Australia, the promised land. The place where dreams come true. My mother and father were two people among the many thousands that migrated to this country with a dream for a better life. They arrived with only a suitcase, no money and no language skills, leaving behind their families and a country that was poverty-stricken and devoid of any opportunities for growth and development. Both my parents are from an area called Thessaly, considered to be the great plain of Greece. It is an important agricultural area, particularly for the production of grain, cattle and sheep. For as far as the eye can see, there are cotton, wheat and corn fields. It''s also renowned for its cheese production.
Many of Greece''s traditional dishes, especially pies--for example, Spanakopita and Prasopita (made with leeks and cheese)--contain cheese, thus placing Thessaly at the core of Greece''s pita (pie) culture. The capital of Thessaly is Larisa. Larisa has a Mediterranean climate, with hot summers and cold winters, and in the vicinity of Mount Olympus the winter is harsh. My mother''s village, called Karya, is located at the foothills of the south side of Mount Olympus. Despite being a small village it has a rich tradition, both mythological and folk (Mount Olympus is the mountain home of the Greek gods). My mother was the youngest of four girls, but without a doubt the most gutsy and determined. As a child, she trained to become a professional dressmaker, following in the footsteps of her father, who was a tailor. This is how her family made a living.
My mother, her eldest sister Katina, and my grandfather sewed while their other sister Effie did all the manual work, ploughing in the fields and so on. They were difficult years, as we were told over and over again. Poverty-stricken and affected by the First and Second World Wars and a civil war, they experienced the burning of homes in their village. My mother''s family home was destroyed by the Germans, which meant that, after the war, the girls had to carry one stone after another until the house was built again. Such strength, determination and, above all, courage. My father was the eldest of seven children. He left the Gonnous region of Thessaly, where his family lived, and arrived in Australian in 1955 on a ship called Tasmania, settling in Fitzroy to begin with. The following year, my mother, then only nineteen years of age, crossed the seas on the same ship; this was to be its last journey.
From 1953 until June 1956, over 33,000 Greek migrants arrived in Australia. A significant number of them were destined for Bonegilla, and my father was one of them. It is extraordinary to imagine that it was only sixty years ago that the Australian government established an agreement with the Greek government, opening a pathway for Greeks to migrate to the ''Lucky Country''. It was the 1952 ''Assisted Passage'' agreement that had the most impact, enabling Victoria to become the third-largest Greek state outside Athens and Thessaloniki. My parents were eventually introduced to each other and, in January 1956, married at the Evangelismo Greek Orthodox Church on Victoria Parade, East Melbourne. One of the dearest and yet saddest stories my mother has shared with me is how, despite her young age, she had to prepare the food for the wedding party, get dressed and then walk to Evangelismo all by herself. There was no one to help her, nurture her or escort her to the church. In the beginning, my parents shared houses with many different couples to save money.
It was in these houses and in the factories they worked in that the first exchanges of recipes from the homeland began. The foundations of traditional Greek cuisine as we know it in Australia had been formed. A year into their marriage, and with a new baby girl (namely me), my parents bought a house in Richmond. This house was to become home, and still is to this very day. This spiti (meaning ''home'') is where I grew up and where I learnt the importance of family, religion, traditions and, especially, Greek food. My mother was what is called a noikokira : a beautiful word derived from oikos (''home'') and kira (''lady'') that frames one''s existence in the family home and community. In my mother''s eyes, being a noikokira was the essence of being a woman. It meant that a woman''s primary responsibility was the wellbeing of her family, and at the cornerstone of that wellbeing was the nourishment of family and friends through beautiful food made with only the best ingredients and lots of love.
Our home was where everyone would meet, particularly on weekends. From a very young age, my mother and father exposed me to the importance of good-quality ingredients--fresh and seasonal. On Friday nights, my mum would take me shopping for food: first to the butchers, and then to the deli where she would buy her feta cheese, olive oil, cured meats, pulses and so on. At first, the only deli that existed was Pitsilidis on Lonsdale Street; it was an institution. Saturday mornings were spent at the Gleadell Street Market in Richmond, which still stands today. Once home, she and I (as her helping hand) would cook, knowing that we would have many visitors. These get-togethers celebrated name days, birthdays, religious occasions, weddings and christenings. Always present was my mum''s famous pita (in particular, Spanakopita).
Our guests would also bring plates of food, each one beautifully decorated, and before you knew it our big kitchen table would be filled with an abundance of dishes. During these gatherings, the guests would talk about work, the homeland and their children, and the women would swap ideas and recipes. Listening to them always fascinated and inspired me. I loved hearing all the stories that they exchanged, some good, some bad, and some sad. The sacrifices that they made were enormous. I particularly loved listening to the women meticulously describing their recipes. I am often astonished by my mother''s amazing knowledge of and ability to cook traditional Greek food. At nineteen she was married and at twenty a mother; she had no recipe books to follow.
How did she remember it all? Just like her mother had passed this knowledge on to her by involving her in the kitchen and bringing her along on market trips, she passed it on to me from a very young age. In my case, I have always been passionate about Greek cuisine, traditions and culture--not only because of its simplicity, but for the fact that it nourishes the soul. My problem was that, in this fast-paced life that we live, I never had enough time to perfect the skills that my mum wanted to pass on. In April 2009, everything suddenly changed. I was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. From a timing perspective, it was our Holy Week. Was this symbolic? I didn''t know. All I knew was that I was in deep shock.
I remember thinking that I had so much more that I wanted to do and so much that I hadn''t done yet. My mum would always beg me to practice making pita with her, but there was never enough time. After I came home from the surgery rooms, I wondered how I would tell my family about the cancer diagnosis. As I walked through the front door, I saw my mother dyeing our eggs red--a very important tradition during Holy Week. It was difficult to face her. In a strange way, I felt like I was letting her down. It was my responsibility, as a noikokira, to continue our traditions and pass them on to my sons and grandchildren, just as my mother had done with me. But would I survive to fulfil my role? Difficult days were ahead.
Surgery upon surgery, eighteen months of chemotherapy and six weeks of radiation on a daily basis. During this time, I lost my father, a remarkable man who instilled in me the value of education and of knowledge. I also lost my aunt Katina, my mum''s sister, whom I adored. She was like a mother to me. She had no children of her own, and from the day she arrived in Australia she nurtured and spoiled me in ways that only an aunty can. At the same time, the heroes that migrated to this country in the 1950s and 1960s were slowly ageing and passing away. Seeing the sea of grey hair at church on Sunday mornings or the death notices in Neos Kosmos (the Greek Australian newspaper) on Mondays and Thursdays, I felt a sense of urgency. I did not want their sacrifices to be in vain.
What defines us as a culture is our food, language and traditions. What sustains us is knowing that the legacy of our parents and grandparents will persist from one generation to another. To understand who we are, we must remember where we came from, how and why. Becoming aware of death and my own mortality forced me to be grateful for what I have--and my most beautiful memories are those created around the kitchen and dinner table. It also made me realise the importance of pursuing your dreams. It was only while being treated for cancer that I made cooking and offering Greek food to all my new mission. I dreamt of opening up a little shop that would serve the best of authentic Greek cuisine. My dream became a reality when my dear friend Kathy Demos introduced me to George Christopoulos, who had a similar vision and dream.
Sweet Greek at the Prahran Market was born. In June 2012, I took ownership of Sweet Greek and the journey began. This was not to be a store of chargrilled food, but rather food that we identify with home. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than customers coming into the store and commenting that the aroma of the Spanakopita in the oven reminds them of their mother''s or grandmother''s kitchen. When Mum came to Australia, she wanted a cookbook but unfortunately couldn''t afford it. When many of her relatives migrated to Australia during the sixties, her one wish was for them to bring a cookbook. She called this a Tselemendes. So when someone bought her a ne.