海角大神

鈥淭wo handfuls of flour,鈥� my sister-in-law translated, as an older Greek woman deposited a heap of white powder onto the kitchen table. 鈥淎 pinch of salt, about one thumb of olive oil,鈥� Dina, the Greek woman, explained, pointing to the middle of her thumb joint. I frantically scribbled the vague instructions in my notebook.

For more than 20 years, my husband and I have made regular visits to my father-in-law鈥檚 home in Corfu, an island off Greece鈥檚 northwestern coast.

As a redheaded Midwesterner, I鈥檝e learned many lessons here: that reapplying sunscreen every two hours is important, that schedules in Greece are more like suggestions, and that meals with family last a minimum of two hours.

Early in our relationship, my husband and I bonded over food, sealing our romance with an agreement to eat our way around the world together. While visiting his parents on Corfu each summer, we toured the island, dining at favorite tavernas and hunting for new treats.

One of our favorite bakeries in Corfu offers phyllo pies served hot out of the oven. Soft feta cheese, steaming spinach, or creamy custard fills layers of paper-thin, flaky pastry. A doorway into the kitchen offers a glimpse of the woman who expertly creates the pastry from scratch.聽

Inspired by that woman, one summer, I vowed to master the art of making phyllo. My father-in-law enlisted the help of an old friend. Dina grew up in Epirus, a region renowned for its rich tradition in phyllo-making.

Dina learned how to make phyllo from her grandmother. After Dina鈥檚 mother passed away at a young age, she became responsible for feeding her many younger siblings.

The evening that Dina was scheduled to visit, she arrived late, just as we were sitting down for dinner. I assumed that the phyllo lesson had been forgotten and tried to hide my disappointment.

Around midnight, after hours of food, drink, and laughter, Dina asked, to my surprise, 鈥淒oesn鈥檛 the American want to learn how to make phyllo?鈥� Yes!

Linda Bleck

The women followed her into the dimly lit kitchen and surrounded a small table. Dina produced a wooden dowel about half an inch in diameter, which my sister-in-law explained is the best tool for rolling out thin sheets of phyllo.

With an ease earned from expertise, Dina mixed, kneaded, rolled, flipped, and explained how the dough should feel. She held the sheet of pastry to the light declaring that when it is thin enough, you can read the newspaper through the dough.

At the end of the lesson, Dina turned to me and held out her seasoned wooden dowel. A hush fell over the women as my sister-in-law explained that she was giving it to me.

A few days later when we arrived at the airport, I clutched my heirloom with plans to carry it on all three flights back home to Chicago. A security worker quickly confiscated the wooden dowel and urged me through the metal detector.

My father-in-law put up a good fight, gesticulating with a deep frown as I walked through security. When I turned back, he held the dowel up and with an apologetic shrug yelled, 鈥淗e says he is sorry. He knows that these make the best phyllo pies!鈥�

Back home, I continued to work on perfecting homemade phyllo. When I meet Greek women, I casually mention that I鈥檝e made phyllo from scratch, which elicits a raised eyebrow and a tilt of the head 鈥� a small gesture of honor and approval. I even bought a wooden dowel from the craft store to roll the dough. It stands in the corner of the kitchen, a quiet reminder of the greater lessons inspired by that late night.

In the years since, I鈥檝e learned to knead dough and watch sauces with intuition, judging their readiness by look and consistency. I can smell when something is done, and season without measuring tools.

What has stayed with me most is not a recipe, but the feeling of cooking something meaningful. While I rarely make homemade phyllo anymore, that midnight lesson serves me daily as I taste my way through life.