I wonder, not for the first time, if my particular proclivities in the bedroom might have their origins in these childhoodkitchen dynamics. The thought nearly makes me laugh out loud.
“You’re too skinny,” she declares, looking me up and down with the critical eye only a Greek mother can possess. “What happened to your appetite? American food is ruining you. You’re going to become malnourished eating their processed garbage.”
I glance down at myself, amused. “I literally weigh exactly the same as I did when you saw me last Christmas.”
She waves this fact away as if measurements are merely opinions. “Your face is thinner. I can tell.”
The sound of another pair of heels announces my sister’s arrival before she appears. Demetria sweeps into the kitchen like she’s making an entrance at a gala rather than joining us for dinner preparations. She’s twelve years younger than me and dresses with the bohemian flair of someone trying very hard to look like a starving artist.
Today, it’s a flowing vintage maxi dress in vibrant peacock blues and greens, frayed at the edges, with dramatic side slits. She’s adorned it with layered thrift-store necklaces made of wooden beads and semi-precious stones, and stacks of silver bangles. Her dark hair—the same shade as mine—is twisted into an artfully messy updo. Her makeup screams “I woke up like this” but definitely took an hour to perfect.
“Sorry, that was Julian again,” she announces, placing her phone on the counter. “He’s having a crisis about his gallery showing next month.”
“Why didn’t you just bring him?” I ask. “That’s the fifth call today.”
“He’s busy.” Demetria grins. “At least Ihavesomeone who calls me five times a day. When was the last time youhad a date, workaholic?”
“Children,” Mom warns without looking up from her chopping. “Behave yourselves or neither of you gets dessert.”
Demetria laughs and kisses our Mom’s cheek, somehow managing to do so without getting in her way—a skill I’ve never mastered. “What are you making, Mama? It smells amazing.”
“Moussaka, galaktoboureko, and maybe horiatiki if your sister can tell me where she keeps her tomatoes.”
I gesture toward the refrigerator. “Bottom drawer.” Small victories. At least I know that one.
Demetria slides onto one of the kitchen stools, stealing a slice of cucumber from the cutting board despite Mom’s warning swat. “So, Athena, tell us what’s new in your life that isn’t work-related.”
“Well—” I begin, but Mom interrupts.
“Yes, tell us. Have you met someone yet? A nice man, perhaps?” Mom pauses in her preparation, fixing me with a hopeful stare. “You’re not getting any younger, Athena. Your biological clock is ticking.” She throws her hands up dramatically, a piece of eggplant flying from her knife. "Though at forty, your eggs are probably as dry as the Sahara Desert. I should have started lighting candles to Saint Anna years ago.
I suppress a sigh. I’ve had this conversation so many times. “I’m not dating and I’m certainly not getting married, Mom. I’m not interested in that life.”
“But you’re all alone,” she presses, her voice softening with genuine concern. “Aren’t you lonely in this big house by yourself?”
Demetria suddenly looks up and frowns. “Wait,” she says, glancing around the kitchen. “Where is that cat of yours? I haven’t seen him since we arrived.”
I freeze momentarily, then recover quickly, crafting a lie that’s close enough to the truth.
“Zeus actually prefers to live with my neighbor,” I say with a casual wave of my hand. “He’s been spending so much time over there that I finally just let him stay. He’s happier there.”
“Your neighbor?” Mom’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “And she’s okay with that? With taking care of your beast of a cat?”
“Yes,” I reply, relieved she’s accepting the explanation. “We’re friends. Ruby doesn’t mind at all.”
“Ruby? This is the first time you’ve mentioned having a friend close by.” Mom looks genuinely pleased, as if the existence of Ruby somehow proves I’m not the complete hermit she fears I’ve become.
“She’s really nice,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“And she takes care of your cat?” Demetria asks skeptically. “That’s a pretty big favor. Zeus isn’t exactly a goldfish.”
I shrug. “She likes him. He likes her. It works out.”
Mom wipes her hands on her apron. “Well, then you must invite her for dinner. I want to meet your friend, serve her a home-cooked meal.”
“That’s not necessary—” I begin, but Mom cuts me off.
“No, no. I insist.” She gestures at the extensive spread of ingredients covering Ruby’s counter. “Call her now. Invite her.”
