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I dreamed of spending Pascha, or Easter, in my family's homeland
and it was not until
I moved to Crete that I had the chance. The week before the
big day, my partner,
Panayiotis, and his friends made arrangements to gather the
ingredients needed
for a series of feasts - after presumably fasting according
to church doctrine, during
the 40-day Lenten period. First, we had to buy a whole lamb,
which entailed a long wait at the kafeneo on the village square,
anticipating the signal. After a few coffees and sips of raki,
a grape-must fire water, the shepherd's young son, Nektarios,
drove by in his pickup truck and yelled, "Ela, pah-me!"
(Hurry! Let's go).
We dashed to our car and followed Nektarios up the winding
coastal mountain road that led to a treacherous dirt track
before we abruptly stopped at the edge of a clearing. We continued
our adventure on foot to the mitato, or shepherd's shelter,
a round stone structure with smoke billowing out of its chimney.
The
commanding summit of Mount Oxa loomed above the plateau
bursting with yellow,
red and purple wild flowers and herbs. A flock of sheep grazed
nearby, their bells ringing like a sweet lullaby. There was
whistling and movement on Oxa's steep ridge as goats were
being called home by their keeper, so far away they looked
like black and white dots.
Manolis and his family were inside the mitato, hovering over
a caldron of sheep's milk, which was slowly transforming into
malakos, or cheese curd, straight from the source. We sat
squeezed around his small table and sampled meze of dried
dakos, the local whole-grain bread softened with olive oil
and seasoned with oregano, along with tiny, nutty olives and
mountain snails steamed in olive oil, rosemary and homemade
rosé wine. Numerous toasts with Manolis' famously smooth
raki were made. After an hour of socializing in which Manolis
covered the topics of shepherding, cheese making and the serious
dilemma of vanishing grazing land, its protection left in
the hands of developers who envision more hotel complexes
and wider roadways, we set off to choose the highlight of
our Easter dinner. |
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©Nikki Rose. Elounda Bay, Crete, Greece. In this single
corner of Crete is the ancient sunken city of Olous, the Venetian
salt flats, the second century Byzantine chapel and the infamous
Canal Bar, where dancing on the table is encouraged.
© Panayiotis Moldovanidis. Lassithi Crete, this is
also the first of May Celebration where the villagers meet
in the mountains for food, family wine and music.
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After much inspection and discussion, we decided on the perfect
lamb and made
arrangements to pick the little dear up on Friday. As a long-time
city dweller, this type
of food shopping did have an effect on my former connections,
or lack thereof, with
the food that I eat. It's perfectly logical and beneficial
to know your food sources, and it's a privilege to meet the
people who provide them. This healthy little lamb had been
living in the mountains grazing on wild plants. Expressing
my thoughts on how, in my concrete world, we rarely meet the
animals we eat or the people who tend to them would have been
ridiculous to these farmers who make it a point to nurture
their food sources. But even Panayiotis said, "Next year,
we'll let Dimitris shop for the lamb."
Pascha also symbolizes the celebration of spring and appreciation
of our resources - food and water. Brilliant red poppies,
the Pascha flower symbolizing the blood of Christ, blanket
the hillsides. Wild vegetables and herbs, along with the first
cultivated crops spring to life after a dormant winter. Livestock
deliver their offspring. Unlike modern urban meal planning,
where you can get anything you want whenever you want, barring
freshly harvested quality, Pascha in Crete still stands for
seasonal fare.
Easter mass begins at about 10pm on Saturday. Midnight symbolizes
the resurrection of Christ, when the priest lights the sacred
candle and shares the fire with the congregation. Slowly,
the church reflects brilliant warmth while devotees chant,
"Christos Anesti" (Christ has risen) 40 times. The
Lenten period carries into culinary tradition. Hard-boiled
eggs, dyed deep red to symbolize the blood of Christ, are
atop sweet yeast breads and are used in a contest for good
luck. Participants tap both tips of their opponent's eggs
and the winner emerges with an uncracked shell.
After mass, the priests and congregation flooded the square
to greet villagers and share the sacred light with those who
could not fit into the church. If you can keep the candles
alight until you get home, you'll have good luck. What freaked
me out was the fireworks exploding all around me. Pascha in
the U.S. is definitely more conservative. The crowd disappeared
into the narrow streets for their feasts.
For those who follow tradition in the kitchen, Mayeritsa
soup, lamb's head and/or innards braised in an aromatic broth,
is made on Saturday afternoon. Others may concoct variations
or koukoretsi, which is a delicious, gigantic lamb
sausage grilled over the outdoor spit.
After a few hours of sleep, we were expected at Dimitris'
house for the Sunday afternoon grand celebration of arni,
or lamb on the spit. In the corner of his yard, Dimitris set
up two stones to secure iron braces that bordered a makeshift
pyre of charcoal, pruned olive branches and grape vines. The
lamb is skewered with what resembles an old sword, the ancient
tradition of spit-style cooking for nomadic shepherds or freedom
fighters. No fancy machinery is required.
Dimitris' pyre-post consisted of two beer crates - one to
sit on and another to hold his food and wine while he slowly
turned the spit. Estimated cooking time was six hours. We
sat a comfortable distance away from the fire, eating meze
and drinking homemade wine. Dimitris bravely broke off bits
of crispy-hot layers of arni and passed them around.
Dimitris' wife, Maria, is an expert in vegetable preparation,
using a single sharp paring knife and two bowls. She skillfully
whipped through a kilo of potatoes in less than five minutes
and placed them into a pan of smoldering green olive oil.
No cutting boards or food processors in sight.
While the men were outside, deeply involved in the traditional
symposium of whether the lamb was done or not, Maria removed
her hortapita, the wild greens version of spinach pie,
and galatoboreko, a farina-based rich custard layered
between phyllo, from the oven. The first time I indulged on
Maria's hortapita, I asked her where she got the scrumptious,
thick phyllo dough. She went into the kitchen and returned
with a rolling pin and waved it over my head. To make enough
phyllo for one pita is hard labor, rolling dozens of tough,
small rounds of dough into
thin sheets.
Finishing touches to our feast were two bowls filled with
gorgeous tomatoes, cucumbers, spring onions and wild oregano,
along with randomly placed chunks of feta and mizithra cheese.
Bread and breadcrumbs were already everywhere. Plastic soda
bottles containing homemade wine - Greek recycling at its
best - were placed on each corner of the table.
After warning the crowd to step aside, Dimitris and his son
Makis, carefully picked up the molten skewer holding the lamb
and propped it upright against the wall. There was some discussion
as to how to proceed, as Makis is now a chef at one of the
big resort hotels, and Dimitris has just been doing this all
of his life. Eventually, they carved the lamb as they always
have.
Dining the Greek way is at least a three-hour experience,
and during holidays or festivals it could last for several
days. The grandchildren were finished with their feast and
begging to turn off our beautiful regional Pascha music, so
that they could watch cartoons. It was a typical day in the
life of my friends who juggle tradition and tolerate modern.
Round midnight, filled with food, wine, life and love, we
made our way home. The difference between Pascha in Greece
and Easter in America? The opportunity to shop for organic
lamb, eat Maria's homemade phyllo and pretend to enjoy the
fireworks. |
Travel Writers: Pascha in Crete by Nikki
Rose 
