“Okay,” I said.
I continued to smile and paid him for whatever it was I had chosen, hoping it wasn’t hemorrhoid medication or something to relieve some godawful thing like herpes. I didn’t need that bit to get back to Nicholas and by suppertime to Kiki. The thought of it put me in a lighthearted mood. Wouldn’t that be nice?
I got home, unpacked everything, and turned the oven on to preheat, doing the conversion from Celsius to Fahrenheit with the help of Google. What did we do before Google? I said to the room, and adjusted the dial to 176 degrees. Then I opened up the Epicurious Web site and entered upside down cake in the search bar. And right away I found a recipe for clementine upside down cake.
I got to work. There was only a hand mixer to help me cream the butter and sugar, but it worked just fine. Pretty soon I was pouring the batter over the sliced clementines and a bed of caramelized brown sugar and butter. In half an hour, my grandmother’s darling little house smelled like the citrus department in heaven.
I checked my e-mail. There was something from Carl.
Eliza, you had nothing to do with me moving out of the house. It’s Eve. She is so unbelievably self-centered and desperate for attention she did what she did and still doesn’t think she did anything wrong. Pathetic. Sad. Any word from Adam? Carl
I answered him right away, although it was something like four in the morning in Raleigh.
Carl, not one single word. Do you think they are together? Eliza
He would not be able to answer me for several hours. And I knew it was a sign of weakness to ask the question, but I wanted to know the truth. Carl would not lie to me. Unlike my husband, who massaged the truth, but only when he needed to. That he ever uttered those words in the first place was without question the stupidest thing ever said by a man to his wife in all of recorded history. I should’ve given him a trophy.
I checked the cake by touching the top. It felt firm. There were no toothpicks, so I broke a straw from the broom and dipped it into the center of the cake. It came out clean. I took it from the oven and put it on the cutting board to cool. After I put the cream all over my body, I dressed for the picnic, put the rest of the groceries away, and washed up the dishes. I hung the straw shopping bags on a hook by the door and thought that hook was probably there just for that reason. I’d bring one of the bags with me to gather herbs. Then I ran a knife around the edge of the cast-iron skillet and flipped the cake onto a large plate. It was beautiful, if I said so myself. In fact, I’d probably made fifty of that exact cake and they never turned out this well. It had to be the oven.
Kiki and Aunt Anna arrived promptly at eleven. I’d always thought Europeans were perpetually late. I sure was wrong about that. I took the cake wrapped in foil with a knife and a handful of paper napkins and dropped it in one of my new bags, thinking how versatile it was.
We all said hello and kissed cheeks, then Kiki took my bag and put it in the back of her car with the rest of the picnic, and off we went into the countryside to gather horta.
We drove in the direction of Arillas, a seaside town an hour and a half northwest of Dassia. We passed under many canopies of pines and countless olive groves, through a half dozen tranquil and charming villages, before we descended down to our destination. I wanted to stop every ten minutes and just have a look to try and sear the landscape into my memory. But Kiki and Aunt Anna said, “Wait, wait. Wait until you see.” And of course, they were right. Arillas was breathtaking.
“Gorgeous!” I said, thinking there must be a thousand shades of green and blue out there and the sandy beach was so white. Soon my phone was filled with photos.
“Isn’t it something?” Kiki said.
“Yes, it really is unbelievably beautiful.”
We drove along the top of a cliff and parked there, where we could enjoy the panoramic views of the whole coastline. And there were picnic tables there in a grassy area for people just like us. We got out and Aunt Anna swept her arm across the whole sight before us, urging me to take it all in. I took a lot more pictures with my phone.
We began to unpack lunch. There was a warm breeze, despite the time of year, and we were quite comfortable to eat outside.
“So, Kiki? Is any of the furniture in Yiayia’s house hers?”
“Eliza, you are sleeping in the bed where your mother was born, but of course it has a new mattress!” Kiki said and interpreted my question and her answer for Aunt Anna, who had a good laugh.
I unwrapped my clementine cake and my aunt gasped and said something in Greek that seemed to be complimentary.
“Thank you!” I said.
“It’s gorgeous!” Kiki said. “Where did you buy it?”
“Honey, I didn’t buy it. I made it!”
“In that kitchen? With Yiayia’s old oven? You’ve got to be joking!”
Aunt Anna had already cut a wedge and was eating it with her fingers. And even though she was moaning with delight and she had a mouthful, she muttered something in Greek.
“Don’t pick on that oven. I think it’s got a little magic in it. What did she just say?”
“She said, life’s short, eat dessert first!” Kiki said. “Maybe she’s right.” Kiki leaned over, cut herself a big wedge, and took a bite. “Omagawd!”
“Good, right?”
Eat dessert first. It was on Tshirts, cocktail napkins, greeting cards, painted on driftwood in every gift store in America for the last twenty years. And the saying had finally made its way to Greece. Maybe it started in Greece. Who knew? It didn’t matter if it was old or cliché, there was a lot of truth in it. I cut myself a piece of cake and joined them.
“Yes, ma’am! You could be a professional pastry chef!” Kiki said.
“I really love to cook and bake. Hey, do you think your friend Alexandros might let me in his kitchen before I go home, you know, to cook alongside him? I’m still dreaming about that meal.”
“Are you kidding? I think that if you made him a cake like this he’d give you the keys to the place. I’m not joking, Eliza. This cake is that good.”
We ate cake and leftover chicken cooked with lemons and creamy moussaka and picked on some marinated olives. There wasn’t a salad in sight, I thought. I’m going to gain a hundred pounds.
After lunch, we repacked the car with our leftovers and locked it up. It was time to pick horta.
“You’re going to have to show me what’s edible. I’ll probably pick out bad mushrooms and poison ivy!” I said.
“No worries,” Kiki said. “I’ll show you.”
We walked deep into the woods. The air smelled sweet, and it was a lot cooler under all the trees. For the next hour, we picked Neapolitan garlic, wild asparagus, wild mustard, and chicory. Soon, our bags were stuffed with greens. But with all the bending down and getting up I was feeling awfully tired. Exhausted, in fact.