Regardless of the holiday or special occasion, the piece de resistance of my dinner is always the kreatopita, Greek meat and rice pie. It has become a traditional family recipe, which my children and friends have learned to make, as have my daughter’s Colombian in-laws who refer to it as Greek empanadas. As I stir the meat and rice mixture with my mother’s long wooden spoon, I rub the top of my head. The wooden spoon has become a magic wand to the past.  I am four years old. My mother and I are making my favorite dish, one I have christened kanapedakia or little sofas. To me, the end pieces in the rectangular pan of the meat and rice pie look like golden brown love seats. Even though I know the diamond- shaped pieces from the center are considered the choice pieces, they do not taste as good to me.

As I help with the preparation, I am filled with anticipation. Like a marionette propelled by invisible strings, I am leaping up and down, arms flailing, ready to jump out of my skin.  My mother is preparing the meat and rice filling, stirring it with her long wooden spoon. My mouth is watering from the aroma. The savory combination of onion, rice, salt, pepper, parsley, minced meat, and sharp grated cheese meld with the tantalizing smell of butter that is melting on another burner.  While the mixture is cooking, my mother rolls out the dough and places a sheet in the bottom of the rectangular white enamel pan.  My job is to brush the dough with melted butter.

My mother says,” Remember, don’t let the dough get dry, Zafiraki. Cover it with a damp towel, not too wet or the dough gets gummy.  Make the kreatopita like I do and you'll have a dish that a mother will eat and not give her child even a crumb."

I laugh because I know that my mother would give me the world and I continue jumping as I wait for her to fill the pan with the meat and rice. I know the mixture has to cool then be mixed with a beaten egg to make it sticky before it can be covered with more sheets of dough and baked.  I can’t wait for her to hand me the pot and spoon after she fills the pan. With no fear of salmonella in those days (was there none or didn't we know about it?), I can lick the pot and spoon clean. She will brush the top with beaten egg, sprinkle grated cheese on top, then do magic with her French knife, as she cuts vertically and diagonally to make the diamond-shaped pieces of the kreatopita.

My excitement escalates.  I cannot contain myself. I leap up and pinch my mother on her fleshy right buttock. Instinctively, with lightning speed, my mother wheels around and whacks me lightly on the head with the wooden spoon. My eyes water and I yell,” Ouch” but in the present, I just keep rubbing my head as I lovingly remember my mother. 

(Click here! and go to Zaphra's recipe for kreatopita!)

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