Keeping Angst From The Door: Easter On Andros

“Thank goodness for the weather. It gives us something to talk about besides politics. This Easter—which fell a week later than what Greeks call ‘Catholic Easter’—we tried to get away from what is increasingly looking like our leaders’ determination to commit hara kiri and take the entire nation with them.”—Diana Farr Louis

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

By Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—6/8/2015—Thank goodness for the weather. It gives us something to talk about besides politics. This Easter—which fell a week later than what the Greeks call “Catholic Easter”—we tried to get away from what is increasingly looking like our leaders’ determination to commit hara kiri and take the entire nation with them. Going against the wishes of an overwhelming majority of the population, Syriza seems to be reneging on all of its campaign promises—no surprise there—including the intent to remain within the Eurozone and find a compromise that will satisfy our creditors while keeping our people from going jobless and starving.

Our worries and frustration at their hubris, contradictions, and duplicity (and at our creditors’ intransigence) grow with every day’s news bulletins, so what better tactic to defuse their impact than to switch off?

We set off for Andros on the Monday after non-Orthodox Easter and spent the first two days getting the house ready for guests. Not that it was dirty, for I’d swept in early March, but the prospect of sharing quarters always sharpens the eye so that suddenly I was aware of smudged finger prints on the fridge, mold in the shower grouting, strange growths on the panels of all the doors, along with the expected dust devils under the beds and damp crystals on the stone floor in the downstairs room.

We dealt with all these minor vexations, as well as with the gecko population downstairs and the new leak that had soaked the foot of the bed. Then, I turned my attention to picking flowers for the living room and guest room, selecting examples of every type from yellow and white daisies to blue and white lupines, mauve and yellow vetches, pink mallows, pink and white foxglove, wild pear blossom, wild lavender, tassel hyacinth, and other common posies I can’t put names to. The rampant, ever more vigorous thistles made flower picking a scratchy challenge. I deliberately did not choose any of the plump white irises, sky-blue borage, or orange calendula that were actually planted: they are closer to the house and easy to admire.

But with our preparations came dire prognoses of extreme weather—snow on the mountains of Attica, 10 Beaufort winds, lashing rains—which translated into a ban on passenger boats in the Aegean. The ban was to last almost 48 hours, provoking plenty of speculation and discussion: would our son and Sunday guests arrive in time to celebrate, would the wind drop enough for us to light the barbecue for the lamb roast, would we need to put up the awning? They pushed aside less tangible concerns and, although we were housebound on Holy Thursday, we played Triple Dominoes and, in the absence of a newspaper, actually poked our noses into books. In the evening, we watched the news only long enough to see impressive footage of waves breaking over wind-lashed docks, traffic jams on snowy highways, and kids making snowmen in Athens’ northern suburbs. “I’m Dreaming of a White Easter” was a song I’d never contemplated before. It seemed confirmation that even Mother Nature was punishing Greece.

Frequent calls to the ticket agent eventually confirmed that boats would be sailing again by the evening of Good Friday, but I’m ashamed to admit our total lack of piety or even interest in watching the traditional procession behind the flower-decked bier of Christ at our local church. Did the flowers stay attached or were they and the faithful blown off the always breezy plateau where it stands? That Aeolus’s gusts had particular strength could be seen in the flags waving at the entrance; they’d been shredded to half-size in just a few days.

But, sure enough, Saturday dawned with a cloudless sky and just a hint of a nip in the air: Easter would proceed as scheduled and, as we have orchestrated it for so many decades now. It really involves an appalling amount of work but, somehow, with the help of very dear friends, we always cope. The men took care of the lamb itself, which had been brought from LIDL vacuum packed in fetal position and small enough to squeeze into the fridge. It was considerably cheaper than the free-range Andros beastie, but better than expected after they’d stuffed it with lemons, garlic, and rosemary and rubbed it with same. If we had not known the lambs of yesteryear offered by our neighbor in thanks for grazing rights, we’d have thought it perfect.

We two girls boiled the liver and lights for mageiritsa, chopped them finely, added the rice to the broth, and left the finishing of the soup with an egg-lemon sauce until the evening. We were also making a yogurt dip with ginger, carrot, and cucumber as a variation on tzatziki, taramosalata, pita bread toasted with zaatar and olive oil, as well as hard-boiling and dying the traditional red Greek Easter eggs. Why is it that even after lining the pot with dish towels and barely allowing the water to simmer, a few of them always crack?

Meanwhile, we also had to sweep, scrub the tables, and wash the salad greens from our friends’ garden. The boys stayed out of our way, putting up a half-awning and worrying about some loose stones holding up the pergola: we did not want any coming down on unsuspecting heads.

The afternoon passed quietly, with naps, books, and gentle walks, segueing into a couple of episodes of “Wolf Hall,” purloined onto a USB stick—I always want to say “UBS.” Suffice it to say, the costumes and period are up to British standards but the books were much more gripping and illuminating.

The rest of Greece might be gathering at a local church or socializing in the courtyard outside, waiting for the magical moment when the lights go out and the priest appears with a candle, announcing “Christós anésti/Christ is risen” to the clangor of bells. But we have long since ceased to join them. Firecrackers—in some places, more like grenades—drown out the wonderful hymn, and the message of The Resurrection has become too much like a declaration of war.

So, we had our soup well before midnight, watched the Anástasi in the Patriarchate on TV, and retired.

The next day was not without its hitches. The lamb seemed to rotate at a different tempo than the spit, lurching alarmingly and cooking unevenly. Fixing it took some time; our guests would arrive long before it was ready. No one had remembered to check the charcoal. But, in the end, the guests got lost and the single taverna in our outback came to the rescue with a generous donation of the precious fuel.

With all our preparations, feasting, good talk, cleaning up, dealing with the carcass, and the emptying of an untold number of wine bottles, we ceased to beweep our outcast state, and did not consider intimations of impending doom. They didn’t so much as flicker across our minds so that we had to brush them aside.

Would that we could keep that distance, peace of mind, that good sense to worry only about the things we can do something about.

The very next day, we repeated the recipe, this time with a gorgeous two-kilo fish found at a kaïki on the port. It happened to be the last one. And, once again, we intoned our mantras: “Buvons/mangeons dans le désespoir” and  “I ftóxia thélei kaló pérasi” (Poverty needs a good time). I could add another: “We get by with a little help from our friends.”

Recipe

Infallible Egg-Lemon Soup

Greeks thicken all sorts of dishes with beaten eggs and lemon juice, which enhances the original flavor while binding the ingredients. Although at Easter we make the soup with lamb’s innards, a version for the squeamish or vegetarians using mushrooms as a substitute for meat is becoming popular. Egg-lemon (avgolémono) also adds another dimension to chicken or fish soups. We also use egg-lemon with artichokes, stuffed vine leaves, stuffed zucchini, pork with celery, and lots more. And of course, you don’t need as much liquid for a sauce.

Whether soup or sauce, the principle is the same. Whisk the eggs and lemon juice together, add some of the hot liquid from the soup or braise, a tablespoon at a time, and then, off the heat, pour the mixture into the cooking pot and stir gently or shake. The only time you risk curdling is if you rush to add the mixture to a boiling liquid or re-boil.

The original recipe, from Prospero’s Kitchen, calls for:

12 cups chicken, fish, or meat stock or soup

2 eggs, separated

juice of two juicy lemons (or more to taste)

salt and pepper, according to your preferences

Remove the soup from the heat. In a large bowl, beat the egg whites until fairly stiff; then beat the yolks in a separate bowl. Add the lemon juice very slowly to the yolks, beating constantly. Now stir this mixture slowly into the egg whites. Add two cups of broth to the egg-lemon bowl, again very slowly, stirring all the while. Pour this liquid, a bit at a time, back into the remaining soup, stirring in one direction. Season as desired and re-heat without allowing the soup to boil. Do not cover the pot as the soup may curdle, though it will still taste fine.

NB This Easter, I felt lazy and did not separate the eggs but beat them together. The result was the same, utterly delicious.

Run out of eggs or vegan, then make the Turkish version, called derbiye, which substitutes flour for the eggs and holds no danger of curdling.