How to Roast a Lamb_ New Greek Classic Cooking - Michael Psilakis [55]
Saturday night midnight mass was upon us, the pinnacle of our religious year. Following the service, which included a candlelit procession outside of the church and down the street, we returned to my grandmother’s house for a big holiday dinner. By the time we left and I crawled into bed, it was four in the morning—same as every year.
Normally, on Easter Sunday my father would get up at 7:00 A.M. so he could prepare the barbecue. By 11:00, relatives would start showing up and begin snacking on cheese, olives, sausages, spanakopita, tiropitas—the usual mezes we would have around before the main meal was served.
But this year at 7:00, my father woke me up to help him. Though this was not routine, I still sensed nothing unusual about the day ahead. We went out into the yard and looked at the baby animals, something I had done multiple times every day since we’d got them. My father looked at me and announced, “Okay, now it’s time to catch one.”
I looked at my father quizzically. I thought he was joking, putting me on, testing me in some way. But when I saw the serious look on his face, I realized he wasn’t joking. So off I went, chasing after the lamb and the kid, trying to catch one in my arms. It was almost comical how I ran, diving after them, often coming close to catching one but never actually succeeding. My pants were covered in grass stains and I shouted to my father:
“Mom’s going to yell at me!”
“Just catch one,” my father repeated, calmly.
Finally I caught the lamb by a leg and knocked him down. He was kicking and trying to run away, but I sat down on top of him.
As I sat on top of the lamb, watching it struggle to free itself, as if in slow motion my father came up behind me, reached down over my right shoulder with a hunting knife, grabbed the lamb’s head and ears, and, in one swift motion, slit the lamb’s throat.
Blood shot out of the lamb like water from a high-pressure hose. The lamb started shaking and convulsing. I could feel an intense heat radiating out of its body, and I felt as though I was burning up. It all happened so quickly and yet, the way it seemed to me, I felt like it would never end.
I jumped off the lamb. I looked down at myself and saw that I was covered in blood. Now I was crying hysterically.
My father asked me, “Are you crying?”
This had always been a rhetorical question: in my family, men and boys didn’t cry. So “Are you crying?” had always been more of a warning: I should pull myself together because crying would be unacceptable. Instinctively, I tried to stop the tears from flowing. I turned away and swiped at my eyes and running nose, attempting to get a grip.
But on this day, my father was really asking me this question. I tried to answer and tell him I wasn’t crying. I didn’t want my tears to disappoint him. But he beckoned me over and pulled me up onto his lap, something he rarely did. Gently he asked, “Why are you crying?”
I sobbed that he had just killed my friend, and that I had helped him do it. My father explained that he wanted to illustrate something very important to me: that every year we put a lamb on the spit and every year we ate lamb at Easter. And here was the lesson. He asked me, “Where did you think that lamb came from?” My response was one of childlike innocence. “I don’t know,” I told him, sniffling.
I was still on my father’s lap. It was so unusual for him to hold me this way that I sensed I was about to be told something I would remember forever. Quietly and firmly, my father explained: “Michael, when Mommy