“Iamabout to win an argument.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Yes. Hypothetically, in some distant future scenario, I would want you to come to Greece. As my girlfriend. Not my nanny. Happy?”
“Very.”
“Good.”
A sudden clapping cuts through the conversation. Irene is standing in the archway to the dining room, a dish towel in her hands. “Paidia!Everyone! The food is ready. Come, come!”
The house erupts into a happy migration. Irene directs traffic, pointing to the long table in the formal dining room for the adults and a smaller, card-table setup in the living room, already swarmed by cousins, for the kids.
We follow the crowd into the dining room, and my breath catches.
The food.
Oh my god,the food.
The dining table has been completely transformed. It’s covered—and I mean covered—in dishes. There’s barely an inch of tablecloth visible.
A massive roasted turkey, golden brown and glistening, sits in the center. Next to it is a leg of lamb, studded with garlic and herbs, the meat so tender it’s almost falling off the bone. There are roasted potatoes—golden and crispy—tossed with lemon and oregano. A huge Greek salad with chunks of feta and fat kalamata olives. Stuffing that smells like butter and sage. Greenbeans. Spanakopita. A casserole I don’t recognize. Another casserole. Bread—so much bread.
And the smells. Garlic and lemon and roasted meat and butter and herbs and something sweet and cinnamon-y coming from the kitchen.
My mouth is literally watering.
Michalis’s voice booms over the chatter. “Listen!Parakaló!Women and children first! Then men! That is the rule.”
There’s some grumbling from the men, but they step back.
I grab a plate and suddenly I’m swept into a line of women—Irene, the aunts, some cousins I haven’t met yet—and they’re all talking at once, pushing me forward.
“No, no, Annie goes first!”
“She is guest!”
“Take the lamb, Annie, the lamb is the best!”
“Don’t listen to her, take the turkey!”
“You must try thegemista, I made them myself—”
They’re literally pushing me toward the front of the line, piling food onto my plate before I can even process what’s happening.
I’m gently ushered into a line of aunts and cousins. Almost immediately, an older woman with Irene’s eyes—her sister, maybe—takes my elbow. “You are Annie, yes? Leo’s Annie. Here, you must try this.” She steers me past the turkey toward one of the casseroles. “Thepastitsio. Is the best. Irene makes the bechamel like our mother.”
“Oh, I don’t want to take too much—”
“Pah! You take! Leo likes a woman who eats.” She winks and ladles a generous portion onto my plate.
Despina adds lamb. “This too. You need protein, you are too thin.”
Another woman, younger, with a kind smile, points to the reddish stuffing. “Yiaprakia,” she says. “Grape leaves, rice, meat. Very good. Just one, try.”
I am passed down the line like a cherished, slightly confused baton. “Some potatoes,koukla, they are crispy.” “A little of the greens, for health!” “You like dark meat or white? Here, some dark, it is more juicy.”
My plate becomes a mountain, a delicious, steaming landscape of flavors I don’t know the names for. I catch Leo’s eye from across the room where the men are clustered, waiting their turn. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, and he’s trying not to laugh. It’s a look of profound contentment, of seeing something he hoped for slot perfectly into place. His gaze is warm and steady on me, and it feels like a hand on the small of my back.
I turn back to the food, my plate now dangerously overloaded, and I realize something.
