How to Roast a Lamb_ New Greek Classic Cooking - Michael Psilakis [11]
When I’ve been honored with awards and accolades, I’ve thought back to my childhood, the foundation upon which the rest of my life and all that I have accomplished has been built. I can never be as great as my father was, or as much of a success, but it gives me joy to make my customers feel like guests in my home and to share with them a taste of my childhood and a look at what I’ve dreamed of as “new” Greek cuisine.
When my father passed away in September 2007, there was one thing left unsaid: my father was my hero. In the pages that follow, I wish to honor the man who had the greatest influence on my life, who taught me and groomed me to be a man myself and who shaped me into the man I am today.
Life, love, and learning; food, family, and friends. These are the things that I hope to share, from my table to yours. Like the ingredients of each of the recipes in this book, to me, they are all intertwined—one cannot exist without the others. It is through sharing these recipes with you that I hope you can take some of this love and learning and share it with your own family and friends.
The reminiscences in this book that begin each chapter are the backbone of my youth, and the recipes that follow are what nourished us, day after day and night after night at my mother’s table, at family parties, in celebrating happiness and commemorating sorrow. It is my sincerest hope that you will take the time to cook some of these recipes for family and friends, for the people you love. I promise that you will derive great joy from the food you have created, from the happiness of cooking for people who are dear to you, from feeding people and bringing them together. And you will be amazed at the outpouring of love you get in return from those you have invited to share your table.
my father’s garden
I knew gardening season was near when my father brought out the seed bag. He kept all of our seeds in a single bag, each variety encased in its own paper-towel envelope. The original seeds—the ones my father used for his first garden in America seasons before I was born—came over with him from Greece. And these, the ones we used every year until my father was no longer strong enough to tend the garden, were direct descendants.
The ritual of the seed bag started long before actual work in the garden. As if handling rare and precious jewels, my father would select a packet and gingerly unfold the paper towel until the seeds were revealed. First, we’d look for the tomato and pepper seeds. These were birthed inside so that, when it was time to plant outside, we’d already have seedlings to go into the garden. All the other vegetables and fruits, my father would explain, were vines that would start outside from seed. After days, sometimes weeks, of anticipation, at long last he would make the pronouncement: “Tomorrow we’re going to work in the garden.”
I was ten before I truly had the strength to help my father with the tilling, but that didn’t diminish my eagerness to contribute in any way I could. As soon as my father walked out the sliding-glass doors onto the patio, I’d race ahead of him to the garden shed and drag the pick mattock (a hoe on one side of the head and a pick on the other) across the yard, struggling over the clumps of crabgrass and weeds. It felt as if I were dragging cinder blocks, and I’d have to rest several times along the way, but I was determined to pitch in. Exhausted and triumphant, I’d lay the smooth wooden handle at his feet while he assessed the work ahead, then I’d run back to the shed to work on delivering the pitchfork. Compared to the mattock, the pitchfork was easy—like pulling a well-waxed toboggan on snow.
My father would bring the pick mattock effortlessly up over his