“Some
people think the most precious gift you could inherit is healthful, delicious
food.” (Smith, Heirloom Foods). The
summer of my seventh grade year, I took a trip to my grandmother’s family house
on the Greek island of Ikaria and learned just that. It was the hottest summer
they’d seen in fifteen years. Islanders couldn’t stop sweating; both in the air
conditioning and in the sea. So,
obviously my grandmother decided to make her famous, piping hot lemon soup.
A
steady, hundred degree heat radiated off my grandmother’s tile and into my
sweaty palms. I caught a glimpse of the
crystal ocean outside. Crashing waves mixed with the hum of the kitchen
sink. The cracking of an egg. Peeling
the ponytail from my dripping neck I readjusted to feel the fan’s cool air.
“Koukla mou!” A slight moan. I was finally comfortable. “The
avgolemono is hot and ready!”
“But it’s ninety-seven degr…” A wrinkled hand grabbed me from the waist and
hoisted me to standing.
She
didn’t even feel the Greek, afternoon heat.
Her eyes were fixed on the stove in the next room and her manicured
fingers were wrapped around my wrist like a serpent. I heard her begin her lecture on not letting
any ingredient go to waste. I had heard it so many times I wasn’t even
annoyed. Growing up during the
Depression, she had learned to live in a way far different from my American
upbringing. Unlike my littered dinner
plates, hers were spotless. Whereas I
had made a personal decision to loathe green beans, she loved every food
equally.
“I
want you to give these chicken scraps to the birds by the fence.” She handed me the meat, ignoring the look of
horror on my face.
“But…that’s cannibalism.”
“Birds deserve a nice dinner too.” She gently pushed me out the door and closed
it.
The next part of the story is too painful for me to
reiterate but I can tell you that it involved a parade of unknowing chickens
eating their siblings. The craziest part is that when it was over, I felt a
deeper love for my grandmother and her beliefs about food. Even today, she never leaves the table
without giving a few noodles to my dog.
Her affection towards humans is equal to that towards every other living
thing. In his series on Culture, Food, and Identity, Mervyn Claxton says that
“eating together is an important social act […] a recognition of fellowship and
mutual social obligation”. For my
grandmother, this social act is extended towards all. A stereotypical Greek “yiayia”, she never
turns someone away from a meal, is always cooking, and constantly finishes her
sentences with, “you’re too skinny.”
According to Foster, eating together says, “I’m with
you, I share this moment with you, I feel a bond of community with you.”
(Foster 11) As it relates to those poor
chickens, this statement is all but too true.
As it relates to the entire world, I believe that this belief needs more
followers. I’ve learned that food is, in some ways, the greatest equalizer. In her novel, You are What You Eat, Claudia Cornejo asserts, “Culinary skills and
choices often reflect social and personal identity.” One of those choices being, “the ingredients
considered edible”. Sure, my
grandmother’s version of edible often seems a bit extreme. But it’s that unwavering spirit that has
allowed her to open her arms to all different types of people and invite them
into her life. Since that summer in Greece and in my continuous run-ins with
avgolemono soup, I have come to realize that food isn’t just keeping our bodies
running; it’s keeping our souls alive.
Works Cited
Claxton, Mervyn. "Culture, Food, and Identity." Series on Culture and Development.
Vol. 6. N.p.: n.p., n.d. N. pag. Normangirvan.info. Web. 17 Mar. 2014.
Cornejo, Claudia A., H. "You Are What You Eat: Food as Expression of Social Identity." Home
Cooking in the Global Village. Oxford: n.p., 2006. 176. Cromrev.com. Web. 17 Mar. 2014.
Smith, Brad. "Heirloom Foods." PBS. PBS, n.d. Web. 17 Mar. 2014.
Foster, Thomas C. How to Read Literature like a Professor: A Lively and Entertaining Guide to
Reading between the Lines. New York: Quill, 2003. Print.
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