Preservation of American Hellenic History
Preservation of American Hellenic History
by Jason C. Mavrovitis
Meanwhile, the eggs in the frying pan set into soft curds, Papou's hand never ceasing its gentle stirring. Finally, he announced: "Dey-a-don." He buttered the slices of toast, spread a generous layer of quince preserves on them, and served the eggs and toast to me on a warm plate. We sat down, and he encouraged me to take a bite.
Miracle cure!
They were wonderful, delicious, and I ate everything on my plate, the eggs and the toast. Papou glowed.
When Mom returned I greeted with her with the news. "I ate all the eggs!" She asked Papou what the excitement was all about, and he told her how I loved his scrambled eggs. She frowned. She was, for an instant hurt that I had eaten Papou's cooking and not hers. But, that passed as she realized that her son had eaten food with enjoyment. Her feelings were totally resolved when as she saw me eating more and more of her wonderfully prepared meals.
I never forgot how to make Papou's scrambled eggs.
Though a stepfather, Papou adored Lily and did for her everything a caring father would do for his child. One of the more simple and thoughtful expressions of his feelings was the occasional delivery of fresh mozzarella procured from an Italian cheese factory somewhere on Sixteenth Avenue between Fifty-ninth and Sixty-ninth Streets. This Italian neighborhood was where our family doctor, Ettore De Tata, lived and practiced.
The neighborhood provided most everything available from Italy or prepared for Italian kitchens whether fresh, dried, canned, or preserved. The cheese factory was one of the few local sources of fresh mozzarella, a delicately flavored, soft cheese that had not attained the rubbery texture of its mature state. Lily lavished this on warm Italian bread or fried under eggs swimming in butter. It lasted only for as long as it was fresh, perhaps two days.
Papou went to Sixteenth Avenue on the Saturdays he was not at work. He filled bags with fresh Italian bread, capocollo, salami, provolone, olives, hot pickled cherry tomatoes stuffed with anchovy paste, bread, sardines, and whatever else he relished. These would compete with the Greek delicacies brought by my father from Eighth Avenue in Manhattan: feta, kasseri, kefaloteri, sardeles, elies (olives), tsiri, tarama, lakerda, and the myriad other foods that made our home like one of a Mediterranean village but set in Brooklyn.
Sometime before noon on Saturday, Papou would return from his shopping spree and place the two large bags he carried on our kitchen table. With a smile that creased the corners of his eyes, he would fish out the package of cheese and hand it to my mother. I do not remember her ever hugging or kissing Papou, but her acceptance of the cheese was an embrace between them.
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