How to Roast a Lamb_ New Greek Classic Cooking - Michael Psilakis [79]
Working quickly, pour off the oil from the pan and wipe it out with a paper towel. Still over medium-high heat, add the olive oil. When the oil is hot, add and sauté the sage and shallots for 30 seconds. Deglaze the pan with the lemon juice, wine, and water; stir in the Garlic Purée and caperberries. Add the spinach leaves and wilt for a few seconds. Return the sweetbreads to the pan and toss gently. Drizzle with a little extra-virgin olive oil and scatter with a few grains of sea salt; serve immediately.
Add 10 pieces of Artichoke Confit (page 267) to the pan with the baby spinach.
At serving time, garnish with 1 large fried shallot (page 77).
big-party cooking
My family was legendary for throwing big parties. There was always an occasion to celebrate, whether it was a birthday, the Fourth of July, New Year’s Eve, or my father’s name day. And naturally, we wanted our friends and family there to turn the celebration into a real party.
On the occasion of my sixteenth birthday, my mother decided to throw one of these grand bashes in my honor. Ordinarily, my mother and maternal grandmother would start preparations for a big party a day or two in advance, and for some parties they would begin as much as a week beforehand. But this time, my mother was trying to pull off a surprise party and I—being in the throes of my malcontented, angry teen phase—did not make it easy for her. So, my mother came up with a strategy of her own. She called upon my best friend, Alex, to get me out of the house for a sleepover to give her at least thirty-six hours to get ready.
My mother and I had just had (another) big fight, so when Alex called, I busted his chops too. He was so persistent that I snarled at him and told him to back off. Out of options, he came clean and revealed that my mother was trying to throw me a big surprise party. My instant reaction was “Tell her I don’t want a party. Tell her not to do it. Tell her I won’t come.”
My mother had another ploy, which she got my aunt to execute: after I returned from Alex’s on the morning of the party, my aunt came to take me off her hands. My mother had made up some absurd story about my aunt needing my help at work that day, and that I had to dress a certain way in order to go with her. Before my aunt picked me up, my father started in on me about the way I was dressed.
I had bandanna strips wrapped around my forearm like bracelets. It drove my father crazy. He had been after me for months to remove them and, on this day, he was relentless. In a fury, I stood up, grabbed a knife, and—with the blade pointing away from my forearm and up toward my face—swiftly cut the tattered fabric off my arm. As I cut the last bracelet free, the blade came up with the force of my fury and I sliced myself on the brow, only millimeters from my right eye. I grabbed my eye as the blood poured down. Slowly, I removed my hand so my father could see. A plastic surgeon and sixteen stitches later, I was on my way to my aunt’s office to “help” her.
The party I came home to continues to live on in infamy more than twenty years later. We ate and drank, laughed and chatted for hours. The party to which I had been so rabidly opposed transformed my spirits as I visited with friends and cousins, aunts and uncles—each and every one of them there to celebrate with me and my family.
On this occasion my father at last presented me with his traditional dance costume, something I had so desperately coveted for years. His presentation of that costume to me meant far more than the costume itself. It was his acknowledgment that I had earned it, along with his respect, and I was walking forward into manhood. I had his beloved costume and, in time, I would present it to my own son.
As the night wore on and the party ramped