Friday, April 23, 2010


I didn't miss a day. For some reason unbeknownst to me, my "recording" was posted on March 26th. I believe it might have something to do with the fact that I was starting on a post I'd never finished!

It's called Crisis
and can be read by clicking on the purple writing with the underscore that says "crisis."
Now, onto the next,

I want to start by writing a short love letter to my Ολγμπος, Στραγγιστὀς γιαὀυρτι. My bucket of 2 percent, Greek yogurt, that I might dip my big spoon into, oh, one, two, five times a day.

Dear γιαὀυρτι,
You are so creamy, tart, nourishing, decadent, innocent... and I know you love me as much as I love you because I feel healthier AFTER you’ve allowed me to partake of your thick, silky, probiotic filled spoonful than I did before. You’re so good to me. Even after we are through with our delighting in each other and I am longingly, remissantly scraping the bucket, you say, “Paige, please, take of my bucket and use it for your paints!”
And this... is love.

Thank you for all of the times you’ve let me dress you with cinnamon and honey. Thank you for all of the times I don’t even bother with a bowl. My most sincere appreciation for how wonderful you taste on top of a biscuit and how you help me digest a big, Greek meal.

For all of this and more, for now, forever, γιαὀυρτι, Ι λοβ γου.

I'm glad that's out of the way. I've been meaning to say it for a long time.

XRONIA POLA to all of the George's out there! There's quite a few in my life. I collected four or five while I was in limbo waiting to make my grand debut in Greece, and now I have one or two more just by hanging around. I'm going to opt out of the little cakes this time. Once again, a diet of bread, cheese, and olive oil, while delicious and healthy, is sneakily gathering forces from inside and collecting around my middle, ready to start building a little stripmall where it can hang out and relax. Seems climbing mountains and bicycle riding isn't enough to keep the population count down. Not a surprise that I can't eat like a boy just because I'm as active as one, but it's not fair, either.

Easy enough to curb. I just have to ignore the delicious village bread offered in baskets at every table I sit at, politely decline on the condensed milk the kind people in the cafeterias (coffee places) offer to pour into my coffee, and skip on the beautiful little cakes that are lethally imbued with sugar, mastica and honey, offered on name days.

Feta cheese by the teaspoon instead of the ladle.
Olive oil by the tablespoon instead of the teacup.

No problem.
But I might have to start tomorrow. For today, I'm going to celebrate Steve's birthday, George's name day, and the start of our new entrepreneurial enterprise with the office which means:

Wine by the kilo
Fried calimari, zucchini, tzatziki, and potatoes
saganaki and grilled tomatoes
Grilled sardines
Horta, or greens soaked in lemon and olive oil
stuffed mushrooms

and these are just the things I want. Who knows what the "Name" and the "Birthday" are going to request. Lamb? Sausage? Feta by the ladle?

I'm prospecting that as we intend to start at 3, I'll be wrapping it up and peddling home by 8:30. In a way it's useful getting all of one's eating out of the way in a five hour block of time. I mean you have all of the morning to be productive and all of the evening to digest.

I have my trusty yogurt...