Unlike other Greek pastries, galaktoboureko is perishable, a delicate milk custard thickened with semolina and sandwiched between soggy-sweet phyllo. It comforts -- like lemon chess pie, cheesecake, tapioca or rice pudding. We loved the thick, generous rectangles of custard that were served by the ladies of Evangelismos of Theotokos, and the syrup-drenched phyllo that wrapped the servings we bought at the Annunciation festival. But best of all was the country version that came from the St. George Cathedral, baked with a chewy, thick dough that made it similar to a sweet kugel.
One Styrofoam carry-out container after another came home from the festivals and went into the fridge. We were specialists, evaluating quality, and unconcerned with quantity. Had we been less impressionistic, we might have learned that each 2x2-inch square of galaktoboureko represented at least 400 calories’ worth of research. The bathroom scale suggested that we abandon the project, and with some disappointment, we complied.
That anecdote is one of many that I’ll recall on this Mother’s Day, because it illustrates the nature of the relationship that I share with my adult daughter. In spite of the geographic distance that now separates us, we share enthusiasms and cheer each other on. We recommend good stuff to each other: British mystery series on public television, short stories in The New Yorker, skin care products, flatbread pizzas and clever gadgets. We enter into self-improvement pacts, create challenges and consider joint projects. Some of them, like 200 days of galaktoboureko, don’t work out. Others, like producing a piece for This American Life, await us – ideas glistening, sweet as pastries.
At twenty-nine years my junior, and with a love of long-distance running, I admit that most of the energy for these new projects is being initiated by my daughter. But there was a time when I tried to plant seeds of inquiry and imagination that might ignite her interest: sharing the story of Miss Rumphius, the lupine lady; encouraging her to document the streets of Tarpon Springs with her camera; investigating the origins of a mysterious statue found in the Alleghenies; experimenting with the pottery wheel; making up stories about a family of Klutzes.
I was thinking, she said, earlier this spring, that we might both enjoy a trip to Ireland this fall.
The Cliffs of Moher! I said. And within the hour, she’d sent me the link to Galway Tours.
I am going to research Irish deserts. Imagine, eight days of apple barley pudding.
