It was the year 2000 and I was sorting through my recipes: some in a recipe box, others in a shoebox, some scribbled on pieces of paper, others typed out on cards, some notes stuck in cookbooks, others found in the cracks of the kitchen drawers, and, of course, the magazine and newspaper clippings, but somehow I knew where they all were.

 As I sorted through these recipes a wave of memories of my childhood growing up on a farm in Western Nebraska surged through me.  I felt as if I could produce a play ~~ picturing the scenes was endless.  Hmmm ~~~~

 There is my Mom in her garden picking fresh vegetables and nurturing them as if they were her children ~~ then the Sundays after church when our house or the house of one of our many friends was filled with company and our moms would go out and catch a few chickens and before we knew it we had the best country fried chicken ever. There was also an assortment of other food including Keftethes (Greek meatballs), and the smell of them cooking still remains with me.  And, always, always, the homemade bread – gosh, that even brings back the memory of waiting for the bread to come out of the oven and eating it hot along with freshly churned butter. 

 While the women were busy preparing the meal and loving it, the men and children were playing softball or pitching horseshoes. Best of all though was waiting in anticipation as my sisters and their friends made home-made ice cream – each of them taking turns churning it in a large wooden ice-cream maker surrounded by mounds of ice. Later at night we would sit outside and look at the stars and try to find the Big Dipper. We didn’t have a phonograph at that time, and if our Koumbaro* didn’t have his Mandolin with him to play Greek music our mothers would sing (good old “Samiotisa”) and we would Greek dance.

 How could I forget when our “city” cousins, aunts and uncles, friends, and koumbari would come to spend the summer, and how my Dad challenged us to a contest on who could eat the most Diples (fried flaky pastry dough, dipped in a syrup ladled with honey, and sprinkled with ground nuts and cinnamon).   I appreciated being reminded of this by my friends from Denver.  So much laughter and so much love.

 There were great memories of our church festivals (Assumption) that were held under the trees on one of the farms and the men in the community would roast lambs and prepare the meal, except for the desserts which all the women made.   After filling up on all the good food we would Greek dance and family and friends would toss in money for the leader of the dance.  Aren’t these the best! 

Continuing on are my memories of the name day** celebrations when no one needed an invitation because they knew they were always welcome, and our Moms would cook all these fabulous meals (which are in this cookbook). For once I can say that my favorite memories of these celebrations was not about food, but of the men (our fathers, uncles, brothers, cousins, koumbari and friends) sitting around the table after celebrating a good meal, sharing a glass of wine or Ouzo and singing with gusto all the old Greek Folk Songs.  How I looked forward to these name day celebrations.

 Scenes of memories kept flowing forward and most of them at one point or another revolved around a table of home cooked food, or just having a neighbor drop in at any time of the day and sharing a cup of coffee and a piece of home made cake and more than often my sister’s home made lemon meringue pie.  Does anyone remember the “glyka” (sweets) our mothers made with either quince, or watermelon rinds loaded with almonds, or the teeny, teeny eggplants split down the middle and stuffed with either pecan or walnut halves; all of them smothered in a syrup made with honey and spices that tasted like nectar?  I recall, as a young girl, when someone came to visit we children were expected to Kerasi (serve) the company.  We presented them with a serving of “glyko” and a demitasse cup of Greek coffee, and if it was a special occasion, we offered Metaxa to the men and Anisette to the ladies.  These are such precious memories of so many special people who became our best friends, and we shared and broke bread with them.

 Although I don’t have these recipes, how can I forget my Mom and my sisters making homemade Trahana and Hilopites (noodles) spread out to dry on a clean sheet ~~ the barrels of homemade Feta Cheese and the barrels of Pork (Pasto) that our Mom preserved ~~ the homemade Lokaniko (Greek Sausage) hanging in the basement ~~ the homemade filo.  In the fall we helped our Mom prepare for the winter months by going into the gardens (her haven) and picking vegetables to be canned, making homemade tomato paste, homemade jams and jellies, and even making our own Ketchup!  I know I’ll be reminded by my friends of things I’ve forgotten.

 My script full of memories goes on and on.  I know I must stop but, please, please let me share a few more memories that were so heartwarming and brought me such comfort ~~ I can see myself sitting in my sister’s kitchen and writing a recipe for Lamb and Celery Avgolemono on paper torn from a brown paper bag that I can’t let go of ~~ sitting down to enjoy my husband George’s succulent Roast Pork dinner ~~ the Baked Ham recipe that made me laugh, but also brought tears to my eyes.  Every recipe has a story to tell.

 My heart swelled with pride from the warmth and love these recipes and memories were giving me, and it was then that I decided that before the last curtain call I would assemble all these recipes and put them in a book for my children and grandchildren, which followed with my nieces and nephews, and extended family.  We call the recipes in this cookbook  “our comfort” food.

 Again, as in the year ‘2000 when I assembled and wrote my first cookbook, I am doing this with love for my children, Kathy and John, Sue and Ernie; and for my two beautiful and precious granddaughters, Dori and Melanie.  Not forgetting, of course, all those who were responsible for my having these recipes.  I love you – one and all.  For those who are no longer with us ~~ you will always live on in our hearts.

 So, seven years later I share these recipes with you.  I hope that you will embrace and enjoy our family recipes and even my quips of personal memories. Remember the most memorable and delicious meal has one hidden ingredient in it ~~“a cupful of love”  ~~ share it with your family and friends.

 Kali Orexi, Good Health

Dorothy

P.S.  The recipe for the Roast Pork is not in this cookbook.  I could never duplicate it ~~ it remains another precious memory.

 ____________________________

 * A Koumbaro (male) or Koumbara (female) is either yourself or another person who has either been a best man at your/their wedding or baptized one of your/their children ~~ they then become a part of your family.

 ** A name day is celebrated on the Saint’s day that you have been named after, and is equal to your birthday celebration.