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I had never thought we were poor until one evening at dinner when Mama fixed fava, a thick split-pea porridge. Next to the pot of porridge, she placed a bowl of vrouves, fresh mustard greens that she had gathered from a neighboring field, just as she did as a young peasant girl in her native Crete. She had boiled the greens and sprinkled them with olive oil and lemon juice. I didn’t want the food. Soula turned to me with a smile and shrug: “What can we do? We’re poor.” Her words fell like a final judgment. That explained our life with its clean, threadbare spareness, the house Mama scrubbed and scoured that smelled of Roman Cleanser. You would know this food, these smells if you were poor. But I didn’t like Soula saying it. I didn’t like the slight smile at her mouth and the way she meant me to accept this fate as mine.
About the Author
Stelyani Sandris, the sixth child of Greek-immigrant parents, was born in Detroit. She wrote the stories and essays collected in Greek Soul throughout her life and hoped to complete a memoir of her family’s painful saga. That hope was never realized. She died of a brain tumor in November 2000. |
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Features
- Author: Stelyani Sandris
- Format: Paperback
- Published: June 2005
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