Ever since I was small, I loved stories. I adored listening to grownups recounting scenes from when they were young. Small feats that, to my ears, sounded fabulous. It was always at mealtime. When the plates emptied, when the glasses were filled and refilled, when the kids went back to playing, that\u2019s when the best part started. \u201cDo you remember when\u2026\u201d The first stories brought on laughter, the laughter singing, the singing hugs and, then, more stories. \nIn the summers, five brothers, five families with a dozen children, we all shared the same house. In the morning, we were always roused by the smell from the oven. All the moms were in the kitchen, one washing tomatoes and peppers, another slicing onions, another preparing the meat. The singing-stew was a summer dish and a Sunday one at that. For the large formal spread. None of our friends knew what the singing-stew was. Maybe it was a family invention. \u201cWhy is it called singing-stew?\u201d, I would ask the moms. \u201cBecause whoever eats it, sings.\u201d\nThe meat was swimming in potatoes, peppers and onions and the only wintery note was the feta cheese, like snow on the colorful dish. I wasn\u2019t particularly fond of it but I didn\u2019t make a fuss because I was thinking that the Sunday singing-stew helped the grownups sing more tales. \nThe kitchen leader was grandma. She sat on the side and pridefully watched the daughters and daughters-in-law cooking. It was her, grandma Victoria, who had taught them the recipe. She hadn\u2019t made it herself for years but she knew how it was done better than anyone. They\u2019d show her the plate with the feta that was about to land on top of the casserole. And although she could neither see nor hear all that well, grandma Vic took the opportunity to start chatting. They would forget about her all through the morning. She kept a discrete distance throughout the cooking, to keep a white hair from her well made bun, wander into any of the pots and pans. \u201cDon\u2019t rush, has the meat boiled good and proper?\u201d \u201cWhy, mom, it\u2019s melted already!\u201d \u201cOh, you didn\u2019t over boil it, did you?\u201d The first-born and best cook, Marika, would decisively take things in hand: \u201cIf we spend more time discussing this, it will soon be inedible!\u201d She turned off the stove and sprinkled the feta on the casserole in one smooth motion. Then, she took a clean dishcloth and covered it. The meal was ready and the women could go to have a quick dip, meet up for a while with the men and children, then come back again before the others, to set the table. Grandma kept the singing-stew company until the children and grandchildren returned. I was convinced that at that exact moment, grandma put something in the singing-stew casserole, something magical, that would make her children sing tales again.\nOne Sunday I asked my mom to not go swimming because my belly ached. \u201cAlright, you stay quietly in your room. Grandma will be in the kitchen.\u201d As soon as I heard them all leave, I went barefoot and took position by the kitchen door. I saw my grandmother rise laboriously and lift the dishcloth, sniff and sniff and, then, reach inside the pocket of her black house robe, pull something out and sprinkle it on the food. Then, she turned to where I stood and winked at me. That gesture always stayed with me, like a great secret. I never told anyone and never asked my grandmother what magic she added to the recipe. When she died, I went into her room, opened her wardrobe and stroked her black robe. I slid my hand into its pockets and there was the answer to the great mystery of my childhood. On the one pocket there was a dry leaf of basil and in the other, a twig of oregano. \nWe were fairly grown by now. In the summer, us kids ran off, each with their own group of friends to the islands that lay off the beaten track. Back in the summer house, the Sunday table grew that much poorer. Still, ever since then, all my cousins agree that mine is the best singing-stew of all. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u0391\u03c0\u03cc \u03bc\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ae \u03b1\u03b3\u03b1\u03c0\u03bf\u03cd\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b9\u03c2 \u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03af\u03b5\u03c2. \u03a4\u03c1\u03b5\u03bb\u03b1\u03b9\u03bd\u03cc\u03bc\u03bf\u03c5\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b1\u03ba\u03bf\u03cd\u03c9 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bc\u03b5\u03b3\u03ac\u03bb\u03bf\u03c5\u03c2 \u03bd\u03b1 \u03b4\u03b9\u03b7\u03b3\u03bf\u03cd\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b7\u03bd\u03ad\u03c2 \u03b1\u03c0\u03cc \u03c4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03ae\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03bd\u03ad\u03bf\u03b9. \u039c\u03b9\u03ba\u03c1\u03ac \u03ba\u03b1\u03c4\u03bf\u03c1\u03b8\u03ce\u03bc\u03b1\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd \u03bc\u03b1\u03b3\u03b9\u03ba\u03ac \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u03b9\u03ac \u03bc\u03bf\u03c5. \u0389\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b7\u03bd \u03ce\u03c1\u03b1 \u03c4\u03bf\u03c5 \u03c6\u03b1\u03b3\u03b7\u03c4\u03bf\u03cd. \u038c\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b9\u03ac\u03c4\u03b1 \u03b1\u03b4\u03b5\u03b9\u03ac\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5, \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c4\u03ae\u03c1\u03b9\u03b1 \u03b3\u03ad\u03bc\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd \u03ba\u03b1\u03b9 \u03be\u03b1\u03bd\u03b1\u03b3\u03ad\u03bc\u03b9\u03b6\u03b1\u03bd, \u03cc\u03c4\u03b1\u03bd \u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03b4\u03b9\u03ac \u03b5\u03c0\u03b9\u03c3\u03c4\u03c1\u03ad\u03c6\u03b1\u03bd\u03b5 \u03c3\u03c4\u03b1 \u03c0\u03b1\u03b9\u03c7\u03bd\u03af\u03b4\u03b9\u03b1, \u03c4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03ac\u03c1\u03c7\u03b9\u03b6\u03b5 \u03c4\u03bf \u03ba\u03b1\u03bb\u03cd\u03c4\u03b5\u03c1\u03bf. \u00ab\u0398\u03c5\u03bc\u03ac\u03c3\u03b1\u03b9 \u03c4\u03cc\u03c4\u03b5 \u03c0\u03bf\u03c5\u2026\u00bb … Read More<\/a><\/p>","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[7],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mariapapayanni.gr\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/518"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mariapapayanni.gr\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mariapapayanni.gr\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mariapapayanni.gr\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mariapapayanni.gr\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=518"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mariapapayanni.gr\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/518\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":521,"href":"https:\/\/mariapapayanni.gr\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/518\/revisions\/521"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mariapapayanni.gr\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=518"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mariapapayanni.gr\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=518"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mariapapayanni.gr\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=518"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}