my little nephew

I woke up this morning a year older.  The big 3-1.  And as I stumbled out of my room to go to the kitchen for my morning ritual of a frappe (classic Greek ice coffee), I saw some letters at the door.  Two cards, one from my parents and another one from my little nephew.  It's the first time the little one has actually written himself in a birthday card to me.  The letters were those of a 7-year old.  Big.  Happy.  Excited letters.  It was very surreal.  I still think of him as a baby, not a little man.  But he's growing up.  Just like his uncle.  Just like all of us.  

I haven't stopped grinning, since that card literally made my year.  

And perhaps that's why I am consumed by Greek cuisine.  Because my grandmothers were obsessed with it. And so are my parents.  And maybe my nephew will learn a thing or two about the way his great-grandmother used to make roasted chicken back in the village. Food is that link that inevitably connects us from one generation to the next.  

(By the way, the Degaitas yogurt recipe indeed produced a full pot of yogurt and it's in the fridge right now for a few hours before I will strain it with a cheese cloth.  And more to come on my excursion to a local Oxford allotment yesterday, the fresh produce that I garnered from there, and the beets and garlic-almond purée (σκορδαλιά και μπάμιες) recipe I came up with last night for dinner.)