The New Mrs D (6 page)

Chapter Seven

Cooking chilli today. Not the country.

A
t exactly ten to ten on day two of The New Bernice Plan the following morning, tongue in cheek, Facebook update posted, I arrived twenty minutes late to the glorious outdoor kitchen of Taverna Antipodes in the village square for the next item on the tour group itinerary: a Greek cookery lesson.

Our instructor for the day was Michaela, a tall, slender, flame-haired young woman who continued with her talk as I hustled in. The rest of the group had already arrived and I spied Linda, who beckoned me to stand beside her. Edging past Ginger and Edvard, I nodded a ‘Hi’ to which I received a curt ‘Hello’ from Ginger – who had a definite flush to her cheeks on seeing me; similar to the one Chris had had when I’d made my excuses to go back down to my apartment the previous evening, following her departure. If she’d really gone to the villa alone just to collect a print from him, I’d eat my oversized, floppy, pink sun hat. I’d always thought of Chris as a complete gentleman. If my suspicions were right, this new life in Greece not only suited him, it had changed him.

As I made my way to the space beside Linda, a familiar ‘How’re ye doing lassie?’ at my ear and a pinch of my waist told me Hughie had followed behind me.

‘Greek food is a fusion of cultural influences,’ Michaela was explaining. ‘Tzatziki, for instance, is from the Turkish cacik.’

‘And isn’t hummus an Arabic word?’ Linda asked.

‘It is indeed. I’m sorry, what is your name?’ Michaela said.

‘Linda.’

‘Well, Linda – nice to meet you – it is widely assumed that hummus is of Greek origin. However, it is a Middle Eastern dish. It is only because of its regular inclusion in the menus of many restaurants throughout Greece that hummus is considered to be Greek.’

‘So ye willnae be teaching us tae make that the day then?’ Greta piped up.

‘No,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Our first course of the day will be
saganaki
.’

‘Great,’ Hughie whispered, so that only Linda, Greta and I could hear. ‘Cos me an’ Greta are saggy
and
knackered.’

‘You speak for yersel’,’ Greta chided.

When it was time to go to our places and make the
saganaki
, which I discovered to my disgust was an oily, deep fried cheese, I found a place beside Linda. Being a bit of a short-arse, I found the table-top hob out of my reach on the far edge of the bench and my chuntering complaint to Linda brought Michaela across to slide the hob - which wasn’t actually
attached
to anything - nearer to me. Linda chuckled and shook her head.

‘You make me look so great at everything, Binnie. Can you stand by me for every class?’

‘Oh, you sound just like my mother. Now, let me see. Will this particular piece of deep fried cheese be going to my muffin top or up here?’ I held up my spoon-wielding arm and flicked my wrist a couple of times to wave a bingo wing.

Linda laughed. ‘You are one crazy lady,’ she said.

Half an hour later we were all sitting at our tables eating fried cheese and salad for breakfast; not the most obvious choice for the first meal of the day but, after a sniff, I had a little taste and then wolfed it down. I liked it, in fact – it was wonderful – an oily, moist, splendiferous pleasure. We even broke some bread to scoop up the excess olive oil as Michaela brought out two enormous bottles of wine and began pouring glasses for everyone. Wine, here, was also for breakfast. I liked Michaela too.

‘
Yammas
!’ she said, handing me a glass.

Recalling the state I had been in the morning before, I wondered if I should give my poor, bursting-at-the-seams body a break. It was then that I spied Hughie licking olive oil from his lips and grinning at me.

‘Thanks,’ I said, clasping the huge glass of wine to my bosom, as if the opaque wine could hide it from him.

‘One for you too, Linda?’

‘For breakfast? Yes missy!’ she replied, throwing one end of her gorgeous pink silk scarf over her shoulder and grabbing a glass.

As we ate, Linda explained she’d come to the island, not only for a holiday, but to meet her girlfriend.

‘Eydis travels the world with a troupe of gay dancers,’ she explained. ‘She’s bringing them here for a show at the Mehrocca Lounge.’

‘Well, that’s lovely,’ I said. ‘So, when you say you came to meet her . . . ?’

‘We’ve never met before. I got to know her online, in a lesbian chat room. Modern, eh?’

‘Seriously?’ I said. ‘That must be difficult.’

She laughed. ‘Yep, real, real hard. I decided it was time to make a move, find out what a proper relationship would be like. Darlin’, I’ve lived on ma own for forty seven years.’

I couldn’t comprehend being alone for forty seven days, never mind forty seven years.

As we sat watching the sea, she pointed to a young Greek lad, leaning against a tree and staring in our direction. Shining wet from a recent swim, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, he had the most beautiful body, wavy black shoulder-length hair and was a magnificent shade of sun-kissed bronze. Seeing me gawping – ‘Close your mouth, darlin’,’ Linda told me – he nodded in my direction.

‘Who’s he nodding at?’ I asked, spinning round and finding no-one else there. My face burned red.

‘You,’ said Linda.

‘No, he couldn’t be looking at me,’ I laughed, tugging the hem of my vest top down over my belly,. ‘I’m at least twice his age.’

Linda shook her head at me. ‘Hell, woman, enjoy it. Why would you think he wasn’t looking at you?’

Before I could reply, Ginger appeared beside us. She waved to the young man, who waved back at her, and said, ‘That’s Argos, our tour guide for the volcano walk this week. Lovely, isn’t he?’

I looked back to find him still staring and smiling my way. Perhaps I looked younger from a distance?

‘Some people seem to think so,’ said Linda, nudging me.

‘How do you know he’s our guide?’ I asked, tearing my eyes away from him at last.

‘He also does the parascending sessions. Edvard and I met him last week. So, you’re staying with the painter now?’ Ginger had added the question almost too sharply.

‘You are?’ Linda said, looking surprised.

‘Yes,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘In the apartment below his villa. Though, not
with
him. He’s an old and very dear friend.’

I turned again to look for Argos but he had disappeared. I felt oddly disappointed.

Ginger continued her line of questioning. ‘Just a friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see,’ she said, smiling as if satisfied. ‘How nice for you.’

‘Yes it is,’ I agreed. ‘He’s a very good man.’

‘Very good of him to let you stay,’ Linda added.

‘Indeed,’ Ginger replied.

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence until Michaela cleared her throat loudly and I spied Edvard beckoning Ginger back to their table. I pointed to him so that she could see.

‘Oh well, it looks like the teacher is preparing for our second lesson,’ she said. ‘See you later.’

As she hurried back to her seat, Michaela stood up.

‘The main dish we are going to make this afternoon is baked fish in a salt crust,’ she said. ‘It is a tender and very beautiful meal. You will feel you are eating at the table of the Gods of Olympus.’

‘Not if you don’t like fish,’ I said.

‘You have tasted every fish in the ocean?’ she asked, with a kind smile.

‘No, I guess not, unless they’re all fish fingers,’ I replied.

Seeing Ginger whispering to Edvard, I pulled myself upright. If they were talking in Swedish about how dippy she thought I was, sitting up straight would let her know I was on to her. Look at me; I’m a normal, non-slouchy, intelligent person.
I know fish fingers can’t swim.

‘I hope, in this short afternoon, I can help you find the joy not just in cooking but in
really
tasting,’ Michaela continued. ‘This island has a sumptuous variety of foods to offer. One of the best is the fish, fresh from the ocean.’

Some staff from the kitchen began clearing away our plates before bringing out trays of fish. I tried not to meet the glassy, unseeing eye of my own unfortunate dinner-to-be as it was placed in front of me. It was the biggest fish I’d ever seen on a plate.

‘Am I just feeding myself or the whole island?’

Michaela laughed. ‘The kitchen staff enjoy helping with the leftovers. Nothing will be wasted. Now,’ she continued. ‘The purpose of today is for you to explore the flavours of Greece and learn some traditional cooking skills. All the better if you can experiment a little, doing as the Greeks do − cooking with
meraki
.’

‘Mer whattie?’ asked Linda.

‘That word again!’ I said. ‘Mita used it at the painting class.’

‘
Meraki
,’ Michaela explained, ‘is a word Greeks use for, say, creating a piece of art or cooking a dish, and really loving what you do. If you are putting all your effort, creativity and love into it – a bit of yourself – you are doing it with
meraki
.’

‘What a wonderful word,’ Linda sighed.

‘I like it, so romantic,’ I said.

‘Which bit of yersels do we hae to put in the fish?’ Hughie piped up.

My mind boggled. I really didn’t want it to . . . the pictures I was getting were terrible.

Michaela shook her head and laughed. She seemed so patient and lovely, with a wonderful warm sense of humour. I imagined she did everything with meraki. As she showed us how to prepare the fish, whilst explaining the many kinds that were available and even sharing tales about the toils of Greek fishermen, I marvelled at the obvious love she had for her work and wished that I had that too. It was quite beautiful to watch.

‘So, the salt insulates the food, cooking it gently and evenly,’ she said, putting the final touches to her fish. ‘When it comes out of the oven, we will simply crack open the hardened salt shell to unearth a moist, evenly-cooked and fragrant dish. And there you have it. A very easy and delicious meal.’

Clapping her hands, she invited us to start. I began by prodding the belly of my fish and was rewarded with a sickly squelch.

‘Yeuck!’

Something told me I
wasn’t
so beautiful to watch at work.

‘What are you doing, Binnie?’ Linda asked.

‘I’m checking to see if Ishmael’s leg is in there.’

‘Eh?’

‘This has got to be
the
Moby Dick,’ I answered.

Hearing his favourite four-letter word, Hughie began, ‘Do you want to . . .’

‘NO!’ Greta, Linda and I all shouted together.

‘The salt is over there,’ Michaela called over, pointing to a shelf of labelled white tubs behind us. ‘Please help yourselves.’

Leaning over to Linda at the next bench to mine, I whispered, ‘It’s looking at me!’

‘Who is?’ she asked without looking up.

‘The fish! I can’t cut it open and stick things in its belly while it’s watching me.’

Linda, who had already begun wiping down her fish, looked up at me with smiling eyes.
‘Moby Dick seeks thee not. It is thou, thou, that madly seekest him!’
she said. ‘But if it makes you feel better, just put a sprig of parsley over its eyes.’

I went across to the basket of herbs, picking up and sniffing everything I could find. Although experimental cooking had never been my thing, experimental eating was. I chewed on a couple of leaves and pulled a face. They smelled
far
better than they tasted. By the time I’d tested several green things the rest of the group were back at their stations and I found there were no salt pots left.

‘Erm, excuse me Michaela?’ I called. ‘There’s no salt left.’

Michaela looked up from helping Greta cut her fish’s belly open. ‘Oh, they must have miscounted,’ She said. ‘Georgio!’

When no-one came out of the kitchen, she turned back to me. ‘Oh dear,’ she sighed. ‘No-one can hear me.’

‘It’s okay,’ I told her. ‘I’ll go get some myself. What shall I ask for?’

‘
Alati
,’ she replied, looking relieved.

As I walked across to the kitchen, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Sal.

Hey, Mum. Hope you’re having a great time. Just want to let you know I passed my audition for the band! Woohoo!

I grinned from ear to ear. At Sal’s age, my instrument was my voice. For her, it was her beloved guitar. Feeling as pleased as I knew she would be, I texted her back:

That is fantastic news! Well done you! Love you too, too much. Will call you later XXX

Her reply was almost immediate.

Don’t be silly, it’s your honeymoon! Enjoy! I just had to tell you right away. Plenty of time to speak when you get home. Love you too XXX

Feeling a strange longing to call, mixed with despair at not wanting to lie to her, I sighed. She was so happy. There was no way I wanted to spoil that right now by making her worry about me. Beth and Sal would be fine; both of them staunchly independent. They were so much stronger than me.

I pushed my phone back into the pocket of my shorts and trundled on into the kitchen, trying to remember what to ask for. What was salt in Greek again? Turning back to ask, I saw that Michaela was still busy helping Greta and so, deciding not to trouble her any further, I carried on further in for a look around. No-one appeared to be about, but there was an enormous pot of what looked like squid rings on the surface beside a gigantic bag of flour. Someone had been making calamari. Next to the flour was a white bowl like the ones outside, only it was empty. Next to it was a pot, which I picked up to examine. On the label there was Greek writing and a picture of a teaspoon in white powder. Bingo!

Feeling pleased with myself, I picked up the pot and returned to my herb-shrouded fish – all the while humming the theme tune to
MasterChef
. Let my cookery masterpiece begin. Glancing over at Linda slicing away her fish belly, I almost heaved. Okay, masterpiece it may be but I was
not
cutting open a fish’s stomach. If I had to go in, I was going in through the mouth . . . if it would just stop looking at me!