Ginger continued her line of questioning. ‘Just a friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ she said, smiling as if satisfied. ‘How nice for you.’
‘Yes it is,’ I agreed. ‘He’s a very good man.’
‘Very good of him to let you stay,’ Linda added.
‘Indeed,’ Ginger replied.
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence until Michaela cleared her throat loudly and I spied Edvard beckoning Ginger back to their table. I pointed to him so that she could see.
‘Oh well, it looks like the teacher is preparing for our second lesson,’ she said. ‘See you later.’
As she hurried back to her seat, Michaela stood up.
‘The main dish we are going to make this afternoon is baked fish in a salt crust,’ she said. ‘It is a tender and very beautiful meal. You will feel you are eating at the table of the Gods of Olympus.’
‘Not if you don’t like fish,’ I said.
‘You have tasted every fish in the ocean?’ she asked, with a kind smile.
‘No, I guess not, unless they’re all fish fingers,’ I replied.
Seeing Ginger whispering to Edvard, I pulled myself upright. If they were talking in Swedish about how dippy she thought I was, sitting up straight would let her know I was on to her. Look at me; I’m a normal, non-slouchy, intelligent person. I know fish fingers can’t swim.
‘I hope, in this short afternoon, I can help you find the joy not just in cooking but in really tasting,’ Michaela continued. ‘This island has a sumptuous variety of foods to offer. One of the best is the fish, fresh from the ocean.’
Some staff from the kitchen began clearing away our plates before bringing out trays of fish. I tried not to meet the glassy, unseeing eye of my own unfortunate dinner-to-be as it was placed in front of me. It was the biggest fish I’d ever seen on a plate.
‘Am I just feeding myself or the whole island?’
Michaela laughed. ‘The kitchen staff enjoy helping with the leftovers. Nothing will be wasted. Now,’ she continued. ‘The purpose of today is for you to explore the flavours of Greece and learn some traditional cooking skills. All the better if you can experiment a little, doing as the Greeks do − cooking with meraki.’
‘Mer whattie?’ asked Linda.
‘That word again!’ I said. ‘Mita used it at the painting class.’
‘Meraki,’ Michaela explained, ‘is a word Greeks use for, say, creating a piece of art or cooking a dish, and really loving what you do. If you are putting all your effort, creativity and love into it – a bit of yourself – you are doing it with meraki.’
‘What a wonderful word,’ Linda sighed.
‘I like it, so romantic,’ I said.
‘Which bit of yersels do we hae to put in the fish?’ Hughie piped up.
My mind boggled. I really didn’t want it to . . . the pictures I was getting were terrible.
Michaela shook her head and laughed. She seemed so patient and lovely, with a wonderful warm sense of humour. I imagined she did everything with meraki. As she showed us how to prepare the fish, whilst explaining the many kinds that were available and even sharing tales about the toils of Greek fishermen, I marvelled at the obvious love she had for her work and wished that I had that too. It was quite beautiful to watch.
‘So, the salt insulates the food, cooking it gently and evenly,’ she said, putting the final touches to her fish. ‘When it comes out of the oven, we will simply crack open the hardened salt shell to unearth a moist, evenly-cooked and fragrant dish. And there you have it. A very easy and delicious meal.’
Clapping her hands, she invited us to start. I began by prodding the belly of my fish and was rewarded with a sickly squelch.
‘Yeuck!’
Something told me I wasn’t so beautiful to watch at work.
‘What are you doing, Binnie?’ Linda asked.
‘I’m checking to see if Ishmael’s leg is in there.’
‘Eh?’
‘This has got to be the Moby Dick,’ I answered.
Hearing his favourite four-letter word, Hughie began, ‘Do you want to . . .’
‘NO!’ Greta, Linda and I all shouted together.
‘The salt is over there,’ Michaela called over, pointing to a shelf of labelled white tubs behind us. ‘Please help yourselves.’
Leaning over to Linda at the next bench to mine, I whispered, ‘It’s looking at me!’
‘Who is?’ she asked without looking up.
‘The fish! I can’t cut it open and stick things in its belly while it’s watching me.’
Linda, who had already begun wiping down her fish, looked up at me with smiling eyes. ‘Moby Dick seeks thee not. It is thou, thou, that madly seekest him!’ she said. ‘But if it makes you feel better, just put a sprig of parsley over its eyes.’
I went across to the basket of herbs, picking up and sniffing everything I could find. Although experimental cooking had never been my thing, experimental eating was. I chewed on a couple of leaves and pulled a face. They smelled far better than they tasted. By the time I’d tested several green things the rest of the group were back at their stations and I found there were no salt pots left.
‘Erm, excuse me Michaela?’ I called. ‘There’s no salt left.’
Michaela looked up from helping Greta cut her fish’s belly open. ‘Oh, they must have miscounted,’ She said. ‘Georgio!’
When no-one came out of the kitchen, she turned back to me. ‘Oh dear,’ she sighed. ‘No-one can hear me.’
‘It’s okay,’ I told her. ‘I’ll go get some myself. What shall I ask for?’
‘Alati,’ she replied, looking relieved.
As I walked across to the kitchen, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Sal.
Hey, Mum. Hope you’re having a great time. Just want to let you know I passed my audition for the band! Woohoo!
I grinned from ear to ear. At Sal’s age, my instrument was my voice. For her, it was her beloved guitar. Feeling as pleased as I knew she would be, I texted her back:
That is fantastic news! Well done you! Love you too, too much. Will call you later XXX
Her reply was almost immediate.
Don’t be silly, it’s your honeymoon! Enjoy! I just had to tell you right away. Plenty of time to speak when you get home. Love you too XXX
Feeling a strange longing to call, mixed with despair at not wanting to lie to her, I sighed. She was so happy. There was no way I wanted to spoil that right now by making her worry about me. Beth and Sal would be fine; both of them staunchly independent. They were so much stronger than me.
I pushed my phone back into the pocket of my shorts and trundled on into the kitchen, trying to remember what to ask for. What was salt in Greek again? Turning back to ask, I saw that Michaela was still busy helping Greta and so, deciding not to trouble her any further, I carried on further in for a look around. No-one appeared to be about, but there was an enormous pot of what looked like squid rings on the surface beside a gigantic bag of flour. Someone had been making calamari. Next to the flour was a white bowl like the ones outside, only it was empty. Next to it was a pot, which I picked up to examine. On the label there was Greek writing and a picture of a teaspoon in white powder. Bingo!
Feeling pleased with myself, I picked up the pot and returned to my herb-shrouded fish – all the while humming the theme tune to MasterChef. Let my cookery masterpiece begin. Glancing over at Linda slicing away her fish belly, I almost heaved. Okay, masterpiece it may be but I was not cutting open a fish’s stomach. If I had to go in, I was going in through the mouth . . . if it would just stop looking at me!
‘Would anybody like some more wine?’ Michaela called, beckoning to a young lady who was weaving her way through the tables with a bottle on a tray.
‘I could really begin to love this woman,’ Linda laughed, holding up her hand and winning a refill for both of us.
Pushing spoonfuls of freshly squeezed lemon juice, bunches of herbs and –
oh why not, I wasn’t planning on eating it – a few big handfuls of the salt down through the gullet of the fish, I removed its herby eye mask. Standing it on its tail to shake everything down, I noticed the salt dissolving in places. Oh, for some good, sturdy, British salt. Maybe not cutting it open had left the innards a little moist?
When the insides looked as though they could hold no more, I lay my now bloated prize on the baking sheet and took a large gulp of wine before patting more salt all over it, which was fast dissolving on contact. Looking about me, I could see everyone pouring lashings of salt on top of their fishes. Not wanting to bother scraping some of the salt off to dry my fish properly, I poured the entire remaining contents of the pot over it.
‘Linda?’
‘Yes darlin?’ Linda answered without looking up, focussed on the task in hand.
‘Why is this Greek salt so bloody powdery?’
‘What?’ she said, still distracted.
I shrugged, knocked back the final dregs of my wine and stuffed my fish’s mouth with a huge wedge of lemon. It didn’t look at all appetising; but I’d made it with meraki. It was bloated and holding far too much inside. Just like me.
‘Mum, I made rice pudding at school! Can we have it for dessert tonight?’
‘Oh, that looks quite nice, Bernice. Do you know who I think might like that?’
I shook my head, all the while thinking she, Dad, Suzy and I might like it. ‘No?’
‘Old Tom next door, he’d love it. Poor old soul, I’m sure he doesn’t eat right. I’ll take it round to him, shall I?’
In a moment she was gone with the pudding. My pudding. I hadn’t even had time to reply.
As our fish were being put in the oven there was a buzz in my pocket alerting me to a phone call. It was my sister, Suzy. Signalling to Linda that I had to take a call, I walked over to a private spot by the sea wall and answered it.
‘Suzy, you know I’m in Greece, right?’
‘Yes, sorry sis, I hate to disturb you on your honeymoon but I thought I’d better let you know, Mum’s in hospital.’
‘Again?’
I heard her sigh. When two women talk about their mother being in hospital you would expect one to sound upset and the other to ask a concerned – maybe even panicked – ‘What happened?’ But, this was Smother.
‘The usual,’ Suzy said. ‘Vague, non-specific dizzy spells. You had to go and get married and hog all the limelight, didn’t you?’
We both laughed, albeit half-heartedly.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Has the hospital diagnosed Attention Deficit Response yet?’
‘If only,’ she sighed. ‘As per usual, they’re all looking at me like I’m the daughter from hell because I don’t look distraught. They just don’t get it.’
I felt her pain, having been in the presence of medical professionals and staff at the sheltered housing complex where Smother now lived, looking at me like I was the Devil incarnate for seeming not to care about her many and varied ailments. Nobody but Suzy and I knew they were almost always invented or brought on by her ‘forgetting’ to take some important medication – attention seeking by any means necessary.
‘I know, it’s hellish. I’m sorry I’m not there to help.’
‘Don’t be silly, we both know she wouldn’t be in hospital if there hadn’t just been a major family celebration that wasn’t about her. I just thought, you know, I should let you know. I don’t want to spoil your honeymoon, but it felt wrong not to say.’
‘I understand,’ I replied, taking a deep breath as the guilt of pretence washed over me at the mention of my honeymoon. ‘Look, Suzy, I’m going to give you a call later. No
doubt sm . . . Mother will be home with a clean bill of health in a day or two, but there’s something else I want to discuss with you. Something . . .’ I paused. How I hated lies. ‘Something I need your advice about. Is that okay?’
‘Really?’ she said, sounding concerned for the first time. ‘Well, okay, that’s fine if you need me. Is everything alright there?’
‘Yes,’ I lied.
‘Okay, fine. We’ll talk later after I’ve done the perfunctory evening visit.’
‘I’m so sorry you have to do this on your own, Suzy. Just buy Mum some magazines, stroke her hand and tell her to cheer up.’
‘Cheer up? She was taken in at midnight in an emergency response ambulance and by two o’clock this afternoon she was laughing and chatting up a student doctor from Pakistan! If she’s sick, I’m the Queen of bloody Sheba.’
There was some commotion behind me and I turned to see a band setting up beside the taverna, getting ready to serenade us during lunch.
‘Right, I’ve got to go now. Let me know if there’s any change or it turns out she actually is ill this time and we really are terrible women. How are the girls?’
‘Oh, they’re fine, of course. They won’t call you, as it is your honeymoon after all. But they send their love.’
‘Well, send mine right back and tell them I’ll see them soon.’
We said our goodbyes and with a heavy heart I hung up, pushed the phone back into my pocket and headed back towards the group. I needed to speak to someone and even though she had her own worries right now, all at once I knew that someone was Suzy. She knew me better than anyone did. But as for my daughters, I couldn’t tell them and equally, I couldn’t face them and lie. I was happy to have them think all was well for the time being.
‘You break the salt crust with a fork, like this,’ Michaela explained later, as the cooked fish were delivered back to our tables. She gave Greta’s fish a tap to demonstrate, as we all gathered round to watch, the crispy, salt crust fell away to release a cloud of steam and a juicy, fragrant, baked fish. I had to admit, it smelled wonderful.
‘Okay, your turn now.’
I looked down at my fish which fizzed and bubbled, seeming to have expanded to twice its original size.
Picking up my fork, I continued on to the pièce de résistance.
‘So, how does it go?’ I said to Linda, who was busy
with her own meal and didn’t reply. ‘You tap the crust with a fork . . .’ Even though there was no actual ‘crust’, I gave my heavily bloated fish a good, strong thwack . . .
BOOOOOOOOOM!
The first thing I was aware of was that the band had stopped playing, swiftly followed by the flapping of what seemed like hundreds of wings as a flock of birds took to the air. Through the smoke, that hung like a cloud before my eyes, I saw Michaela wiping bits of fish from her face. Before I could say anything, I felt a mild stinging sensation on my chest and looked down to see hot, white, foamy flecks splattered up the front of my top.
Then somebody screamed.
As I dared to look down at the dish, fork still in hand, I saw that my dinner had all but gone – to outer space. All that remained was a frazzled piece of parsley. I almost wept at the irony of this herby eye mask being the only thing left; the very thing I’d used to protect my now-in-a-thousand-pieces dinner from watching me couldn’t save it from Boomtown. Wiping foamy, lemony mess away from my hair and eyes, I heard the sound of people running and, before I knew it, a crowd of startled onlookers, including the hunky Greek god from earlier, had surrounded me.
Hughie broke the brief, shocked silence that followed.
‘So this is whit happens when you put a wee bit o’ yerself intae yer cooking.’ He picked at some lumps of fish that had landed on his head and ate them. ‘Well, it tastes grand oanyways, lass. All we need now is some breid to go wae it.’
Argos looked from Hughie to me in a state of confusion.
‘Bread!’ I repeated, before turning to the crowd and mimicking putting a piece of bread in my mouth. A sea of blank faces stared back at me. Awkward. I had to explain; break up that terrible, what-the-hell-are-you-doing-crazy-English-lady silence. I turned back to Michaela and the rest of the group. ‘Oh,’ I said, scratching my head. ‘What’s Greek for bread?’
‘Psoli,’ Hughie pipe
d up.
‘Ah, yes, that’s it!’ I exclaimed, pointing to my mouth again. ‘I need psoli!’
‘You need . . . psoli?’ Argos asked. His face was aghast.
I mimed putting something in my mouth again, saying, ‘Yes, psoli. Psoli!’ Turning back to the crowd who all looked as confused as Argos, I pointed again to my mouth. ‘I need some psoli!’ Some of the onlookers began shaking their heads and turned away.
‘Oh, Binnie, no!’ Michaela cried out.
From the remaining crowd there came some low, supressed titters, until everyone was roaring with laughter. I turned back to Michaela and saw that her cheeks were bright pink and she was covering her ears.
‘All I’m saying is I want some psoli. What’s wrong with that?’
Behind her, Linda and Hughie were doubled up in hysterics and had been joined by some of the people from the kitchen. Everyone was laughing. Even Michaela had tears in her eyes that revealed she too was trying to stifle a snorting fit. It was only Greta who seemed as confused and oblivious as me.
‘Oh dear God, stop!’ Linda cried, grabbing my hands, tears of laughter streaming down her face.
Feeling that all too familiar, embarrassed glow in my cheeks, I waited to be let in on the joke. Her explanation sent me chasing Hughie out of the taverna, across the beach and into the sea.
‘Binnie,’ she said, ‘Psoli means cock!’
Chapter Eight
So, apparently ‘blow fish’ is not an instruction.
Back at the apartment, I posted a snap of my cookery class disaster on Facebook before refreshing the page a minute later, by which time there were three likes, including one from Caroline. I was not, however, going to let her, or the fact that I’d managed to concoct a science experiment instead of a cooked meal, spoil my day. That afternoon, having never wanted to eat fresh fish in my life, I had discovered two things:
1) Fish baked in lashings of salt actually tasted rather delicious and
2) Fish with cupfuls of baking soda and a lot of lemon juice all pushed into a cavity made airtight by various herbs and a chunk of lemon could send your lunch into orbit.
The New Mrs D Page 7