Glögg! Mandi lets her Swedish Chef out to play

Well, the nights have well and truly drawn in, the Christmas tree is up (and so far has not been attacked by Joker Da Kaat) and the festive season is well and truly upon us.

I've been a little lax of late on the blogging front, due to giving myself some time out to celebrate my birthday (one of the biggies) in style back in Blighty, so I thought now might the time to revisit an old post about a rather delicious (hic!) Scandinavian treat that's sure to warm your cockles, and more, in the run-up to Santa's big night.

Meet Lars.
You may not know his name, but I'm sure you all know him.

He's the Swedish Chef, usually seen burbling incomprehensively (but enthusiastically) around The Muppet Show kitchen, often with a chicken looking on in horror. 

I don't really know his name, but after more than two decades years of working for a company with Swedish management, he is definitely a Lars to me.
And he has a very special specality: Glögg.

I first came across it as an innocent 28-year-old, as I approached my first Christmas in my new job. Though based in Greece, many of the managers were Swedes - and they were keen as mustard to bring a little taste of the Baltic to the Eastern Mediterranean. I had already reluctantly sampled reindeer (I know, I know - but actually Rudolph and his ilk are surprisingly tasty) and had managed to avoid Rotten Herring (don't ask - it IS what it sounds like), but the smells coming from the lunchroom that December morning were infinitely more enticing. 

Curiosity got the better of me and I was soon to found hanging my head over a gently seething cauldron of ruby red liquor bubbling with almonds, orange peel and sultanas, with my boss stirring away merrily. It smelt orgasmic. (The booze, not my boss!).

Before I knew it, I had a little glass of the stuff in my hand and was taking my first tentative sip. Then a bolder slurp. Then another glass or two - or four.

I don't remember much after that... except a mental note that this Yuletide concoction was lethal enough to fell a whole longship of Vikings. And that I got the bus home that evening. I think.

So, if you're feeling bold, here is a recipe, including the extras my boss liked to throw into the mix. It will certainly keep the cold at bay - but you may not feel your nose after a glass or two.

You will need:
3 sticks cinnamon
2-3 pieces dried Seville orange peel (use fresh if dried not available
2-3 pieces dried or fresh ginger (not ground)
some 10 cardamom seeds (whole)
some 10 cloves (whole)
1 cup (2.5dl) water

and:
sugar
1 bottle of red wine 
(added extras: a few good slugs of vodka or brandy, or both!)
Blanched almonds and sultanas for serving

What to do:
- Put the spices and water in a small pan and bring to the boil. Then turn off heat and let it stand overnight
- Pass the mixture through a sieve to filter out the 'bits' from the spices 
- Pour in the wine and gently heat (don't boil!)
- Add sugar to taste (about half a cup) and stir til it dissolves
- Heat but do not bring it to the boil. Alcohol evaporates when boiled and that sort of defeats the object!
- If you're feeling naughty, spike the whole thing with a splash or three of vodka or brandy
- Serve hot with raisins and blanched almonds (dropped into the cups after serving).

Skål!

The Slattern’s Guide to… the kitchen

Let’s get one thing straight. Slattern is not a synonym for lazy cow. You can pack up all those preconceptions and mental images of kitchens piled to the ceiling in half empty take-away boxes and unfinished Pot Noodles. That is not the way of the slattern – well, not every day.

At heart, the true slattern is a hedonist – actually, she’s a HEDONIST in bold capitals. She loves the good things in life, so she savours the smells, tastes, textures and even the sounds of good food. She also loves to experiment. She just does it HER way.

Of course, there’s plenty of room in the gastronomic life of a slattern for those precious moments shoveling instant noodles into your mouth as you catch up on that vintage movie no-one else ever wanted to see, chewing cold leftover pizza in front of the open fridge for breakfast, scoffing peanut butter by the spoonful whilst you wait for your beloved to finish shaving, or eating baked beans straight from the tin when no-one is looking. It’s all part of life’s rich culinary tapestry.

But there are times when we have to put on a show and play the hostess. 

Instead of being a terrifying ordeal, this is a chance to get down, dirty and diggidly creative in front of the saucepan. It’s an adventure, often an experiment, and there may be collateral damage along the way. But above all, it will be fun and – with luck - tasty.

Just be sure to warn those you share your life with that the kitchen will probably look more like it’s been visited by the poltergeist spectre of Jackson Pollock than the smoothing spirit of a domestic goddess. 

When I cook up a storm, the scene owes more to Jackson Pollock than Nigella, so the faint-hearted are told to keep their distance. Stray pets enter the kitchen at their peril (and soon beat a hasty retreat at the first sound of banging saucepans). 

For the slattern, food is both about the journey and the destination – but her dining partners would do well to just wait patiently at the table.

Well-trained guests who resist the urge to visit the heaving collection of bubbling cauldrons and piles of vegetable waste in your kitchen may even be fooled into thinking you are a genuine Domestic Goddess (capital D, capital G).

It’s a handy trick when trying to impress, so here are a few tips:

• Forget food styling – Life’s too short for a molecule’s worth of pilaf accompanied by a sole lentil and a quartered fig artfully arranged in the upper left-hand of a pure black plate to represent the ultimate futility and artifice of life.
  Tell your guests that you embrace the rustic school of cooking – that way you can get away with dumping messy dollops of your delicious offerings on mismatched plates and calling it art.
• Embrace short cuts – Are you seriously going to tell me you can tell when your hostess has spent the past 24 hours creating her own puff pastry from scratch (make the dough, fold in butter, roll out and fold three times, chill for an hour, then repeat the whole process ad nauseum)?
  I certainly can’t, especially when it has a shedload of creamy fruity sweetness or a tower of tasty roast veg and cheese added. Ready-made puff pastry is quick and easy – bish, bash, bosh and there you go, ready to have fun with the topping.
  The same goes for tinned beans, chickpeas et al versus the more politically correct dried versions that have to be soaked overnight and boiled for at least an hour before you can even start. Save yourself the grief and boredom and reach for the tinned section every time – no-one will ever know, or care. Jars of ready minced garlic and ginger are also big on saving time, not to mention your nails and knuckles.
• The freezer is your friend – From frozen veg or fresh herbs to chuck into your creations for a last minute splash of colour, through to sauces, soups, doughs and entire family meals (“Here’s one I made earlier”), the freezer is a life saver.
  Just ask my mum. Though she’s the absolute antithesis of a slattern who could teach both Mary Berry and Martha Stewart a thing or two, she has three – yes, count them, three – freezers packed with enough goodies to see us all through the zombie apocalypse. You’ll never go hungry at Pauline’s, that’s for sure.
• Go by the book, then throw it away – Create your own unique signature dishes by adapting the original recipe according to your tastes or (more likely) what's hiding in the cupboard. That way, you can graciously give impressed guests the recipe from your piles of Jamie/Nigella/Mary/Heston/whoever cookbooks - but they will NEVER be able to replicate your masterpiece.
• Save your presentation skills for yourself - Cooking the slattern’s way is a glorious but messy business, so you’re going to get a little disheveled. Or a lot. Cooking naked isn't an option (potentially embarrassing and downright dangerous). So you can either you can carefully cultivate a Boho persona which embraces stray locks of hair, random stains, sweaty cheeks and smudged eyeliner, or chuck an old oversized shirt over your hostess clothes and keep a box of wet wipes , whatever clips/hairbands/bandanas/fascinators you might need and a basic make-up kit hidden in the back of the fridge for a last-minute make-over.
• Just enjoy the damn food! It doesn’t matter if you tuck into your risotto and Mediterranean veg with a big smear of balsamic cream across your forehead. It's just one more thing that will make it a meal to remember.

Bon appetite, slattern sisters!

Smells like Greek spirit

Take a walk pretty much anywhere in Greece tonight and you won’t be able to miss it.

There’s something in the air.
Something unmistakable assaulting your nasal passages (unless the latest flu bug to do the rounds has got there first).
It’s the aroma of burning coals and charred flesh.

But don’t worry, it’s not the scent of barricades burning, rubbish bins ablaze or the eruption of new riots. Though unrest and anger has become all too familiar in the past few years, today  is ‘Tsiknopempti’ – a day traditionally marked by the consumption of mountains of meat, ahead of the 40-day Lenten Fast when observant Orthodox Greeks are forbidden from eating any meat, fish or dairy products (though oddly, seafood and fish roe are permitted).

Those who abstain for the full 40 days are in the minority these days – but that certainly can’t be said for the Meat Fest that comes before it. Almost without exception and in spite of ever tightening purse strings in almost every household in the land, everyone rushes to prepare and enjoy their favorite meat dishes, with a strong emphasis on grilled cuts. The result is an unmistakable cloud of flesh-scented smoke hanging over each neighbourhood like a layer of fog.

In true Greek spirit, the key is excess. To quote my Mother-in-law, “If there’s not too much, it’s not enough”. And although many Greeks have tempered that philosophy in their everyday lives recently, out of harsh economic necessity rather than choice, when it comes to special food for special days, excess is still the key to success.

You won’t find any half-hearted examples a couple of bangers and a few frozen beefburgers thrown on the grill here. Oh no. It’s gotta be a rich selection of choice cuts, including spare ribs, skewered cubes of flesh, assorted offal, homemade burgers, village-style spiced sausages the size of baby pythons, massive oozing steaks, and more. There may be some chips to accompany the Meat Fest, and maybe a lonely looking salad lurking at the corner of the table – but don’t count on it.

If it were possible to measure the communal cholesterol count and blood pressure of the population of Greece on the day after Tsiknopemtpi, you’d have the World Health Organisation handing out emergency supplies of statins and blood thinners to every man, woman and child in the country. As it is, the national consumption of antacids usually spikes at this time of the year, just as it does at Easter.

So what, you may ask, is it like for the a lonely herbivore like me in Greece on this "Feast of the Carnivores"?

For some time now, I have avoided meat. Not for any pressing moral, religious or health reasons – I just felt I didn’t need it much (proven by still my healthily high haemoglobin), I don’t crave it and I'm more than happy with veggy, fishy and (especially) cheesy alternatives. Though on the seriously soft end of the veggy spectrum (actually a pescatarian if you want to get technical), I am considered something of a weirdo here, despite the fact that classic Greek cookery offers a veritable cornucopia of meat-free delights.

You may recall the scene from ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’ where a concerned (horrified?) aunt asks “He don’t eat no meat?” with an arch of her perfectly plucked eyebrow, followed by a sigh of compromise followed by “No problem, I make lamb”. Believe me folks, that was no poetic license. I’ve lived it first hand.

Considering that is the day to day reality, you can imagine the response on this day of meat, meat and more meat when I try to politely decline. That’s usually countered with protests and assurance that the slab of glistening grilled flesh dripping with tempting juices and a squeeze of lemon isn’t fattening, forcing me to explain that actually I don’t eat meat. The reaction – at least on days when my ego is feeling robust – is hilarious: usually a look of surprise, bemusement and the question, spoken or simply flashing in their eyes, “How can you be a vegetarian when you’re SO…. big?”. (The answer, for the record, is “Easy as pie - literally”.)

In truth, I have no problem with Greece’s meat-loving culture. It’s part of what gives the place and its people the full-blooded personality that first drew me here all those years ago. My husband and son eat meat, and I’m fine with that. I know I’m the oddity (so what else is new?) and that’s also OK, but there are times when I feel like more of an outsider than ET desperately trying to find a call box to ‘Phone home’.

But, on the plus side, once I’ve managed to extricate myself from invitations to tables groaning with stuff I don’t eat where I’ll watch the carnivores chewing away as I nibble on a chip, I know that when I head for the gym tonight, instead of waiting in line with all the other sweaty bods at the treadmill, I’ll probably have the place to myself.

And tomorrow morning, I may be one of the few not reaching for the Rennies.

Surviving Pascha: An outsider's guide to Greek Easter (and not a creme egg in sight)

Easter in Greece is heavy on symbolism, rich in tradition and dripping in calories. In a country where religion is woven into the very fabric of society, Easter is a very big deal.

It’s THE religious festival, and like so many occasions here – including elections, military parades, graduation ceremonies, funerals – it’s an intensely social event.

It can come as a bit of a shock, especially for a visitor from places like the UK where most folk see Easter as an excuse to stuff yourself with chocolate and hot cross buns, watch endless hours of sport and old movies on the goggle-box, or take your place in the traditional Bank Holiday traffic jams that clog the roads like too much cholesterol in the nation’s arteries.

So, here is my guide (as an outsider on the inside) to surviving one of Greece’s most enchanting and evocative traditions.

Get your timing right:
If you’re planning to book a trip to experience Orthodox Easter in Greece, check first. There’s a good chance that it won’t conveniently fall at the same time as your 4-day long weekend. Though the dates occasionally coincide, the Greek festival usually comes a week or so after it has been celebrated in many countries.

So, as my friends and family in the UK tucked into Hot Cross Buns to mark this year's Good Friday, we still had Palm Sunday and Holy Week leading up to Easter ahead of us,

Religious run-up: 
The week before Easter – Holy Week – is marked by heavy religiosity, solemn tolling of church bells, the melodic melancholy of priests and psalters chanting, and the gradual emptying of the cities as Greeks head for their villages. 

It can come as a disappointment to visitors to Athens, especially when they find that EVERYTHING shuts on the morning of Good Friday. But, on the other hand, it gives you a rare chance to enjoy the city without crowds and choking traffic. 

Maundy Thursday is a day of preparations, with traditionally-minded housewives (and the occasional obliging grandchild) hard-boiling and dying the red eggs that Greeks crack and eat once the Lenten fast is over (though the less traditional housewives buy them ready-dyed from the supermarket).

At every church, an army of ladies painstakingly place hundreds of flowerheads into the “epitaphio” – a funeral byre covered in countless blooms, which young children are encouraged to pass under throughout the day, for good luck. Come evening, however, the mood becomes much more somber, as a the epitaphio winds its way through the local streets in a symbolic funeral procession.

Fast food:
Strange as it may seem in a country where vegetarianism is considered an eccentricity and vegans as downright certifiable, most folk (even the non-religious) swear off meat, eggs, fish and dairy products for a full week before Easter. Like so many traditions, this is based in pure practicality – a kind of detox before the assault on your body that will follow with the feast on Easter Sunday.

But don’t worry – you won’t go hungry. Seafood, salads, pasta and a plethora of fast-friendly delights are always on offer (and as a visitor, no-one will begrudge you for tucking into a plate of souvlaki).

There is even a “get out early” clause for Greeks suffering from meat withdrawal symptoms – thanks to the so-called “little Resurrection”, marking the time when Christ’s tomb was said to be found empty, they can get carnivorous again from the afternoon of Easter Saturday.

Lighting the way:
My favourite part of the Greek Easter is the midnight ceremony on Saturday when everyone gathers outside their local church waiting for the priest to emerge and announce “Christos anesti!” (Christ has risen), at which point, things go berserk.

Bells peel out madly, fireworks go off (some alarmingly nearby), if you’re near a port you’ll hear ship horns blast, and a frenzy of kissing and cracking of painted hard-boiled eggs breaks out. As the priest makes his announcement, the light from his candle (claimed to be lit from the “Holy Flame” that is said to ignite mysteriously and spontaneously in a sealed chamber in Jerusalem) spreads throughout the crowd, lighting the wicks of the long and often garishly decorated candles (“lambades”) everyone holds.

I'm not a religious person, but I am a bit of a sucker for some traditions, and this is one of them. It's a moment with an intense sense of community, and has the power to move the most determined of atheists.

If you plan to attend the occasion, you have been warned. Go with your own lambada in hand and be prepared for startling bangs, whizzes and being grabbed and greeted by people you don’t know. But you won’t regret it. It’s a beautiful event – even to non-believers – as is the sight of everyone walking away from the church with through the scented spring night, lit lambades in hand, to the midnight feast waiting for them at home. And the combined smells of incense, melting wax, intoxicating orange-blossom and jasmine and countless plates of Easter soup waiting in households everywhere are a real treat for the nostrils.

Food, glorious food:
This is what it’s all about. In a traditional Greek household, most of Easter Saturday is spent with the women in a frenzy of preparation for the coming feast. It’s a heavy, heady assault on the senses - and a little rich for some of the uninitiated.

First of the menu is the traditional “magiritsa” soup served up in the deep of the night after everyone returns from church with their lambades. It’s not everyone's cup of tea, as it’s a broth of braised goat intestines (preparation involves meticulously turning them inside out with a knitting needle and scrubbing them clean) with boiled wild greens. I’m told it’s delicious – but even after 20 years, I prefer to take their word for it.

The real feast, however, comes the next day. Throughout the country, from early in the morning, roasting spits spring up over wood fires in gardens, yards, balconies, even the streets, ready for a goat or lamb to be skewered whole (head and all) and turned slowly for hours until it is cooked through to the bone, glistening in the spring sunlight and sending out mouth-watering meaty vapours. Unlike the kitchen duties, turning the spit is traditionally men’s work – and they can be seen gathered in gaggles around the goat, hard at work, fuelled by coffees, cigarettes, little glasses of ouzo and plates of “mezzes”.

By the time the spit-roast meat reaches the Easter platter, the table legs are heaving under the weight of an absolute cornucopia of delights, true to the opt-quoted truism “Den ftanei an perisevei” (“It’s not enough if there’s not too much). Meat galore is joined by glistening salads, hot crusty homemade pies, specially-baked aniseed-flavoured bread, countless red-dyed boiled eggs, cheeses, dips, and veritable rivers of wine and beer. Then, there’s dessert – homemade baklava dripping in honey, cream pies, aromatic sweet Easter bread.

Maybe now you understand why the Greeks aren’t big on chocolate eggs?

Easter in Greece is not for the faint-hearted (and those with weak hearts need to watch themselves too!), but, even for the most secular of us, it’s a feast for all the senses....

I got those Greek Vegetarian Blues

Do you remember the scene from “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” where Nia Vardalos’ character gives her Aunt Toula a heads-up ahead of a family gathering that her WASP fiancé is a vegetarian, and her response (after a shocked “What? He don’t eat no meat?!”) was “No problem, I make lamb”? 

Well, that – and several other scenes form the movie - could have been lifted straight from the pages of my life.

Although Greece’s wonderful fresh fruit and veg, and much of its celebrated cuisine, should make it a paradise for those who have sworn off meat (even rather lax semi-veggies like me who still eat fish and seafood), they are generally regarded as incomprehensible oddities.

Upon learning of my dietary 'eccentricity', most Greeks take a less than discreet appraising look at my solid Anglo-Saxon frame and sturdy thunder thighs, before telling me that a vegetarian lifestyle is less likely to help me lose weight than a daily diet of grilled meat and salad (yes, I know I'm fat but that's not why I don't eat meat). Others blanch at the thought and issue dire warnings of anaemia due to lack of animal protein (I've given up assuring them that I have never needed to take iron supplements - even when pregnant).

Many a Greek hostess has rolled her eyes and groaned “Ach! What am I going feed you?” despite my assurances that the average dinner table here usually groans under the weight of enough side dishes and salads to keep an entire army of vegetarians (or even li’l ole me) going for a week. They turn a deaf ear to my pleas not to worry and proudly present me with a specially-prepared dish. Trouble is, more often than not, it contains ham or chicken which doesn't really qualify as ‘meat’ in the Greek mindset. Cue clumsy attempts by Yours Truly to hide the fleshy bits under a stray lettuce leaf or discarded slice of bread, for fear of upsetting the chef’s good intentions (and believe me, they DO mean well).

Yesterday was one of the loneliest days of the Greek calendar for your average veggy.

‘Tsiknopemti’ (roughly translated as “Barbecue Thursday”) is Greece’s fuller-blooded answer to the UK’s Pancake Day or Shrove Tuesday. It comes ten days before the start of the Lenten Fast when observant Greeks escew not only meat, but also fish, eggs and dairy produce (but oddly enough, not shellfish or taramosalata made from fish roe). Ahead of 40 days of abstinence, the entire country fires up its grills and the evening air is filled with the scent of grilling steaks, pork or lamb chops and – for wimps and weight-watchers – the odd chicken breast or kebab. 

It’s definitely not a day for nut roasts or chickpea cutlets.

Even this year, in the midst of some of the toughest times many in the country have ever experienced, the ‘Tsiknopemti’ tradition was honoured. Traders at Athens’ central meat market gave away kilos of free grilled morsels of their wares, and housewives scoured the shops for the best cuts to slap on the grill to feed their protein-hungry families without crippling their budget.

Salads and side-dishes take a back seat on 'Tsiknopemti'. The most the lonely veggy can expect is a portion of chips to nibble on while their companions gnaw away at their steaks and suck the last tasty remnants of meaty goodness from their lamb chop bones.

So, here comes the confession.

I fell off the fruit and veg wagon.

Egged on by my carnivorous Ovver Arf and ManChild, I succumbed and had a chicken kebab to mark the day.

I wish I could say that every fibre of my being screamed in protest at the betrayal. That my teeth wouldn't chew the slightly charred flesh and my gullet refused entry to my stomach. But it didn’t. I ate it and it was OK. Just OK.

What it did was remind me that I really don’t miss meat that much.

So, if the Aunt Toulas of the world don’t mind, I think I’d rather stick to their luscious rice-filled dolmades, crispy fried courgette slices, bean stews and chickpea fritters with a serving of fresh wild greens drizzled with lemon juice and olive oil. 

Believe me, it’s no sacrifice.

Another take on Greek 'fast' food

This weekend is going to be a long one - but in the nicest possible way.

It's the first time this year that a public holiday tacks itself neatly onto the weekend to give us THREE WHOLE DAYS free of work, school or the need to get up at 6.45am (though knowing me, my eyes will snap open at that ungodly hour even though they don't need to).

The holiday that will give us that delightful gift is what the Greeks call Kathara Devtera (Clean Monday).

Like Pancake Day back in the UK, it marks the official start of the 40-day fast before Easter - but it's on a much bigger scale, like most things related to food and religion here.

Traditionally, for the duration of Lent, God-fearing folk swear off meat, fish, eggs and dairy products (although strangely, seafood is permitted). The "Clean" part refers to the fact that housewives used to throughly scrub their kitchens and cookware to be absolutely sure that no trace of animal product creeps into their cuisine.

Now, the truth is that few Greeks observe the fast for all of Lent these days (though many do in Holy Week, in preparation for the food fest that awaits them on Easter Day).

However, on Clean Monday, after the obligatory attempt to fly a kite (another tradition of the day whose origin is a total mystery to me), most Greeks can be found gathered at a table groaning with all manner of fast-friendly food, and having a good old natter with their friends and family.

Spinach pies, rich bean stews, chickpea fritters, barbecued prawns, macaroni with octopus cooked into velvety submission in a wine sauce, steaming bowls of wild greens, fresh crisp salads, aniseed flavoured bread - it's all good yummy stuff.

As you may have gathered, religion plays no part in my life. However, it is there in the background with the Greek family I married into - and it plays an important part in the social fabric of the Greek society.

I go with the flow.
After all, it's one of the few times I'm not viewed with surprise and suspicion for not eating meat.

Now, you might think that the Lenten fast is a great way to lose weight. Think again.

Consider the joys of chips, fried squid, fried aubergines, fried courgettes, deep fried prawns (are you seeing a trend here?) etc., and you'll see that we’re looking at a truck-load of calories. And then there are all the ‘virtuous’ sweets that the fast permits, all packed with sugar and usually swimming in syrup. Or my personal favourite, ‘tahini’ (sesame paste) mixed with honey, a delicious smooth and sweet nutty concoction that I can literally devour by the jar.

Not much chance of dropping a jean size or two before Easter then.

Now I do know that it is not really that hard to eat extremely healthily and lose weight while observing the traditional fast. Trouble is, I’m a foody. I love food. I love planning it, I love cooking it and I love eating it (so long as it is well-made from good ingredients). While I don’t think I live to eat, I do consider it to be one of life’s pleasures, so a week of plain boiled cauliflower is not for me. Is that a sin?

And finally, a question for any Greek readers out there (@HonestMummy can you hear me?). Fish and eggs are forbidden during the Lenten fast, right? Why, then, is taramosalata (principal ingredient fish roe) permitted?

Not that I mind, of course.

Pass me that bit of pitta bread.

Enter the Soup Dragon!

In our family, we say that if you leave anything edible in the kitchen for long enough without it getting up and moving around on its own, Mum will make soup with it.

Leftover Christmas turkey scraps, the carcass from Sunday's roast chicken, bones from the beef hotpot the other day - none of them were saved from the soup pot. Add a few chopped veg, boil it into submission, blend to a smooth thick paste, pour into bowls and serve with hunks of fresh bread and wedges of delicious, grainy Farmhouse Cheddar. A perfect Saturday lunch or midweek supper.

So, it should come as no surprise that I'm a bit of Soupster myself. But sadly, it goes unappreciated - the Ovver Arf and Kidling Grand have grown up in Greece on Mediterranean fare and they tend to turn their noses up at the thick nourishing soups that made me the woman I am today. Their idea of soup is either a broth with a creamy egg & lemon sauce added or invalid's chicken soup (though I can occasionally tempt them with a serious Minestrone).

But the Soup Dragon lives on - especially on days when the boys demand meat on their plates and I have to come up with something quick, easy and cheap for the weirdo semi-veggy Brit bird who cooks and cleans (OK, I cook) for them.

I get a strange satisfaction from peeling and chopping veg for soups, usually whilst plugged into my iPod listening to podcasts of Radio 4 programmes (yes, I AM that old fogey - and yes, I DO listen to The Archers).

In go the veg, sweating gently in a slick of olive oil at the bottom of the pan - onions, celery, garlic, leeks, carrots, spuds, sweet potatoes, squash, peppers, broccoli.... take you pick according to what soup you're aiming for (or just make it up as you go along). Once it has all started to soften, throw in a good dose of stock (again, the stock you use depends on what you're aiming for), bring to the boil, let it seethe for a while, liquidise and enjoy (or freeze for future use).

This week, I treated myself to a quick and easy leek and potato soup - just right as the first chilly notes of autumn start to nip the air. I sweated thinly sliced leeks, added a couple of diced spuds, and sweated some more (both me and the veg). Then in went some vegetable stock (you can use chicken if you prefer) and I brought it all to the boil, throwing in a few sprigs of fresh sage. As it simmered, I added some salt, pepper and nutmeg, and when it was done, I zapped it in the blender and served with a little grated cheese sprinkled on top.... yum.

Tasty, and it's guilt-free too - virtually fat free and bereft of cholesterol.

I've got a few cheat's soups that can be whipped up in a matter of minutes too, and they're a great last-minute stand-by.

Summer tomato caprese soup:

chop 4-5 toms roughly, boil with a clove of garlic in a little vegetable stock - just enough to cover them - for about 5-10 minutes, add a little seasoning, then chuck it in the blender with a good glug of olive oil, some fresh basil and spoonful of mascapone or other soft white cheese to make it nice and creamy.

Pea and mint soup:

throw 4-5 handfuls of frozen (or even better, fresh) peas in a saucepan with a clove of garlic and a little vegetable stock, add a sprig or two of fresh mint, throw in salt & pepper, plus a smidge of sugar, and boil for about 5-10 minutes. Then throw it all into the blender with a glug of olive oil and some raw fresh mint leaves and eat.

It's ridiculously green - the Ovver Arf says it looks like toxic waste - but it tastes divine.

But don't take my word for it - awake your inner Soup Dragon and get chopping!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

Apologies for all this excessive foodiness lately. It's all the fault of Becca and Cheffy Daddy who have launched their "Oui Chef!" project over at http://www.beckicklesie.com/2010/10/table-1-oui-chef-virtual-kitchen.html?spref=tw Check it out!

The ultimate summer cooler

Here in Greece, we tend to stick to fruit that is local, and in season. And these days, of course, that earns us double-Brownie points on the sustainability scale.

But have you ever thought why certain fruits are in season at certain times? Nature knows, you know.

Take watermelon, for instance. From July through to September, it features on our weekly shopping list, to be bought whole like a huge green striped bowling ball just begging to be sliced open to reveal the juicy red flesh within. It's sweetness itself, even though it's something like 90% water - just the ticket for the long hot summer days. It's the perfect way to polish off a meal and clean your palate.

But what I didn't know until this year was just delish it is as a juice - and for an added bit of pep, throw in a few sprigs of fresh mint or spearmint, add some crushed ice and you've got the ultimate summer cooler.

Just cut 4-5 good slices of watermelon, remove the skin, pick out the pips (or leave them it you can't be bothered, just sieve the juice afterwards), and zap it in the blender. About halfway through, throw in a couple of generous sprigs of mint (you can use dried, but fresh is MUCH better), add ice, then pour into long tall glasses with a sprig of mint delicately balanced on the rim.

Roll on summer...

Pie: A kind of homecoming

Picture the scene. It's 1977. I'm 12 years old, and I've just got back from two weeks away at International Camp in the wilds of Loughborough University campus grounds.

Unlike the previous summer when we had to water the veg with our bathwater, it has NOT been a scorcher. August dumped three years' worth of rain on us, as we gathered in a pathetic ring of soggy tents round a sulky camp fire, sipping scorched cocoa in a bid to get warm and convince ourselves that we were having a marvellous time (which we were, actually).

I'm filthy, my hair is matted with twigs from the final night's bivouac (rain miraculously held off for that one) and, for the first time in my life, my fingernails have grown (couldn't bring myself to bite them after digging the camp toilet). I look like the unmentionable cousin of Stig of the Dump.

But now I'm home. Back in the bosom of my family. In the warmth and security of suburban formica and three-piece suites.

I walk through the back door, drop my rucksack, and breathe deeeply.
Aaaaahhh!
I grin across the kitchen through the mud caking my face and say "You made my favourite. Thanks Mum!"

After being bustled off to the bathroom for a thorough soak (changing the bath water three times before it stopped looking like weak coffee), I emerge - scrubbed and glowing - to be guided to the dining table.

In front of me is a steaming plate of steak and kidney pie, oozing with rich brown gravy and topped with a crisp golden crust. To the side are new potatoes, with mint and butter, and runner beans - all fresh from our garden of course.

I'm in heaven. I've survived my first big adventure - and now I'm getting my reward for making it home in one piece. A condemned man eating his last meal couldn't have relished it more. After a fortnight of cold porridge, charred bangers and scalded tinned beans, it tastes like the best food in the world. And at that moment, it is. No super chef or exotic ingredient could produce anything better than my Mum's homecoming feast.

It's much more than a good tasty meal. It's confirmation that I matter, that I'm loved, and that I have a place - and always will have - at this dinner table. It's what being part of a family is all about.

And if I could possibly have any doubts about that, they are soon dispelled when pudding appears with a flourish of the oven glove: blackberry and apple crumble, with custard...



This post was inspired by 'Oui Chef" over at http://www.beckicklesie.com/ who gave us the prompt "Mum's Cooking".





Thanks to the lovely Becca and Cheffy Daddy for transporting me back to some of the best food memories of my childhood... ...but be warned, food played a bit part in our family (and still does), so there could be more to come.

Veggy heaven

Greece SHOULD be a vegetarian's paradise: cheap locally-produced fresh fruit and veg; gorgeous aromatic herbs growing wild on fragrant mountainsides; and traditional dishes that would meet the approval of the strictest of vegans. Trouble is, most Greeks just don't understand the concept of someone choosing not to eat meat.

Think back to that scene in the movie "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" when the heroine tells her mother her fiance is vegetarian. Mama's response was a hearty 'He don't eat meat?? ....No problem! I do lamb'.

That was no exaggeration. It happened to me. Many years ago, when I was still a relative newcomer to Athens, a well-meaning aunt who heard I didn't eat meat kindly prepared a separate dish especially for me at one of the family gatherings. Very proudly, she set down in front of me a lovingly prepared, carefully presented.... ham souffle ('Ham's not meat, is it? It's ham').

I could hardly tell her that ham was 'off the menu' when she'd gone to the trouble of making something specially for me so, I went through the motions of tucking in enthusiastically while trying to discreetly pick my through the dish and hide the bits of ham under a stray lettuce leaves.

I was in one of my veggy-kicks when I became pregnant with my son. As soon as we realised that I was carrying a passenger, the entire Greek clan automatically assumed that I'd turn carnivore again.
But I didn't.
Instead, I told my doctor I didn't eat meat and asked for his opinion. The Other Half was sitting next to me at the time, smug in the certainty that I would be told to start scoffing T-bones for the sake of our unborn child. But the smirk was quickly wiped from his face when dear old doc said: 'Good for you. It shouldn't be a problem - but if it is, I'll tell you what to do.'

As it turned out, it never was a problem - I'm one of the few mothers-to-be I know to go through the entire nine months without having to take a single iron tablet.
Some people just don't need meat, I guess.

The average Greek sees most vegetarians as harmless, but certifiably insane.

That view is strongest in those who grew up during and just after the war. And that it is where that the roots of that attitude must lie. Times were very hard in occupied Greece (and the years of internal turmoil that followed the war). Those living in remote mountain villages or islands had the advantage of relative self-sufficiency, but it was particularly tough for people in the greater Athens and Piraeus area.

According to the stories my father-in-law tells us, there wasn't a green leaf, stalk or stem to be found in the city by 1944 - it had all been eaten. Just as in occupied Holland where people resorted to eating tulip bulbs, hungry Athenians ate (or tried to eat) anything that grew. Many died of starvation, including three of my father-in-law's aunts and uncles.

The stories of the tricks he and the other local youngsters played on the German soldiers guarding the potato sheds near the port hide a darker reality. A plateful of boiled potatoes or a bowl of cracked wheat meant a "good day" in the working class neighbourhoods of Piraeus. Meat was an almost unheard-of luxury for those kids.

So, put into context, I guess it's understandable that my in-laws' generation view vegetarians as eccentrics at best.

But it's their offspring that are now paying the price for their parents' deprivation. Once the hardship eased, those who remembered the aching of their empty stomachs were determined that their sons and daughters would never know what it meant to go to bed hungry. Meat was once again on the menu, and it was served up with great delight and relish.

The post-war baby boomers of Greece grew up a well-fed lot. As long as they lived at home, they got their fair share of yemista (vegetables stuffed with rice), fasolakia (green beans in tomato sauce), fasolada (a rich butter bean and vegetable soup), horta (wild greens), lentils, dolmades (rice-filled vineleaves), chickpeas, briam (a medley of baked vegetables) etc., along with the lashings of succulent meat their mothers proudly served up.

The problem came when they left home and embarked on a busy career that left no time to prepare food from the wild array of colourful produce from the local laiki (open air market). The easy solution was that good old Greek stand-by - souvlaki or gyros - grilled meat (usually pork) on a skewer or sliced and wrapped up in a fat slice of greasy pitta bread with onion, tomato and tzatziki. Cheap, quick and tasty.

All very well now and then - but when the souvlaki shop or the pizza parlour become your main source of nutrition, something is bound to give. The result is, in the space of a couple of generations, the Greeks have changed from those pinch-cheeked youngsters who survived the hardships of 1940s to a nation with the one of the highest rates of obesity in Europe and a rapidly increasing cholesterol count.

Against the backdrop of that new reality, maybe I'm not the loony after all?

Eggs is eggs - or is they?

Today I stumbled across a piece of news that must be proof positive that is truly is time to 'get real'. You know that we've taken our worship at the altar of convenience too far when plans are announced to sell us pre-boiled, ready-shelled eggs.

Apparently, they are aimed at people who "don't have the time or knack" to boil an egg....

I'll say that again - they don't have the time or knack to boil an egg.

Apparently, there are people out there who's lives are so full with watching reality TV, texting badly spelled and ungrammatical messages, and following the antics of the latest celebrity nonentities to get off their backsides and waddle to the kitchen, put some water in a saucepan, wait for it to boil, drop an egg in it and wait for ANOTHER THREE WHOLE MINUTES. And then, they have to peel the darned thing!

Is it any wonder the marketing gurus spotted a gap in the market? And they're Free Range too, so I expect they'll be flogged as healthy eating.

Writing in today's Guardian, Oliver Thring of 'Thring for Your Supper' thinks it's the beginning of the end, and I'm inclined to agree.

The rot set in with the appearance of the first ready soup mixes and jars of pasta sauce (most of which are still largely inedible) on our supermarket shelves. Despite the fact that soups and sauces are among some of this quickest, easiest, cheapest and tastiest things to rustle up in the kitchen, there are legions of folk who have never experienced the real thing.

I wonder if their lives come pre-packaged too?

It didn't take long for fruit and veg to come in convenient sanitised form: string beans topped and tailed; salad greens cut, washed (how well I wonder?) and ready to chuck in a bowl with a splash of ready-made monosodium glutomate dressing; apples peeled, cored and quartered; grapefruit cut into bite-sized portions; ready-chopped garlic and onions. Do people realise that the food they eat actually originally came from the ground, caked in mud, fed by horse manure and not cut the size of our gobs?

No, it seems that we prefer the ready-to-eat version which has about as much to do with the vegetable garden as a saveloy does with a thoroughbred racehorse.

And the food industry happily obliges with an array of convenience foods for us to hoover up into our digestive tracts - so long as we have had our taste buds surgically removed (maybe at the same time as that lobotomy and tummy tuck) and don't mind paying through the nose for the priviledge of not wasting ten minutes of our precious time to boil, cut, wash or chop something real....

The ready-boiled egg is currently at the top of my list of ridiculous foodstuffs, but I'm sure there are plenty more - answers on a postcard please, folks.

Chocolate 1-Sex 0

Stop the presses!
Hold the front page!

Scientists have discovered that chocolate produces a more intense and longer lasting "buzz" than a passionate kiss!

Er, yeah. Yet another lengthy scientific study to add to "Things we already knew". Doh!

I'd be willing to bet that the scientist (who MUST be a man) in charge of this study is probably unmarried and has never spent much time in the same household as women. If he had a wife, girlfriend, pubescent daughter or even a female flatmate, he would have reached his conclusions MUCH quicker.

EVERY woman knows that good chocloate has a massive "feel good factor" that is hard to beat, even in competition with a passionate clinch with the likes of Johnny Depp, George Clooney, that ridiculously toned window cleaner, or whoever your choice of fantasy happens to be. Scientifically, it produces endorphins (or 'them dolphins' as a wonderfully loopy neighbour of mine used to call them) which are key ingredients for that much-sought-after natural high we hear so much about. And that's just the chemical reaction.

Then there is the creamy velvety sensation spreading across your palate, coupled with the unmistakable rich sweet smell as it slowly melts in your mouth. And if the only melting that goes on is in your mouth, then chocolate is much less messy than getting physical - and it involves less effort.

What surprises me is that men still haven't twigged to the fact that given the choice between a bar of Belgium's best and a roll in the hay, most of us gals would go for the nibbles (at least for starters). That's probably why God invented diets - and guilt (yet more proof that if God exists, he's a bloke).

Men, bless 'em, are incredibly gullible and they are very lucky that we are not all soul-sisters of Cruella De Ville, 'cos we can (if so inclined) literally wrap them around our little fingers.

Case in point. Many years ago, I suffered from slight asthma. One winter evening, I had a mild attack when out with my then boyfriend and I didn't have my inhaler with me. I'm ashamed to admit that I played the sympathy vote - and with my tongue firmly in my cheek - I looked at him with big innocent eyes and told him in a small and rather pathetic little-girl voice: "Chocolate usually helps".

To my amazement, he believed me! I was so surprised that I nearly fell off my bar stool laughing (but that would have given the game away and I would have lost out a bar of Galaxy).

Of course, not all women are like me. Some, like my dear friend Ffynella the Fragrant are restrained, disciplined and dignified... ...until a Chocolate Sundae appears on the horizon. Once she gets a whiff of hot chocaoate fudge sauce, you'd better clear the path and make way as Hurricane Ffynella dives in face-first. The aftermath is ten minutes of her making the kind of appreciate grunts and moans that could make her a fortune on the phone-sex lines.

So, it's official. Chocolate beats sex.

But don't worry, girls. I'm pretty sure that no men read this Blog-o-mine, and I think only us females that would make the effort to read an article about their relative merits.

Let's just allow our men folk to keep on thinking that they are really all we want, while we continue to smile sweetly and fantasise about a Cadbury's Flake.

Athens Portraits: The family way

There's something about a Greek gathering of the clan that distils the very best and very worse of Hellenic family life.

No matter what the reason – be it a wedding, baptism, name day or religious holiday – you can be sure that there will be food involved. And lots of it - for, as with so many things here, moderation is thrown out of the window when putting together a Greek family dinner.

The rule of thumb is, as my mother-in-law says, "den ftanei an den perisevei" ("it's not enough if there's nothing left-over"). So, a typical family gathering will be centred around a plethora of sights, smells and tastes fighting for space on the white linen-clad table in pride of place in the dining room.

Typically, that table will be weighed down with a huge variety of dishes to tempt your palate, perhaps including: fragrant kokkinisto (beef in a rich tomato sauce flavoured with cinnamon); platters piled high with slabs of pastichio (layers of macaroni interspersed with mince meat and bechamel sauce); cheese pies; bowls brimming over with glistening salads; steaming horta (wild greens); homemade taramosalata and tzatziki; crisp deep-fried slithers of aubergine and courgette; and scrumptious roast potatoes. And that's just for starters! The main attraction might be roast suckling pig or even a whole goat or lamb that has been slowly cooked on a spit over hot coals since the early morning.

Any protestations of diet or vegetarianism are – predictably – ignored or dismissed as passing fads.

It's all washed down with lashings of soft drinks, beer and local wines. Despite my years here, I've still not learned to love the sharp acidic twang of retsina-type vino, but if I'm lucky there'll be a few bottles of the rich fruity reds that Greece is so good at producing (but less expert at promoting in the international market – perhaps intentionally?).

As the mountainous feast on the table grows, the menfolk will sit on the balcony talking politics and smoking, while the women bustle in and out of the kitchen in a frenzy of preparation. As they do, they catch up on family gossip, exchange agonies of their latest ailments and engage in a little speculative match-making for the younger members of the family who are not yet spoken for.

Over-indulged children wander in and out to steal scraps of food before the main event (much to the delight of their ever-obliging grandmother who will pick out the choicest pieces for them). After all, it's their reward for enduring assorted aunts' whoops of delight, declarations of amazement at how much they've grown and the agony of affectionate cheek-pinching that comes with such family events.

At the very eye of that storm of activity is the noikokyra (housewife and hostess). This is her showcase and she is certainly not going to give anyone grounds for going away unhappy or unfed. She bustles about in the best tradition of village PR, attending to everyone's needs and ignoring the family's pleas to sit down, relax and eat. And when she does finally settle down, she'll alternate her apologies for the inadequacy of the food with little grunts of self-congratulation at how well her prize dishes have turned out.

Meanwhile, everyone – from the ancient yiayia (grandmother), in the place of honour at the head of the table, to the cockiest youngster fresh out of college – will feel free to discuss and offer their expert advice on the issues of the day.

Whether it's political analysis, health tips, career guidance or parenting advice, they all have an opinion. And they all express it. Loudly. Usually, all at once.

There are no rules about talking while you eat here.

Once the din recedes and everyone has eaten themselves into a stupour, the remains of the main course are whisked away to the kitchen, and yet more food appears – as if by magic – on the tabletop battlefield.

Boxes of goodies visitors have brought from the local zacharoplasteio (a kind of luxury version of a patisserie which does a roaring trade on high days and holidays) will be wheeled out, along with platters of fresh seasonal fruit, trays of homemade bachlava rich with honey and walnuts, kataifi like exotic syrup-drenched Shredded Wheat, or tiny saucers of local fruit cooked in heavy syrup to produce a delicacy so sweet it can only be consumed by the teaspoonful.

Food and family are perhaps two of the most important threads woven into the fabric of Greek society. If they were removed, I suspect the whole thing would simply unravel. As elsewhere in the Mediterranean, the two are so intrinsically linked that it takes the fiercest of feuds to break that warp and weave.

So, raise your glasses and give a hearty "Stin i yeia mas!" (To our health!) to that flavoursome and distinctly Greek bond between the generations. Long may it reign.

The Orgasmic Chickpea

It’s about time that someone spoke up for the humble chickpea.

Small, unassuming and usually languishing in tins or unappealing bags of dried pulses on supermarket shelves, she’s easy to overlook. But the truth is that beneath her uninspiring exterior lies a positive powerhouse of nutrition and culinary possibilities.

I’ll be honest, it’s only recently that I have come to truly appreciate her. Chickpeas (or 'revythia') are among the staples of the traditional diet in Greece, which has been my home for the past two decades, but I had always turned up my nose when it was served. This was probably due to the fact that most Greeks only eat just one variation – a plain, rather bland soup which was never visually enticing enough to make me want to try it.

My chickpea epiphany came a little over a year when I decided that I didn’t need meat at all in my life anymore (I still tuck into fish, seafood and all things dairy). To eat well – to get all the nutrients you need AND to enjoy whay you're eating – without meat takes a smidge of learning, and a good glug of imagination.

Enter the chickpea. Incredibly cheap (something not to be sneezed at in these cash-strapped days), with a long shelf life, and packed with protein, fibre and all sorts of goodness a body needs. It was begging to be cooked, eaten, enjoyed.

So, I cast aside my pre-set notions of unappetising (for me) soup my mother-in-law serves up, and got creative with the chickpea.

My first tentative steps took me in the direction of hummous (a delicious puree of chickpeas with garlic, lemon, tahini and olive oil), then started experimenting with variations on the theme. Adding mashed up avocado pears to the mix adds a velvety dimension (plus a double-whammy of nutrients and – sadly – calories) to the dish. Similarly, chickpea mash as featured in the brilliant book ‘Backwards in High Heels’ by Tania Kindersley & Sarah Vine gives it sharp spicy edge by replacing the tahini (sesame paste) with a smidge of dried chilli (Harissa paste also works well). All of the above are wonderful with Arabic bread, corn wafers and a fresh green salad.

Fresh, homemade, easy, virtuous and tasty. Who could ask for more?

And yet, I felt there was still more I could do to transform the chickpea from humble to orgasmic.

I experimented with one of my mother-in-law’s signature dishes – chickpea fritters, a local delicacy on her home island of Samos. Mashed up chickpeas, mixed with chopped onions and dill, these fried fritters are delicious hot from the pan. But, if you’re trying to give the frying pan a wide berth, they're probably not a great idea.

Then, one day, when flicking through an old recipe book, I came across a recipe for Moroccan lamb, pepper & chickpea casserole, and I decided to experiment with a meat-free version. Tentatively, and not knowing if all the effort would be worth it in the end, I set about getting creative in the kitchen. With the recipe and my foodie instincts as a guide, I set about gathering ingredients, chopping veg (something I find strangely soothing), boiling chickpeas (soaked overnight) and anticipating the feast I would – hopefully – enjoy at the end.

Well, dear readers, it was a success – the Orgasmic Chickpea was achieved. Good-looking, aromatic, tasty and good for you. It’s the sort of thing I could serve up for my most extreme vegan friend (she knows who she is) and yet still be enjoyed by avowed carnivores (at least open-minded ones) like my Other Half.

Here’s how I did it:

INGREDIENTS
2 medium red onions sliced
juice of 1 lemon
1 large red (bell) pepper, deseeded & thickly sliced
1 large green (bell) pepper, deseeded & thickly sliced
1 large yellow/orange (bell) pepper, deseeded & thickly sliced
pinch of saffron strands
cinnamon stick, broken
1 tablespoon clear honey
300ml/halfpint/1 and quarter cups vegetable stock
1 teaspoon Harissa paste
200g/7oz can of chopped tomatoes
1-2 cans of cooked chickpeas (or a good handful of dried chickpeas soaked overnight & boiled til tender)
(Optional extra 1: A handful of mixed pulses, beans etc – soaked overnight and cooked til tender)
(Optional extra 2: 1-2 sweet potatoes cut into bite-sized cubes gives it extra substance)
Salt & pepper

1. Toss onions in lemon juice and put in saucepan. Mix in sliced peppers, saffron, cinnamon stick and honey. Add the stock, bring to boil and cover & simmer for about 5 minutes.
2. Add to pan with the onions & peppers. Season and stir in Harissa paste, tomatoes, chickpeas and mixed pulses/sweet potatoes (if using). Mix well, bring to the boil and simmer - uncovered - for about 20 minutes.
3. Serve with couscous dusted with cinnamon powder, or boiled rice.

It’s a simple as that!
Even if you have to soak the chickpeas overnight and boil them in advance like me (I’ve yet to find tinned chickpeas at Greek supermarkets), it’s hassle free and easy.

But I’m all for expanding my chickpea horizons, so if any of you our there have any other recipes I can try, bring it on.

After all, who am I to turn down the opportunity of multiple orgasms?

Alphabetti sphaghetti

One of my oldest and dearest friends is one of those office angel gals who can type faster than I think, and she never - EVER - commits the sin of typo.

Unfortunately, this is not a trait we share (in fact, despite being life-long friends, we're pretty much as chalk & cheese as you can get). When chatting online to people, or even when getting caught up in the flow of what I'm tapping out, I type in a sort of streamofconsciousness way. And inevitably, that leads to DFS.

DFS (Dyslexic Fingers Syndrome) and the resulting inadvertant Spoonerisms are something that my mate (let’s call her Ffynella the Fragrant) is quick to spot and slow to forgive, thus reminding me that she's a clever old boot who learned how to touch-type properly at the age of two, while I'm still operating on the 4 finger system decades later.

To drive her criticism of my all-too-frequent typoes home, next time I’m anywhere near the Valleys, she has invited me for a slap-up meal of caked bod with prushed cotatoes and spreamed crinach. She offered belon malls as a starter but I begged her to spare the poor belons’ manhood, so we’ll probably have harma pam instead.

There is no end to the mixed-up menus you could come up with, including:
Boast reef & Porkshire yudding
Pottage Cie
Weef Bellington
Shamb Lank with grinted mavy
Ced rabbage
Leamed creeks
Seek gralad
Chubarb Rumble
Celly & Justard
Dotted spick ('old on, that one sounds funnier in the original!)

And to wash it down, how about a shottle of Biraz, some Phateuaneuf du Crape, or perhaps a sisky & whoda followed by some chink pampagne?

Moments of silliness are essential for my sanity. And, despite her outward appearance of dignity and decorum, Ffynella knows that better than most.

Athens Portraits: As Fresh As It Gets

If you really want to get a taste of a country, you have to head for its outdoor markets. And in Greece that means the local weekly ‘laiki’ market.

It’s there – amid the mountains of locally-produced fruit and veg, cheek-by-jowl with stalls piled high with knock-off designer bags and clothes – that you will find ‘laiki man’.

He is one of the many players in the theatre of the laiki. And it’s a heady and colourful set against which he plays his part.The market is a treat for (and sometimes an assault on) the senses. Crowds jostle, trolleys trundle (sometimes right over your toes), hawkers shout each other down in contests to grab your attention and veteran buyers examine the goods and haggle over prices.

The air is filled with the sweet scent of ripe strawberries and cherries; the sharp aroma of fresh lemons; the pungent twang of huge purple onions the size of my hand or heads of garlic like a fist; and the heady smell of fresh basil plants or dried local herbs (oregano, marjoram – good for anxiety and headaches, thyme – recommended for asthma and coughs, and something called ‘louiza’ which is supposed to aid weight loss). And putting the cherry on the top of that intoxicating cocktail of smells are the souvlaki sellers grilling a constant parade of skewered pork cubes over hot coals from daybreak til traders and shoppers alike surrender to the midday sun, pack up and go home.

The feast for the eyes is no less seductive. You’ll find none of the clinical uniformity of a British supermarket’s fruit section here. Large and small keep company, and there’s not a waxed orange or vacuum-sealed package to be seen anywhere.

Instead, you’ll find shiny fat black aubergines nestling next to their slimmer mottled mauve cousins, plump red tomatoes, scarlet peppers shaped like horns of cornucopia, massive watermelons like striped green bowling balls – some cut open to display their succulent red innards - and a veritable rainbow of fresh flowers, plants and herbs.

It's here that ‘laiki man’ is in his element. And he’s as 100% locally produced as the fruit and veg he sells. Whether he’s a moustachioed giant with a belligerent belly or a wiry tanned chancer with a cigarette permanently clamped between his teeth, he’s as authentic as they come. There’s no sophistry in him - he is the Del Boy of the Greek stage.

Despite having been up since before the crack of dawn, he’s always ready for banter or a good-humoured argument about football. And he’s always on the look-out for a chance to rake in a little extra profit. No sooner does his neighbour start shouting out a new reduced price as the end of the market hours approaches, he will shout out even louder an even lower price, and a well-rehearsed ‘spontaneous’ war of words will ensue before they sell-off the last of their wares and pack up before parting like brothers.

Like the best salesmen the world over, they’re all convinced of the superiority of their produce – or at least they’re very convincing. Theirs is the sweetest, the freshest, the firmest, the juiciest – and if you don’t believe them, they’ll cut open a sample so you can try for yourself.

So, you can forget pretentious overpriced delicatessans, or the clinical anonymity of the supermarket shelves. Good food, fresh food, real food, is all about authenticity and passion – and ‘laiki man’ is brimming over with both.