted to call Nico, but two years had passed. What would he say? By the time I returned home I’d decided to not call him. Another 2 years came and went and I’d all but forgotten about Nico and that baklava. I’d tried to make it a few times but it was never as perfect as it was that summer. Something was always missing, no matter what I added or subtracted. It was too flaky or not flaky enough; too sweet or too savory; too soft, or hard as a brick. I even tried adding almonds and quickly remembered why I’d avoided them for so long. I was 25 and had just finished with my culinary program. I’d won a scholarship to study abroad under a top chef in a country of my choice. I was 28 pounds lighter, my tooth had grown back and life was sweet again. I still thought about Jay from time to time but I was at peace with the loss. My final day in the US was set to be June 24th of that year. I’d decided to say my goodbyes back in California at Dionne’s baby shower. I arrived 2 hours late trying to get my hair to sit just right, but when I arrived everything felt right. I socialized for an hour or so, before retiring to the kitchen, looking for something else to snack on. I’d only had my head in the fridge for a moment when a familiar voice from behind me said,

“There’s nothing in there, I already checked.” My heart skipped a beat. I slow turned around to smile at my old friend.

“Nico!” I giggled, “I thought you went back to Greece!”

“I did for a year,” he said, “But my mom threw me out so now I’m staying with my friend in Dallas.”

“Wait really?” I laughed, “I’ve been in Austin for the last 4 years!”

“Oh, so you could have called and visited!” He shot at me.



“Who hands someone a balled up piece of paper with their number on it! We have phones you know!” I shot back.

“I was nervous,” he laughed, “But I hear you’re leaving again? Where to this time?”

“There’s a few stops on the tour. But namely, a bit of South Africa, Portugal then Spain.”

“Rich flavors.”

“Rich culture. I’ve got some roots there I’d like to uncover,”

“Nice. I wish I could go”

“You can if you can afford the ticket,” I laughed.

We dropped the conversation there, being pulled apart in different directions speaking to different people. He’d made another baklava, per Dionne’s request.

“Egg free!” He announced proudly when he brought it out. To which Dionne rolled her eyes. He brought one slice to the tent I was standing under as the rest of the party mingled in the center. He broke the slice in half and gave it to me. There was more than enough this time, but I understood the reference, I was glad he remembered. I gratefully took it and bit into it. It was perfect and familiar. Nutty and buttery with fresh honey that oozed out of the sides. A bit charred from the fire pit, but smokey and sweet with a perfect crunch and flakiness that could only come from his homemade phyllo.

“Your phyllo is getting better I see,” I joked, my mouth still watering.

“That’s mama’s phyllo actually,” he laughed, “told you hers was better,”

Remember when I said something had been missing from my baklava? I’m not sure if it was the setting sun, or Nico or his mama’s phyllo, but that void was instantly filled with that bite. It was the same bite I’d taken standing on that beach alone; like the two halves of my pieces had finally found each other and were reuniting inside me. And right on cue, as if reading my mind, Nico looked at me and said,



“I want to go.”

I stared at him blankly, not completely sure of what he meant and definitely not wanting to be too eager to respond.

“With you, I mean,” he said, “to whichever country. If you’ll let me, I’d like to go.”

My heart fluttered in my chest. We, again, we were like that baklava. He was the half I was missing, and in that moment, we were reunited, connected by loss, that time on the beach and our histories that intertwined between slices of phyllo.

“Okay,” I smiled.

Nico and I will be married next summer. We don’t see eye to eye on every detail, but we agree on the important things. Namely the venue— a small garden in Dallas— a family tree positioned on the table with the names of the people who lived and died to make our cultured blend of ingredients possible and an egg-free baklava, the perfect summer food.