A Summer to Remember

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

By Diana Farr Louis

“I felt myself detoxing from apartment life, wearing as few clothes as possible, sandals only when in town or on gravel, becoming more and more aware of all the nuanced joys of being in the outback. The feel of the wind—and on Andros there’s a lot!—on my skin; the scent of basil when you just brush against it; the thrill of seeing geraniums revive after two years of bare survival; the quiet, except for the noisy cicadas by day and the occasional bleat of a sheep by night; the changing sky, clouds, sunsets (no sunrises, I’m not an early bird); the daily plucking of ripe figs, of biting into their red flesh, and of having so many there were plenty to share.”—Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS Greece—(Hubris)—January/February 2026—As I write this, much of Greece is being drowned by a massive storm called Byron. Warnings beeped loudly on our telephones last night, videos are circulating of cars resembling submarines on flooded streets, schools are closed. Who knows how many lives, human, animal, and vegetable, will be drowned or devastated?

To keep warm and dry, I turn my thoughts to this past summer on Andros, a miracle gift from the gods and from friends, not to mention my son Duff, who got us there, and our granddaughter, who came from Germany to help us leave. 

We had not been to our island home in two years, health issues having kept us locked in Athens, indoors with the a/c on during long heat waves, watching fires toboggan down Mt. Penteli. My only holiday was a week spent in the Syngrou skin hospital getting relief from acute dermatitis. With my husband now a centenarian and needing if not full-time care, at least full-time companionship, getting to Andros and staying there seemed an all but impossible undertaking. And yet we managed. 

With my son driving the other car, the Suzuki jeep able to negotiate the ruts and rocks on the dicey roads to our nearest beaches, we piled onto the ferry, securing a spot next to the elevator so that Harilaos, aka Joy of the People, would not have to walk more than a few steps to the lounge. We survived the two-hour journey, barely, being stuck next to two brothers under ten who were playing video games nonstop, while the rest of the passengers seemed to be testing their vocal cords. Never let it be said that Greeks seek peace and quiet. 

But when we got to our house 20 minutes from the port, we found a welcome committee, two dear British friends who had promised “meals on wheels”—a full-course supper with wine and dessert—and helped us unload and unpack. The house had never been cleaner and two other dear friends, acting custodians, had gone in the day before to turn on the fridge, make the beds, and open the windows.

That evening set the tone for the rest of our stay. A neighbor, dubbed Mr. Fixit, came the next day to unblock the water supply system, clogged after two years of disuse, and help restore the internet connection, which required a couple of hours on the cell phone. He then helped me open the door to the outdoor storeroom, which revealed a shock: the ceiling had collapsed. But luck was still with us because our faithful handyman, who clears our plot, prunes our trees, and puts up the awning, came the very next day to clean up the plaster and remove all trace of it from the ceiling. The storeroom also houses a second loo, and Aris did not want us “to be crowned while we were sitting on the throne.”

At midday, what was to be a non-stop social whirl began with lunch at Yiannouli’s, an institution on our side of the island, with hugs and extra dishes from dear Popi, who has taken over from her father. And for the next two months we reunited with friends at favorite tavernas or meals at home at least four or five times a week, with locals, ex-pat residents, and the changing cast of holiday visitors from the US, UK, or Greeks with summer homes in Hora, the main town on the other side of the island.

Even shopping in Gavrion, the port, was filled with welcoming hugs and exclamations of, “Oh, you’re back!” from the newsstand owners, the wellness couple, café owners, shopkeepers, and even the gas-station attendant. We glowed with pleasure, feeling at home again.

Naturally, there were other blessings: daily swims, outdoor life, fresh air with a boundless view, and—the icing on the cake—a fig tree that started producing the day after we arrived and stopped the day we left, more than two months later. All these combined to restore my vitality and sweep away all the aches and pains, swollen appendages, and itchy skin that had been plaguing me and frustrating my doctors for months.

For all of August, two sets of beloved friends kept us company, sharing the shopping, cooking, and washing up; fixing things we didn’t know needed fixing; and keeping us entertained with stories and memories going back 50 years. 

But come September, we were on our own: a geriatric ménage à trois, with a combined age of 275 years! The third member of our unlikely trio was an American friend, Michael Sisk, who had first met Hari in the late 1960s, and had a long career organizing festivals in Greece and Paris, staging opera performances in the Herodeio in Athens and at ancient Nemea, and much more. He had arrived back in Greece in July a year before, just in time to keep his buddy company and save me having to hire companions when I needed to go out. 

With Harilaos no longer reading the paper or listening to the news, retreating deeper into his own world of muddled memories and surreal fantasies, Michael provided mealtime conversation on current events and our shared love of music and literature—usually beginning with what Heather Cox Richardson had to say at breakfast and ending with stories from our past lives. He also loved to cook, so I didn’t have to plan all the meals, his favorites being gazpacho, pasta, and vanilla ice cream (he resurrected an old ice cream maker he’d given us 30 years before). We never once turned on the TV.

But when we had company, Hari was always happy, enjoying friends even if he couldn’t remember their names, and enjoying too the obligatory glass(es) of white wine. Why say no, when there were so few pleasures left? What was sad was watching this Alpha male trying to be in charge: wanting to walk up to the water tanks to make sure they were full; checking the gas bottle behind the kitchen to make sure it was full; tut-tutting about the peeling paint on the front door that he used to keep smooth and shiny. Still, I could see that he loved being in the home we had built 35 years ago, gazing at the view, going down to the port to sit in Yianni’s shop/café with some wine, of course, while we did the shopping.

And I felt myself detoxing from apartment life, wearing as few clothes as possible, sandals only when in town or on gravel, becoming more and more aware of all the nuanced joys of being in the outback. The feel of the wind—and on Andros there’s a lot!—on my skin; the scent of basil when you just brush against it; the thrill of seeing geraniums revive after two years of bare survival; the quiet, except for the noisy cicadas by day and the occasional bleat of a sheep by night; the changing sky, clouds, sunsets (no sunrises, I’m not an early bird); the daily plucking of ripe figs, of biting into their red flesh, and of having so many there were plenty to share . . . .

The beach scene was something else. How could I have stood not seeing the sea for almost two years, not immersing myself and indulging in its full-body caress! Being in the water, attentive to every detail—the ripples on the bottom, the glitter on the top (from mid-September on), the too few fish, and the one little melanouri (black tail) that nibbled my leg the day after I’d feasted on its siblings in the nearby taverna . . . .  But being on the beach was almost as delightful: watching children play, dig, splash, and squeal instead of being glued to their iphones; watching the parade of young behinds, their thongs leaving nothing to the imagination; and not having these pleasures marred by loud music from the all too ubiquitous beach bars on the island. 

Since we returned to Athens in mid-October, I give thanks every day over and over again for this miracle summer, where we were surrounded by love and beauty, thanks to all our friends—you know who you are—to the gods, the island spirits, Mother Nature, and to Greece herself, for giving me so many decades of a beautiful life. 

These memories will get me through the winter. And through the knowledge that I will never have another summer with the love of my life, the aptly named Joy of the People. 

Recipe

Turkey Scallopine with Lemon & Capers

This is a dish I always fall back on when I have a few friends over, winter or summer. And it’s quick and easy. 

Turkey breasts, sliced thin and pounded—as many slices as people, or maybe one or two for the greedy ones.

Flour for dusting 

Olive oil

½  Knorr home chicken broth (gel, not cubes) in 1 or 2 cups of hot water (if 2 cups, use a whole cube) 

Capers, 2-3 tablespoons (ours of course are from Andros)

Juice and grated peel of 2 lemons

Put some flour in a paper bag, add the turkey slices and shake until they are coated with flour on both sides. Heat some oil in a large skillet and brown the meat on both sides. When lightly browned, remove, and set aside. Pour in the chicken broth, the amount—up to 2 cups—will depend on how much meat you have. Boil, stirring, and when slightly reduced, add the capers, lemon zest, and juice. Cook for a minute more and then place the sliced turkey back in the pan on medium heat and cook until the liquid has reduced and thickened. Put the meat and sauce on a platter and serve, with rice, potatoes, or just some boiled green veg, like broccoli.