ATHENA
“Where do you keep the garlic press?” Mom’s voice calls out from across Ruby’s kitchen. She’s elbow-deep in preparations for moussaka.
“Just a moment,” I say, opening a drawer that I’m almost certain only contains silverware. I was right. “Let me check the next one.”
I’ve spent the entire afternoon playing a bizarre game of culinary hide-and-seek while trying to maintain the facade that this is actually my home.
Opening and closing cabinets I’d barely examined during the rushed move-in, desperately trying to locate cooking implements I’m not even sure Ruby owns.
“I don’t use it,” I admit, which is at least honest. I finally locate the garlic press in a drawer filled with miscellaneous kitchen gadgets—most of which look unused.
Mom sighs as I hand it to her. “This is exactly why I worry about you. Living on takeout and restaurant food.” She tests the press in her hand with a critical eye. “This hasn’t been used once, has it? Look, it’s still got the manufacturer’s sticker!”
“I eat very well, Mom,” I protest, leaning against the counter. “The Olympus has an excellent Greek restaurant. You’ve been there.”
She scoffs, wielding an eggplant like it’s evidence in a trial.
“Restaurant food! Full of butter and salt to mask inferior ingredients.” She begins slicing the eggplant with surgical precision.
“When your father and I were first married, I cooked for him every night, even though we had three cooks on staff.”
“Because you enjoyed it,” I remind her.
“Because I loved him,” she corrects, pointing the knife at me for emphasis. “And because I love you and your sister, I cook for you too. Someone has to make sure you eat properly.”
She sets down the knife and reaches for a wooden spoon to stir the simmering sauce. Without warning, she playfully swats my behind as I pass too close to her workspace.
“Mama!” I protest, jumping.
“You’re in my way,” she says with a mischievous smile that takes years off her face. She’s always done this—using wooden spoons or kitchen towels to playfully swat us when we’d sneak tastes before dinner or get underfoot while she cooked.
I wonder, not for the first time, if my particular proclivities in the bedroom might have their origins in these childhood kitchen dynamics. The thought nearly makes me laugh out loud.
“You’re too skinny,” she declares, looking me up and down with the critical eye only a Greek mother can possess. “What happened to your appetite? American food is ruining you. You’re going to become malnourished eating their processed garbage.”
I glance down at myself, amused. “I literally weigh exactly the same as I did when you saw me last Christmas.”
She waves this fact away as if measurements are merely opinions. “Your face is thinner. I can tell.”
The sound of another pair of heels announces my sister’s arrival before she appears.
Demetria sweeps into the kitchen like she’s making an entrance at a gala rather than joining us for dinner preparations.
She’s twelve years younger than me and dresses with the bohemian flair of someone trying very hard to look like a starving artist.
Today, it’s a flowing vintage maxi dress in vibrant peacock blues and greens, frayed at the edges, with dramatic side slits.
She’s adorned it with layered thrift-store necklaces made of wooden beads and semi-precious stones, and stacks of silver bangles.
Her dark hair—the same shade as mine—is twisted into an artfully messy updo.
Her makeup screams “I woke up like this” but definitely took an hour to perfect.
“Sorry, that was Julian again,” she announces, placing her phone on the counter. “He’s having a crisis about his gallery showing next month.”
“Why didn’t you just bring him?” I ask. “That’s the fifth call today.”
“He’s busy.” Demetria grins. “At least I have someone who calls me five times a day. When was the last time you had a date, workaholic?”
“Children,” Mom warns without looking up from her chopping. “Behave yourselves or neither of you gets dessert.”
Demetria laughs and kisses our Mom’s cheek, somehow managing to do so without getting in her way—a skill I’ve never mastered. “What are you making, Mama? It smells amazing.”
“Moussaka, galaktoboureko, and maybe horiatiki if your sister can tell me where she keeps her tomatoes.”
I gesture toward the refrigerator. “Bottom drawer.” Small victories. At least I know that one.
Demetria slides onto one of the kitchen stools, stealing a slice of cucumber from the cutting board despite Mom’s warning swat. “So, Athena, tell us what’s new in your life that isn’t work-related.”
“Well—” I begin, but Mom interrupts.
“Yes, tell us. Have you met someone yet? A nice man, perhaps?” Mom pauses in her preparation, fixing me with a hopeful stare.
“You’re not getting any younger, Athena.
Your biological clock is ticking.” She throws her hands up dramatically, a piece of eggplant flying from her knife.
"Though at forty, your eggs are probably as dry as the Sahara Desert.
I should have started lighting candles to Saint Anna years ago.
I suppress a sigh. I’ve had this conversation so many times. “I’m not dating and I’m certainly not getting married, Mom. I’m not interested in that life.”
“But you’re all alone,” she presses, her voice softening with genuine concern. “Aren’t you lonely in this big house by yourself?”
Demetria suddenly looks up and frowns. “Wait,” she says, glancing around the kitchen. “Where is that cat of yours? I haven’t seen him since we arrived.”
I freeze momentarily, then recover quickly, crafting a lie that’s close enough to the truth.
“Zeus actually prefers to live with my neighbor,” I say with a casual wave of my hand. “He’s been spending so much time over there that I finally just let him stay. He’s happier there.”
“Your neighbor?” Mom’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “And she’s okay with that? With taking care of your beast of a cat?”
“Yes,” I reply, relieved she’s accepting the explanation. “We’re friends. Ruby doesn’t mind at all.”
“Ruby? This is the first time you’ve mentioned having a friend close by.” Mom looks genuinely pleased, as if the existence of Ruby somehow proves I’m not the complete hermit she fears I’ve become.
“She’s really nice,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“And she takes care of your cat?” Demetria asks skeptically. “That’s a pretty big favor. Zeus isn’t exactly a goldfish.”
I shrug. “She likes him. He likes her. It works out.”
Mom wipes her hands on her apron. “Well, then you must invite her for dinner. I want to meet your friend, serve her a home-cooked meal.”
“That’s not necessary—” I begin, but Mom cuts me off.
“No, no. I insist.” She gestures at the extensive spread of ingredients covering Ruby’s counter. “Call her now. Invite her.”
“She’s at work,” I say quickly. “She works late.”
Mom returns from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “Well, tell her to take a night off. It’s not healthy to work so hard.” She shoots me a pointed look. “You should understand that better than anyone, Athena.”
Demetria grins, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Yes, invite your cat-sitting friend.”
I’m cornered, and I know it. With both my mother and sister looking at me expectantly, I have no choice but to pull out my phone. I compose the message carefully, trying to communicate more than just the invitation.
Emergency. Mom insists you join us for dinner tonight. Sorry. Can explain more later. Reminder: I’m not out to them. 8 p.m. Dress nice but not too nice. Bring a bottle of Greek wine from the basement.