I'll get in out in the open, once and for all. I'm Greek. Well, half Greek-American. Tex-a-Greek, as my sister dubbed it. My mom is from Texas, my dad's family is from Greece, but he was born in the mining town of Price, Utah.
The movie "My Big, Fat Greek Wedding" was a frighteningly accurate portrayal of a Greek woman's life. I laughed so hard I cried in that movie, feeling as though it had come to light that many other Greek women out there grew up exactly as I did, and are going on to lead normal, successful lives.
The actor who played the father in the movie looks eerily like my own, though my father's obsession was Comet cleanser, not Windex. He would concoct potions with the stuff, combining it with bleach and other noxious cleaning fluids, and proceed to clean everything from toilets to the dog. It wasn't really a wonder as to why our vet bills were so high.
Thankfully, the dog survived, and so did my father, though on many occasions he probably shouldn't have. He proudly proclaims of his many remodeling projects, "If you don't bleed, you didn't do a good job."
Yes, we played the word game in the car, and we had tacky statues in various places throughout the house. I think we would have had the Greek flag painted on our garage door had my mother not drawn the line. He settled for a personalized license plate that proclaimed his Greek-ness.
Yes, I have a number of relatives that go by the name "Nick". And yes, many of those threatened my new husband with death at our wedding reception.
My father raised his daughters, just as in the movie, to "make babies and feed everyone." Lamb is a staple, and eating will cure anything. Food remains a big deal, and I fortunately married into a German family that takes its food almost as seriously.
A phone call from my dad one day detailed a package that would soon be arriving from Crete. You see, according to a Greek, "There are two kinds of people in the world; those from Greece and those who wish they were." And to trump the idea, those from Crete find themselves superior to mainland Greeks. To no avail, I attempted to tell my dad that "cretin" is NOT a compliment in the English dictionary.
My much extended Greek side of the family, many of whom still reside in Crete, were sending over a bottle of olive oil from their 300 year old olive tree groves. I was a little fearful at first, but figured it would be a nice conversation piece as my God-parents' family name, Pappas, is right there on the bottle's gold, blue and white label.
We finally opened the dark blue glass bottle and conducted a taste test before springing it on visiting friends. The dark glass, it was explained, protects the oil from breaking down due to exposure to light.
I couldn't find words to describe the difference between it and what passes as pure olive oil in the stores. This was the real deal. It was silky, smooth, and buttery. Delicate. No bite-you-back aftertastes. We found ourselves in one of those gastronomic moments that makes you realize how deprived you were.
In comparison, the store-bought brands were bitter, harsh, and over-powering, and lingered on the palate. The goal of an oil is to enhance the taste of foods, not detract from them with its own flavor.
The friends who came declared it tasted similar to the oils they had when vacationing in Italy. I let that slide, not mentioning that you NEVER compare Greeks and Italians.
Do your own taste taste and order some to be shipped directly to your door at www.PappasOliveOil.com
Seeing as olive oil pretty much runs in my veins, I'm ordering a case of the good stuff.