Going back to school for my accounting degree would be good for my five-year-old daughter in the long run, but for now it kept me from spending time with her.
So in the free minutes I did have I made sure Georgia came first. We played “Lion King,” her favorite game, with a play set of figurines from the movie. Timon, the funny meerkat, was her favorite.
One Saturday afternoon I studied in the yard while Georgia shuffled through the fall leaves with her figurines. The darkness snuck up on us.
“Mommy,” Georgia said, “Timon is missing!”
We tore through the leaves, but Timon was hopelessly lost. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” I told a very sad Georgia when I tucked her into bed. If I can find the time after school, I thought.
I felt a stab of guilt. I knew how much Timon meant to Georgia. What kind of mom was I if I couldn’t put her problem first?
The next day I rushed home after school and dove right into those leaves. The light was fading fast. Lord, I need angels to help me sweep away this covering!
I’d let accounting class come before my daughter. I turned back toward the house. A perfectly circular clearing in the leaves made me take a surprised step back. Sitting in the middle was Timon.
Thanks to a helpful angel, Georgia would always know that no matter what was going on in my life, she was first in my heart.
Second thoughts filled my head as I approached the back door of my mother-in-law’s house one December morning.
Mary and I had never gotten along. When my husband, Manuel, introduced us, his mother had taken one look at me and pronounced, “She is not good Greek girl.”
She was right, to a point. I wasn’t Greek. But I loved Manuel and I wasn’t going away. It was easier when he was in the Navy. The two of us lived in San Diego. But then we moved back home to Indiana. The time away didn’t seem to do anything to improve his mother’s opinion of me.
“She looks at me and sees what she wants to see,” I’d told Manuel the night before. “She’ll never understand me.”
“She’ll come around after a day of baking,” he said. “By this time tomorrow you’ll be great friends.”
I can’t do this, I thought. Before I could creep away the back door opened. “Late, late, late,” Mary said, shaking her finger. “Bread has already risen once.”
She bustled inside to the kitchen counter, where loaves of Greek Christmas bread were scattered on the spotless counter tops. I had to follow.
“Glad you’re here, Chris!” said my sister-in-law, Bobbie, punching out a slab of bread dough. “We can use more hands. You can’t have too many pastries, cookies and baklava at Christmas, right, Ma?”
“Never enough, of course,” said Mary. I could hear the affection in her voice when she answered. Bobbie was no more Greek than I was, but she’d never had my troubles getting along with Mary. She even felt comfortable enough with her to call her “Ma,” something I’d never been able to bring myself to do. It just seemed wrong.
Mary opened a new bag of flour. Puffs of white powder flew into the air like tiny angels. I could use some angels to get through this baking lesson, I thought. Would I ever learn half the recipes Mary thought a good Greek wife should know?
“Why are you still wearing coat?” Mary said. “Hang up in closet. We make pastries, cookies. Take all day. No standing around.”
My cheeks burned all the way to the hallway closet. Why am I here? I thought. I’ll never learn everything she thinks I ought to know. Bobbie followed me to the closet. “Chris, Ma’s just old fashioned. Traditional,” she said.
“Tradition. I know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s all she thinks about.”
“It’s important to her,” said Bobbie. “Did you know when Ma came over from Kalymnos her father had already picked out her husband? That was tradition back then!”
“Manuel never told me his parents had an arranged marriage,” I said. I’d read about arranged marriages, but couldn’t imagine meeting anyone who’d ever had one. It seemed like something out of a movie. No wonder Mary was so surprised when Manuel brought me home. No wonder she couldn’t understand what it was like to feel like an outsider.
“The arrangement fell through,” said Bobbie. “So there Ma was in a new country, searching for a husband. She had to meet a lot of suitors before her father agreed to let her marry one. Just imagine how hard that must have been.”
I thought about the fun Manuel and I had when we were dating. Then I imagined a young girl conducting a courtship in front of her whole family. I would never have made it through that, I thought. But then I remembered this was Mary we were talking about. Mary wasn’t intimidated by anything different or strange. New life? New country? No doubt she pounded those into shape as efficiently as her bread dough.
“If you’ll just give Ma a chance…” said Bobbie. “She’s not so bad.”
“I did give her a chance,” I said. “She rejected me first. Mary can’t stand me. She never will.”
“At least call her Ma like everyone else,” said Bobbie. “That would be a good start. You’re family.”
Mary poked her head out into the hallway. “Come along now,” she ordered. “Time for talking later.”
I let Bobbie lead me back into the kitchen, filled with the aromas of yeast and Greek spices. “Mary, could I do something to help?” I said. Over Mary’s shoulder Bobbie mouthed, “Ma!” I ignored her.
“This recipe too difficult for a beginner,” Mary said. “Maybe we try easier bread recipe for you.”
I’ll never be good enough! I thought. Mary would never understand how hard it was for me to even come here today. For her this was easy. She could never see how impossible it all seemed to me.
As if she knew what I was thinking, Mary laid a warm hand on my shoulder. “It is hard, I know,” she said. “New family, new traditions. Much baking to learn.”
I was so surprised I couldn’t speak. Mary didn’t understand any of these things…did she?
“We start out with good recipe, but much simpler for you,” she said. “Good for learning. Okay, huh?”
A special recipe for a beginner like me? Maybe my mother-in-law did understand what it was like. And maybe Mary wasn’t the only one who saw what she wanted to see. “This simpler recipe,” I said. “Is it as good as everything you bake…Ma?”
Ma’s face split into a wide grin. “And when I am done teaching you, dear Chris, you too will be wonderful cook. Just like me.”
Over Ma’s shoulder, Bobbie giggled. I rolled up my sleeves and poured flour into the mixing bowl. A cloud of powdery angels rose into the air. With their help I had no doubt I would be making good bread—and a good friend—in no time.
Watch Greek teens teach breadmaking and try a Greek bread recipe yourself!
