The Feasting Virgin

by Georgia Kolias

  Callie laughs and rubs the rough strawberry skin against my lips. “Come on. Take a bite. For me?”

  The scent of the strawberry is intoxicating. Redolent of spring and lush fertile fruit, and I never wanted to take a bite of anything so badly.

  “Look, I’ll take a bite, and then you’ll take a bite, and before you know it the strawberry will be gone.” Callie smiles, opens her lips, and takes the strawberry into her mouth with her tongue. The sound of juice breaking free from flesh is audible as her white teeth sink through the berry. “Now you.”

  She holds the gaping berry up to my lips. The inside of the strawberry is truly beautiful. Under its bejeweled skin, glistening red flesh with brilliant white streaks surround a speckled pink cavern. Callie squeezes the strawberry, and its juices bubble up and drip from the fruit. I instinctively catch the sweet liquid on my tongue and swallow, licking my lips.

  Callie says, “Open wide,” and I do, enjoying the delicious fruit.

  Callie exhales and wipes her hands on the sides of her hips and quietly says, “Well, what do you say we finish that pie now?”

  “Uh, huh. Okay.” I turn away from Callie and straighten my shirt. My lungs feel full to bursting as if I’ve stopped breathing. I slowly exhale. Looking around the kitchen, I remember the baby. “Manny, Manny! Whatcha doin’? Want to watch Mommy make a pie? Huh?” Babies aren’t confusing. They want either love, food, or a clean diaper. I hug him close and say, “Do you love me? Because I love you!” He feels warm and safe in my arms. I carry him to the big window above the sink and look out on the horizon. “What do you see, Manny?” A lone hawk sails through the sky. “See the birdie?” I wonder if it is flying for the pure joy of it, or if it is searching for prey.

  I notice Callie taking a tube of prepackaged piecrust out of the refrigerator, but don’t say anything. This is her pie, after all, her memories. Who am I to judge what makes her happy, and brings her comfort? I squeeze Manny closer.

  “Now, I know that prepackaged piecrust isn’t as good as what you would make from scratch . . .” Callie looks a little embarrassed. “But that’s how my auntie made it, and that’s the only way it tastes right to me.” She straightens her shoulders and pops open the can.

  “Hey, we agreed that we aren’t being Greek today. There will be no punishment for taking the easy way out,” I say. “I mean, we’re doing it your way, and that’s just fine.” I want her to know that I mean it.

  “Okay—because I really want you to like it . . .” Callie looks like a little girl, open and earnest. I squeeze Manny’s chubby body closer. “Strawberry rhubarb pie, coming up!” She rolls out the fatty piecrust into the round pan, and fills it with the chunks of thickened glazed fruit. She shows me how her aunt taught her to weave a lattice top for the pie and crimp the edges with her fingers. She washes the top with milk, sprinkles it with sugar, and it is ready for the oven. Callie is so proud of herself that she dances around the kitchen, giggling and singing, “Shoo Fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy” while it bakes.

  “Shoo Fly pie and Apple Pan Dowdy!”

  She grabs Manny and twirls him around the kitchen.

  “Makes your eyes light up and your stomach say howdy.”

  She cheers—“Come on, let’s dance!”—and grabs my hand. “Sing with me!” I don’t know the words but manage to cry out, “Shoo fly pie!” at the right time. I imagine that this is what a happy family looks like. I see Callie’s full radiance now that she is being completely herself, dancing joyfully, her body and spirit free. Manny feels solid and at home in my arms. I hold him and deeply inhale his scalp, warm and intoxicating, like the irresistible smell of a fresh loaf of bread from the oven. I let the magical comfort of bread and babies envelop me. I feel happy, even content, for that one moment. Yes, this is what a family should feel like. As I allow myself some joy, a bit of sadness creeps in and surprises me as I try to imagine what my baby might have felt like in my arms had it not been taken away too soon. I push the thoughts away and hold Manny closer to my heart. A real live baby. By the time the pie is done, we are burning our tongues trying to eat it hot out of the oven, on the floor laughing and screaming out, “Shoo fly pie!” Even Manny tries to get into the act, with his high-pitched squeals and cries. The pie is scrumptious. You can taste all the love and happy memories in each bite. The piecrust is fine, flaky and rich against the gooey, tangy-sweet red filling. I like how Callie is so cheerful, so different from me. Callie is like the sweet strawberries, and I am like the sour rhubarb. Together we make a pretty good combination.

  CALLIE’S SWEET SOUR PIE

  “The scent of the strawberry is intoxicating—redolent of spring, and lush fertile fruit.”

  4 cups strawberries, hulled and sliced in half or quarters depending on size

  2 cups rhubarb, trimmed and cut into 1/2-inch slices, peeling off any strings if necessary

  2 tablespoons minute tapioca

  1 tablespoon flour

  1/2 teaspoon lemon zest

  1/2 teaspoon lemon juice

  1 cup sugar

  2 frozen deep dish piecrusts

  3 tablespoons butter, cut into small chunks

  1 tablespoon milk

  1 tablespoon sugar

  Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

  In a large bowl, mix the strawberries, rhubarb, tapioca, sugar, flour, lemon zest, and lemon juice together. Let it stand for 15 minutes. Breathe in the perfume of spring.

  Let the piecrusts thaw while the fruit thickens. Turn one piecrust out onto a piece of wax paper and roll it flat with a rolling pin. Cut it into 12 strips. Fill the other piecrust with the strawberry rhubarb pie filling. Dot your pie filling with chunks of butter. Lay six strips of crust across the top of the pie. Lay the remaining strips in the opposite direction and weave them into a lattice top. Tuck the ends under the lower pie crust and crimp them together.

  Brush milk over the lattice and then sprinkle sugar over the top of the pie. Bake your pie at 425 degrees for 15 minutes, then reduce the heat to 375 degrees and bake until the pie is golden and the filling has thickened and is bubbling, approximately 30 minutes.

  Cool before serving, if possible.

  An International Visitor

  Callie busied herself in the dimly lit kitchen, preparing breakfast for the woman who held her fate. Gus had picked his mother up from the airport late last night, after Callie and Manny had gone to bed. As the rest of the house slept, she hurried to ready the meal before they awoke. It was the first meal she would prepare for Gus’s mother, her child’s grandmother. Gus’s mother had finally agreed to come all the way from Greece to meet Callie and Manny. Callie practiced saying the word for grandmother that Xeni had taught her, Yiayia, remembering to put the accent on the second syllable. “YiaYIA! Not YAH-yahs. Not getting my yah-yahs. YiaYIA!” She pulled a few yellow bananas from the bunch, peeled them, and cut off the bruised parts. “YiaYIA!” She noticed her hands were shaking as she poured the oatmeal into the boiling water. “YiaYIA!” There were only three eggs left in the box. She was so busy planning a big Greek welcome dinner that she had completely forgotten to plan something good for breakfast. Now she was stuck putting together odds and ends to create something impressively tasty and welcoming. I hope you like oatmeal, YiaYIA! She was out of milk. Luckily she kept a box of soy milk as a backup. Expressing her breasts was out of the question for this meal.

  There was a jug of Odwalla orange juice in the fridge. She grabbed it and the tub of strawberry goat yogurt. There was also a box of soy chorizo, but she thought better of it. She looked in the cabinets for some forgotten treat to add to the meal but came up empty until she spotted a dusty jar of preserved baby oranges in the way back of the cupboard. “That’s Greek!” she announced, “Na-RAHN-tzi!”

  As she set the table with her favorite serving ware, she kept repeating a phrase over and over again in her head: “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Kali-MEH-ra YiaYIA!” She laid lavender cloth napkins on the handcrafted green ceramic
plates and topped them with the bamboo-handled silverware. She set the blue-rimmed Mexican glasses from Oaxaca to the right of each plate, and filled the matching pitcher with the orange juice. In small white Chinese bowls decorated with blue fish she ladled the goat yogurt, the narahntzi, and the chopped bananas. She poured the steaming hot African rooibos tea into a petite black iron Japanese teapot. The soy milk sat in the cow-shaped pitcher with blue windmills that she’d gotten in Solvang. It reminded her of one her grandmother had, and she loved its little blue hooves. She smiled at her creation, a tabletop of all nations. What better way to welcome an international visitor? In the further recesses of her mind, she knew it had to be perfect. She wavered. Would she be good enough? Did she actually want to be a good Greek wife?

  The oatmeal sat in the pot, creamy and hot, and the table was ready, boasting her improvised feast. The house was perfectly still. It was one of those rare moments when no one needed anything from her. She sat in her favorite chair, sipped her rooibos, and tucked her hand into her blouse. Cupping her breast had always felt comforting to her. She tried to relax, eyes closed, inhaling the fruity aroma of the African tea, while she tried to release her nervousness and doubt. She could hear the birds chirping in the trees outside the kitchen windows and imagined them in flight soaring through the fresh morning air, untouched by the day. Just then she heard Manny start to cry in his bedroom and felt the sensation of her milk letting down. She paused before rising, savoring her last moment of peace before the day started in earnest.

  When she opened her eyes there was a person standing before her, watching her. Flustered, she rose and dropped her teacup in the process. She’d been caught in a private moment, eyes closed, hand on her breast, which was now leaking milk through her thin nightgown. Searching for the right words, she spit out “YAH-yahs!” Gasping, she tried again, “Kali-MEH-rah, YAH-yahs! Oh crap. I mean, YiaYIA!”

  The old woman looked her up and down without saying a word. She didn’t have to. Callie knew that the most important meal of the day already had a bitter taste. “I was just resting for a moment, and then the baby cried, and my milk let down. I wasn’t touching myself inappropriately. Look, I made breakfast! But we are out of milk. I mean cow milk. Did you see my cute little pitcher? I mean my milk pitcher. Not my milk, but the . . . Actually there’s soy milk in there. Are you hungry?” Callie wanted to kick herself for sounding so idiotic. It wasn’t what she’d planned at all. She’d wanted to appear welcoming, world aware, culturally competent, and instead she looked like a morning masturbator caught in the act.

  “Kalimera. You may call me Mrs. Horiatis. Has Constantino left for work? And why are you letting my grandson cry?”

  Callie stood frozen in place, her tea in a puddle at her feet. “Um. Well, Gus is upstairs sleeping, actually. I was getting some breakfast ready, and Emmanuel just woke up. Would you like to sit down?”

  “I would like to see my grandson, Manoli.” The old woman continued to scowl as she surveyed the room. “Don’t you have a chair with a cushion on it? Those wooden chairs are so hard and uncomfortable.” Callie rushed to grab a cushion from the neighboring room to soften the old woman’s landing. Mrs. Horiatis took the cushion and placed it on the chair at the head of the table, sniffing her disapproval as she took in the tabletop.

  “Why don’t I go get Gus? I’m sure he’d be so happy to have breakfast with you.” Callie scurried out of the kitchen, leaving the tea and her pride behind. Mrs. Horiatis shook her head from side to side and tsk-tsked as she looked at the mismatched plates and linens on the table. Before Callie started climbing the stairs to the bedroom, she paused to take a breath. She noticed her heart was beating soundly in her chest, and despite her best efforts to believe herself a composed, confident woman, she could not help but feel deflated and small. She gripped the handrail and placed one bare foot on the first step. She found herself staring at her pink, glittery toenail polish for what seemed like a long time. She could hear Manny crying and Gus snoring, but most loudly she could hear Mrs. Horiatis’s disapproval. It hovered in the air like a thick, suffocating blanket. She wrapped herself in it until she nearly melted into the floor.

  Callie didn’t want to be a bad person. She wanted to be a good person. A person who was liked. The sensation of a tear rolling down her cheek broke her reverie and reconstituted her back to action. There was no point in feeling sorry for herself, she thought. Manny needed her, and Gus loved her. He would stick up for her, and his mother would learn to like her. Ever the eternal optimist, Callie rationalized that Mrs. Horiatis must be jet-lagged from her flight, and that would explain her cranky demeanor.

  She took the stairs two at a time, burst through the bedroom door, and landed on Gus’s chest. “Wake up! Breakfast is ready, your mother is downstairs, and you have to go keep her company! Tell her that I’m learning to cook Greek food! Tell her!” Then she rushed to Manny’s room where he sat waiting for her to come. His red ringlets framed his chubby face, wet from crying. He broke out in a huge grin when he saw her, and she apologized for keeping him waiting as she hugged the weight of his body against hers. As they settled into the glider for a nice nursing session, Callie could hear Gus groggily making his way down the stairs to sit with his mother. She rocked back and forth in the peaceful room with her son rhythmically sucking at her breast. She felt sure that by the time she brought Manny downstairs Mrs. Horiatis would be happy to start all over again with a cheerful hello and perhaps an apology for her testy behavior.

  • • •

  Gus looked at himself in the hallway mirror before entering the breakfast room. He looked older. His curly brown hair was sprouting some gray, and the wrinkles beside his eyes were getting deeper. His olive skin looked dull, and the stubble on his face cast a dark shadow. He ran his fingers through his hair and tied the belt around his robe to conceal his hairy chest. He was a man—a man who had begged his mother to come and meet Callie, to see their son. He’d called her many nights after Callie had gone to bed. And she’d resisted for months, but now she was here. That showed that she’d softened, didn’t it? He cleared his throat, pulled his stomach in, and pushed his chest out.

  “Kalimera, Mana.” He walked toward his mother, leaned over, and gave her a kiss on the cheek while hugging her around the shoulders. “Did you sleep all right?”

  “Ach, pedie mou. That bed you have feels like rocks. Where did you find it, the Salvation Army? I slept better on the plane.”

  “I’m sorry, Mana. That bed is brand-new. I thought you’d be comfortable.”

  “Just because something is new doesn’t make it better. You young kids always want the new things when the old ways are better.” She sighed loudly and mopped her forehead with one of Callie’s lavender silk napkins.

  “Sometimes the new ways can be good too, Mana. You just have to give it a chance.” He forced a smile and instinctively reached to his chest pocket for a cigarette. But he had no chest pocket or cigarette, only a plain robe protecting his heart.

  “And my grandson, where is he?”

  He hoped this was a safer topic. “Oh, Callie must be nursing him upstairs.” He grabbed a piece of chopped banana and popped it into his mouth.

  “Still? How old is the child? She doesn’t need to nurse him anymore. Three months is plenty.”

  Gus felt like a mouse in a glue trap. No matter what his movements were they only sunk him deeper down into the inescapable.

  “Would you like some café, Mana?” Gus sidestepped his mother’s judgment.

  “Are you going to make the café? Don’t tell me the Amerikanitha cannot even fix one café?” She snorted. “Well, at least she is good for one thing.”

  “Mana, please don’t start with that.” Gus decided to change the subject. “I was thinking that today we could go to Fisherman’s Wharf and have lunch. Remember how you used to love the fried prawns at the Lighthouse? We could see the sea lions on the pier.”

  “Oh yes. That would be nice. We could go, the three of us—
me, you and Manolaki—and show the baby the sea lions. Bravo.”

  “Yeah. Uh . . .” It was only 8:13 a.m. and Gus was already tired of fighting. “Yeah. Uh. Callie might come with us. Or maybe she’ll stay home and cook. I know she has a big welcome dinner planned for you. Isn’t that nice?”

  Mrs. Horiatis looked at the breakfast that Callie had prepared and said, “I’ll make sure to eat a lot at lunch.”

  Gus rubbed his chest where Callie had straddled him and said, “You know, Callie has been learning to cook Greek food. She’s not bad.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Callie swept into the room. Gus noticed how her long, pale blue silk robe contrasted with her fiery red hair and complemented her ocean-blue eyes. Manny clung to her hip and tangled his fingers in her hair. Callie always looked so natural with Manny on her hip, but this morning Gus could feel her nervousness, and he suddenly felt sorry for her. She would try her best, and it would never be good enough. Callie stood a few feet away from Gus and his mother and smiled brilliantly.

  “Kalimera again, Mrs. Horiatis.” Manny squealed at his mother’s voice and shyly flung his arms around her neck. “This is our son, Emmanuel . . . your grandson, Manoli.” He peeked out at his grandmother, his yiayia, for the first time.

  Mrs. Horiatis was silent, but Gus could see that her eyes were glistening as she set them upon her grandson for the first time. He held his breath as she took in Manny’s curly red hair, dark brown eyes, and chubby cheeks. “Would you like to hold him?” Callie asked.

  “Yes. Yes. I would like to hold my grandson.” Mrs. Horiatis rose from her chair and stretched her arms out toward Manny. Callie kissed him sweetly on his forehead and nose, and held him out toward the old woman. As Mrs. Horiatis held her grandson for the first time, she lit up like the sun on a long summer day. As if in slow motion she turned her back on Callie and walked away with Manny, and Gus was overcome with relief and pride, seeing Manny cradled in his mother’s arms. But there was that other emotion too: guilt.