Tag Archives: Cooking

10 Highlights of a Greek Odyssey

Saying hello while you wave goodbye is a natural fact of long-term travel. No sooner have you become attached to one place, one person, than it is time to move on again. This blog is a tribute to moving on: 10 highlights that made our time in Greece rich, memorable, and ‘real’. Time to say ‘hello’ to Turkey and wave ‘goodbye’ to Greece.

1   Aegean Sunrise

There was no one else around when we stepped off the ferry in Igoumenitsa. It took a while to find our way out of the international port to the dock where the Corfu ferries depart. Nothing to do but wait. I felt chipper as I gazed into the fishy waters below, reverberating with the significance of our visit. Glad to be by the sea again. The cold thickened. Richie wrapped his blanket tighter around him. The bakery flung open its doors, and the sun rose. It was splendid! “Hello Greece we are here, please give us the best!”

2   Cold Coffee

Drinking cold coffee is a pass-time at which Greeks excel. Not wanting to be left out of the fun Richie and I adopted the habit promptly. In Greece, cold coffee is as much of a necessity as it is an indulgence: the only sane way to pass the murderously hot long afternoons when your Crocs melt faster than Icarus’s wings. Most cafes provide wifi so rather than spend your precious euros in a smoky internet cafe you may as well buy a cold drink while you check emails and travel forums. Quality and prices vary but what stays the same is the sweet, smug indulgence of being able to sit and wile away a few hours while the rest of the world deludes itself about the necessity of ‘work’.

Cautionary note: unless you want to support Nestle avoid the ‘frappe’ and go for the real arabicca deal, the freddo cappucino. 

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What’s Cooking?

One of the things I miss most when I’m on the road is spending time in the kitchen with Mum. For me, cooking with Mum is one of the ‘constants’ linking my infancy to adolescence, and my teens to early adulthood. It sustained me when I was low, and relaxed me when I was taut enough to snap. It gave Mum and I the opportunity to talk things over: with hands busily chopping and whipping our mouths could speak our minds, and before we knew it we were pulling freshly baked ideas and perspectives out of the oven.

My first memory of cooking with Mum is being allowed to lick cake batter from the wooden spoon – chocolate cake was my favourite. Mum was never fussy about hygiene. Fingers had as much of a place in the mixing bowl as whisks, forks and spoons. As long as you helped clean up afterwards you could make as much mess as you wanted.

From beating cake batter it progressed to poking cloves into sandy-coloured batches of kourambiethes and collecting fistfuls of mint and parsley from the garden for tabbouleh. Fiddly repetitive jobs were my favourite. Helping to peel and core apples for stewing, and chopping walnuts for Mum’s coveted baclava were two of my favourite jobs.

Later I became adept at more complicated tasks like judging the correct amount of nutmeg to incorporate into the sienna cake, and ascertaining when the bechamel sauce was adequately thickened.

Nothing was ever measured in my mother’s kitchen. We had a set of measuring cups and spoons that lived at the back of the cupboard where they were rarely, if ever, thought about let alone used. Instead, Mum preferred to use a heavy squat ceramic mug to do her measuring. Trust Mum to invent her own standard measure!

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