The Feasting Virgin

by Georgia Kolias

  By the time we finish scooping, she is already blowing the hair out of her face and commenting that the dish is a lot of work. I laugh. “We’re just getting started.” I direct her to start chopping up the meat of the eggplant into little pieces. “Since I don’t want you to start crying yet, I’ll chop the onion.”

  I arrange the eggplant shells on large baking sheets and sprinkle them with salt. “When working with melitzanes, you always salt them and let them rest for twenty minutes. This draws all of the bitterness out of them.”

  “Really? That’s amazing.”

  “Yes, sometimes I wish it worked on people too.” I sprinkle a little salt on my hand.

  “Are you bitter?” Callie asks.

  “Oh yes, but that’s another story,” I reply.

  “You know, I have realized that you have never told me anything about yourself.”

  “What are you talking about? I told you all about my family history the other week.”

  “Yes, I know. And it was so amazing. But I want to know more about you. Where did you grow up? Do you have siblings? Tell me about your childhood. Family pets?” Callie asks hopefully.

  “No. I don’t like to talk about those things. Try to chop the melitzana a little finer.” I will tell her all I know about Greek cuisine, but other things are better left unsaid.

  “Oh. Okay.” Callie chops the eggplant studiously, “I was just wondering if you have family of your own. A lover, maybe?”

  “No. No lover. I love God and the kitchen. That’s all I need.” I look longingly at Manny, my arms suddenly feeling empty and useless.

  Callie puts down her knife and picks up Manny for a quick hug and asks, “Do you think that you would ever want to have a baby?”

  I pause, trying to find words that I can say in a normal voice, that won’t reveal my emotions, my deepest hope. “It would be my greatest blessing.” I move farther from Callie and Manny and cut into an onion, my eyes stinging. “Why don’t you tell me about your childhood instead?” I try to imagine Callie as a young girl with curly red ponytails and her sunny smile.

  “Oh, nothing special. It was just me and my mom. We have family in the Midwest, but Mom and I left when I was little. She dreamed of California where she felt she could really be free. She was sick of all the small-town culture and rules. I still remember certain things, like when we stayed with my Aunt Margie and Uncle Ed. They had a big old house with a backyard and a dog named Homer. Aunt Margie didn’t have kids of her own, so she always liked it when I stayed there, and I’d stay there some summers if Mom had other things going on.”

  “What do you mean, other things?” I hand Callie a washed bunch of parsley to chop as I finish chopping the onion. I can’t imagine what kind of mother would leave Callie behind while she went to go do “other things.”

  “Oh, you know. She liked to move a lot, and she made friends easily. We lived a lot of different places. Sometimes with new boyfriends, or sometimes the boyfriend didn’t want me around, so I’d get to go stay with Aunt Margie. One boyfriend she had got her hooked on checking out his commune. She really liked that idea, of communal living, everyone taking care of each other.” Callie stops chopping the parsley long enough to rub a spot on her nose, the knife edge rising and falling next to her face. “But she never was one to stay in one place for too long. So for a while we traveled up and down the coast checking out different communes. Different places, like rural Oregon, out of the way parts of northern California, and the Santa Cruz Mountains. The kids ran around naked all the time and it seemed like the adults weren’t around much. It was fun some of the time.”

  I have finished chopping the onion and garlic and I’m washing the tomatoes. “Sounds . . . different?” I can’t imagine such an environment and how someone as naïve as Callie has emerged from it.

  “Yeah, it was different. There were definitely weird parts. Okay, I’m done with the parsley and eggplant.”

  “Melitzana,” I prompt.

  “Melitzana,” she repeats.

  I quarter the juicy red tomatoes and push half of them into the food processor. “Fresh pureed tomatoes are always best. Most recipes call for tomato paste or sauce, but since we live in California, we don’t have to use canned tomatoes. Your dish will always taste more delicious and lighter with the fresh tomatoes.” I push the pulse button on the food processor. Pausing the pulsing tomatoes, I ask, “So, what was weird?”

  “Oh, well, you know. Boundaries are really different on the commune. Free love, free everything, really. I remember this one place I was staying with my Mom. She found out about it through this guy she met at a bar. He took us there, and we stayed in these cabins that reminded me of barracks. They had bunk beds inside, and she had me sleep on the top and they squeezed into the one below me. I could hear them, you know, doing it. That was always kind of weird.”

  “Always?” I press the pulse button again, sending the tomatoes into a red frenzy in the clear bowl of the processor. I press my lips together and try to hold my tongue but can’t. “I’m sorry to say something disrespectful toward your mother, but that’s totally inappropriate! To expose a young girl to,” I sputter, “to, to that kind of thing. It’s wrong. She should have protected you.”

  Callie looks down at her hands. “Yeah. It was pretty weird. But there were some good things about being at the commune too.”

  I couldn’t believe that there was anything good in such a place of debauchery. “Like what?”

  Callie smiles. “Well, for one thing I got exposed to world cultures, which I still love. And at this one in Santa Cruz, I met this woman named Shameena. She said it meant sweet smelling, which was kind of funny because no one at the commune smelled very good.” Callie laughs. Seeing I’m not laughing, she gets serious. “Well, she’s the one who taught me how to belly dance. I loved it. I escaped into the music through my body and didn’t think about anyone or anything when I was dancing.” Callie twirls through the kitchen, giving her hips a quick shimmy as she seems to float toward me.

  I turn my attention back to the food processor, fiddling with buttons and avoiding Callie’s outstretched hand. “Was she Middle Eastern?”

  “Oh no. She was probably from Jersey. But no one used their real names. There was usually some spiritual leader who renamed people at will.” Callie wipes her hands on her pants and shrugs.

  “What about your name? Is it real?” I frown.

  “It’s real. But it isn’t my name given to me at birth. Callie is short for Calliope. Someone renamed me that after they saw me dance. I was told it means ‘the muse of epic poetry.’”

  “It suits you,” I say, watching her as she gracefully turns toward Manny and tickles his soft folds. “What’s your real name?” I ask.

  “Hmm? It’s something boring.” Callie pulls at Manny’s toes and tickles his chin.

  I long to stand close to her and join her in playing with his plump feet. “Has your mother met Manny?”

  “No, I haven’t seen her in a while. She ended up in Hollywood, where she hooked up with this group that started a commune in Hawaii. I haven’t much seen her since. But I send her a letter once in a while, and when she heard about Manny, she sent him a little tie-dyed onesie. But she’s never come to meet him.” She pauses, and I wonder how any woman could ignore her grandchild.

  “So anyway. I always thought to myself, when I had a kid I would try the more traditional route.” She turns to me and smiles. “Well, as much as I can muster anyway, not being the most conventional person in the world. But I’m really trying.”

  I have the sudden impulse to hug her tightly, but instead I say, “Yes, you are. Well, let’s get back to some traditional cooking then.”

  “Yes. Let’s do that,” Callie answers. “Thank you, by the way, for everything you are doing, for teaching me.”

  “It is my pleasure,” I reply.

  “Our time together is so . . .” she pauses, searching for the right word, “delicious.”

  “Yes, the f
ood is delicious,” I agree.

  “No, I mean, I love spending time with you. In so many ways I think we are so opposite, and yet when I am with you, I feel so good in my own skin.”

  “Oh.” I smile, unsure what to say. “I am enjoying this time too. With you and Manny.” I’m thinking, It feels like home, but I’m not about to say that and sound crazy. Instead, I show Callie how to brush olive oil onto the eggplant shells and put them into the oven to soften and bake while we make the meat sauce. Browning the onions and garlic in olive oil fills the kitchen with an irresistible smell, and as we add the freshly ground beef, the aroma of the meat browning makes our mouths water. Callie picks up Manny and dances around the kitchen while I stir the parsley and oregano into the meat. Then she hands Manny to me and I show him the vibrant red tomato puree as Callie pours it into the pot. Stirring different elements together and adding a little heat can transform almost anything into something better.

  “I love how the smell of good food cooking can make any house feel more like home,” Callie says.

  I nod, smiling. We let the meat cook in the sauce, so the flavors of the tomato and onion and herbs can deepen and thicken, and in the meantime begin the most difficult part of the dish, the béchamel sauce. I hold Manny close as I instruct Callie, inhaling the scent of his hair. I tell her how to brown flour in butter until it reaches a golden color, and then add hot milk, quickly whisking out the lumps. I have her repeat this step many times until she masters the timing. Then we get to the hard part. I tell her to carefully add a little bit of the hot béchamel sauce to a bowl of beaten egg while stirring constantly. “This way, the egg gets warmer and warmer slowly until it gets used to the heat. Before you know it, it will be hot enough to add to the sauce—but you have to continue stirring quickly. You can ruin the whole thing if you don’t warm it up gradually.”

  “Well, I have been told that I sometimes come on too strong,” Callie jokes.

  I want to ask what she means by that, but instead I urged, “Keep focused. This is a critical moment.”

  Callie nods and stirs with all of her focus on warming the eggs gently. “Is that better?” she murmurs.

  “Much,” I answer. With the eggs safely added, we reach the last phase of completing the sauce. “Now add the grated mizithra, and using that same whisk, stir it in so it melts.” Callie slides the cheese into the thick, hot sauce and stirs until it melts. “Now taste it,” I command.

  Callie licks a bit of sauce from a spoon I hand her. “Mmm. That is the creamiest, most delicious—”

  “We’re not done yet. It gets better. Now, we’ll add salt and white pepper to taste, and lastly we’ll add a little nutmeg. But not too much!” I direct. “Okay, okay, that’s good. That’s perfect!”

  We work up a sweat working in concert until the sauce is complete and delicately, perfectly seasoned. When we are done we stare at it in wonder that something can taste so good.

  “Yum, that is so good, it’s practically better than sex. I think I need a cigarette,” Callie jokes.

  I imagine Callie lying in bed with the sheets tucked under her bare shoulders, a tendril of steam rising from her fingertips. I shake my head, pushing the thought away.

  “Well, we aren’t done quite yet, so don’t get too relaxed,” I scold.

  “Okay, what comes next?”

  “We fill the baked melitzana shells with a bit of the stewed meat, and then we top it with a thick layer of the cream sauce, and put it all back in the oven until the top turns a golden-brown color.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we pour a glass of wine, toast our good work, and sit and eat and eat until we cannot eat any more.”

  Callie reaches for a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Can I help quench your thirst?”

  PAPOUTSAKIA (Little Shoes)

  “Look for small eggplants that nearly glow with freshness and generously fill each by hand.”

  6 medium eggplants, approximately 6 inches long

  4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  1 onion, finely chopped

  3 cloves garlic, minced

  1 pound ground beef

  3 ripe tomatoes, pureed

  1 teaspoon dried oregano

  1/4 cup parsley, chopped

  Salt and pepper to taste

  1 recipe béchamel sauce (see recipe)

  To make the little shoes, cut the eggplants in half lengthwise. Scoop out the meat of the eggplant with a spoon, leaving a 1/4–1/2-inch shell. Sprinkle the eggplant innards and shells with salt to draw out any bitterness. Let them sit for 20 minutes. After 20 minutes, rinse the salt off. Blot the eggplant dry. Finely chop the eggplant innards. Brush the eggplant shells with 2 tablespoons olive oil and place them on an oiled baking sheet. Bake at 375 degrees until they become soft, approximately 20 minutes.

  Heat 2 tablespoons olive oil in a large pot. Add the chopped onion and minced garlic and cook until soft. Add the ground beef and sauté it until it is browned. Add the chopped eggplant, pureed tomatoes, oregano, parsley, salt and pepper, and 1/2 cup of water. Mix well. Let the mixture simmer until most of the moisture is absorbed, approximately 30 minutes. The meat sauce will fill your kitchen with a savory aroma that will make your mouth water.

  Fill the eggplant shells with the meat mixture, and then top them with the béchamel sauce. Add 1/2 cup boiling water to the pan around the eggplant shells. Bake at 375 degrees until the béchamel sauce has turned a golden brown, approximately 30 minutes.

  Sit down with a glass of wine and enjoy your little shoes.

  BÉCHAMEL SAUCE

  “You can ruin the whole thing if you don’t warm it up gradually.”

  6 tablespoons butter

  6 tablespoons flour

  4 cups warm milk

  2 eggs, beaten

  1/2 cup grated mizithra cheese

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  White pepper to taste

  1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

  Melt the butter in a large pan over medium heat. Stir in the flour and cook it until it gains some color and starts to smell nutty, around five minutes. Gradually add the warmed milk, whisking earnestly to remove any lumps. Beat the eggs in a small bowl, and gradually add a tablespoon of the sauce, stirring constantly. Add a few more spoons of sauce to gradually warm the eggs. This is critical: slowly drizzle the eggs into the pan of sauce, continually whisking, or you will end up with scrambled eggs in your sauce. After you have incorporated the eggs, whisk the mizithra cheese into the sauce. Stir in the salt, white pepper, and nutmeg to taste.

  I dare you not to lick the spoon and pan.

  Béchamel Sauce

  Callie is so excited that she has finally mastered béchamel sauce. Browning heaping spoonfuls of flour in pools of butter until it all turns into a nutty paste is not the hard part. It was pouring in the hot milk in spurts and quickly incorporating it into the paste to create the creamy sauce that had her stumped. I made her practice over and over again until it all came together—dumping out one pan of lumpy goop after another until finally she learned to feel with her body how much liquid to add, how long to stir, and when to take the pan off the fire. We did it until making the creamy delicious goo became second nature to her. I showed her how to sprinkle in the tangy mizithra cheese at the end and stir until it all melted in. I took a clean wooden spoon and dipped into the sauce. My first taste of her sauce made the saliva spurt in my mouth.

  When I was done licking the spoon clean, I dipped my finger into the warm pot and gave her a taste. When she closed her lips around my finger, her eyes became drunk with joy. It was delicious. In our excitement, we screamed with delight and hugged each other close, spinning around the kitchen, almost falling onto the hot stove. She had finally mastered béchamel, and I was afraid she was beginning to master my heart.

  Roosters and Hens

  The next time I go over for our cooking lesson he is sitting there at the kitchen counter. He is tall and looks very typically Greek. Dark curly hair. Swaggering dark
eyes. I think about turning around and running down the stairs and never coming back. Then I remember my thea, my aunt, and how she slaughters roosters. Their meat is tough and stringy, but when stewed long enough with fresh tomatoes and onions it becomes delicious and savory.

  He stands up when he sees me at the top of the steps, his face placid. “So you’re the one,” he says, and reaches out a big bear claw at me. I think about biting his fingers until the filling oozes out.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I say.

  “So what’s on the menu today?” he asks with a smile.

  “Well, I was thinking about roast billy goat, but I have a hard time finding it this time of year. Then I was thinking about stewed rooster, or oxtail soup.” I can hear his testicles retract.

  “Really,” he says. “Well, why don’t you teach her how to make yogurt from fresh milk, or bake some chicken breasts with lemon and oregano?”

  “I thought about that,” I say, “but instead I decided to show her how to make sausage from scratch, so that a sausage she’d never lack.”

  He struts over to me, “Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

  “Why,” I ask, “don’t you like to eat sausage?”

  “Why no,” he says, “I prefer homemade bread made from yeasty punched-down dough.”

  Just then Callie emerges from the bathroom with the baby, all freshly bathed and sweet-smelling. “Ah, I see you’ve met,” she says.

  “Yes,” he says, “you know, she reminds me of my mother?”

  I’d rather poke myself in the eye than remind him of his mother. So I do, just to get out of there. “Ouch! Oh. Wow. Silly me. That was an accident.” I smile as I cover my eye with my hand. “I need to use your bathroom. Excuse me.”