Within her small kitchen, Auntie Helen is cooking away as usual. The scent of mint and coriander fill the air, the wonderful aroma of lamb roasting in the oven teasing little stomachs who are waiting impatiently for dinner while maintaining the pretence of not really wanting to return within.

I used to love to observe her cook, tiny and dark haired, with fast hands and sort eyes. She invariably used to call me agapi-moumy love in Greek.. Those were the only words I extremely knew and I loved her dearly. Oh the food that might return out of that kitchen. Wonderful soups and bean dishes always dressed with the sharpest of lemons and also the fruitiest olive oil. Whole poached chickens with flesh like silk it was therefore tender, in the middle of fragrant rice or crispy potatoes.

In summer she would use the contemporary vine leaves from her garden to form stuffed vine leaves and we have a tendency to would get to try the grapes- so tiny and sweet and pale. Then Easter would return around. The whole place would be scented with toasted sesame seed smells, with the sight of Easter pastries fresh from the oven to please us kiddies. The smell of these was amazing.a sweet dough crammed with cheese and mint and egg and sultanas, topped with toasted sesame seeds and given to you continue to warm from the oven. Even now the smell of that cheese filling takes me straight back to her kitchen. Auntie forever seemed to be ready to get the plumpest sultanas and the most contemporary smelling mint. I assume it absolutely was at her house that I had my first taste of black-eyes peas and greens together. Mmmmstill hooked on that one.

I remember watching Auntie become older, her hair turning silver at the temples, continually dressed in black or navy blue, the mourning dress of little Greek ladies everywhere. Once her husband died she moved away to the other aspect of London to be close to her daughter. It was a pleasant little house however it did not have that smell – the imprints of years of cooking and totally different scents through the house. The smell of Uncle Paul’s oil paints was missing, his paintings of icons for the church were perpetually hanging drying somewhere, the unhappy eyes of the Saints all watching me. I missed the apple tree and the vines, the long garden that we tend to kids used to cover in and play with the dog. She was long gone too – the days of her carrying me and my two cousins on her back simply a happy memory.

Auntie still cooked however she seemed to be obtaining smaller, more birdlike, though if you were naughty you could still get a good telling off. I didn’t see much of her when my parents divorced and I still regret the passing of the many years in which I did not see her. It’s hard for a teenager to urge in contact with a family that she feels will not wish her anymore. I didn’t recognize she died till concerning a year afterwards. No-one told me. I still miss her. Each time I drive past that recent house I want I had the money to shop for it outright and move myself back in there. I’d tend the trees and water the vines and perhaps in the future my niece will write something like this regarding me.

For now, I cook in her and my late father’s memory. I use the identical techniques, the identical ingredients, foods that my family has used for generations, I cook out of and with – love, hoping to share a little of that heat and that generosity with my friends.