My name is Irene. That’s a photo of me and my sweet husband. We were married recently in a beautiful ceremony in a small fishing village in southern Greece where my dad grew up. Now, back in the US, after the past eight years I’ve lived in Washington DC, we’re moving to a smaller town, and a slower pace of life. In my boxes I’ll pack a stack of memories – the hopes of an undergrad moving to a big city, disappointments that followed, richness in friendships and family that help along the path, and the exploration of which things matter really.
That brings me to this — I like to write, and I like to cook. They’re a constant in the defining moments of life. After a long day of work in Washington DC, at my apartment, missing my family, I’d kick off the high heels, tie an apron over the black pencil skirt and make the dishes my mom made us. Somewhere between the rhythmic chopping of onions on the edge grain wood cutting board, the press of a garlic clove over a skillet hot with olive oil, and the sprinkle of oregano my mother sent from the oregano bush her neighbor in the Greek village dried and crushed – perhaps somewhere between the motions and scents, I would find myself again.
When it wasn’t in the cooking, it was in the sharing — during a difficult time, my roommate and I decided we would use our joint anxiety about life for good – so we threw parties. I can’t count the times since that year friends reminisce so fondly of those dinner parties — the food we shared, the fascinating conversation, the stream of new friends and new stories. When I hear a friend reminisce, I silently thank God for making something beautiful from a time when I felt lost.
I found comfort in hearing the stories of others lives, and in sharing my own. In a way, it was the preparing of a dish and the sharing a meal that set the table for conversation, for sharing life really.
So, this is a space to share recipe and story.
Thank you for stopping by, my hope is that the recipes nourish your body as the stories nourish your spirit.