These past holiday days, those of us who love homemade creations surely went in search of recipes of all kinds and something familiar to warm our hearts. That’s how my grandmother’s old notebook resurfaced. She had started it when she was setting up her own home, collecting her recipes one by one and creating her little “tselemente,” much like how one slowly builds a life.
I carefully leafed through it again. The worn pages had yellowed, and some of the recipes were written in drams. Between the lines, notes about when to “take it to the neighborhood oven”—back when homes didn’t have electric stoves or the conveniences we take for granted today—hide the daily life of another era. My grandmother was a steady presence for many years of my life and taught me so much. I still remember those Chian handmade macaroni of hers… I never got them right, Grandma!!! They had a mind of their own, those little devils…
When I left, I took my own small notebook with me, full of recipes and her advice. Every time something new I tried didn’t turn out right, I’d call her on the phone to share my… pain: “Yiayia, total disaster!!!” Her voice, calm and full of compassion: “Oh, my dear, why??? Never mind, next time…” And so I kept going, always a little more confident, until I got it right.
That old notebook is a treasure to me. It keeps Grandma Marika alive, along with her warmth and care. Every time I make one of her recipes, I feel her beside me, her hands dusted with flour, her heart full of love. It’s as if she whispers to me again: “Do it with love…”
