Look at this lovely cookbook I found in my local library. I admit, the cover and its size enticed me. I’ve been checking various cookbooks out of the library as my new escapism versus watching Netflix late at night. Ok I do both. Mostly I read.
I grew up with flavors of cinnamon in tomato sauce and allspice, dill and lots of lemon everywhere. Sometimes my dad would peel off lettuce leaves from an iceberg head, squeeze fresh lemon, dash salt and we’d eat. My dad’s family, originally from Cesme, Turkey, fled and escaped to Chios, Greece, a short boat ride away. History shapes how you’re raised, what you hear, what you eat. This book a familiarity to my childhood foods and what I continue to cook today. My Greek speaking skills shaky, but oh, I can cook.
My main chapter in my WIP is half Lebanese with a Greek stepmother and Greek American cousin. I’m including dishes here and there in my novel. Food has this ability to connect even those that wouldn’t normally connect. When I open my Facebook, I turn to my Lebanese and Greek cooking groups. My escapism. My feeling closer to my sense of what was positive about home.
And thank goodness for libraries.