God Bless Your Hands

 When I was a child, my Greek grandmother (“Yiayia”) would work tirelessly to care for my blind grandfather (“Papou”), keep house in their humble cottage, tend to fellow parishioners in their Greek Orthodox church, and prepare delicious but simple meals for family and friends. She did everything with few if any if our modern day conveniences, and got satisfyingly results without their benefit. In place of appliances, tools, utensils… she used her hands.

 

There is a Greek expression which phonetically sounds like “Yah-sta-kheria-soo,” and its translation in this context is “God Bless Your Hands.” For a generation whose hands were their God-given tools… strong and durable, easily washable, and always available… that compliment was both meaningful and appreciated.  Because we must always remember what was channeled through those hands was always an outpouring of love.

 

I have found great satisfaction in using my hands for my Yiayia’s recipes.  The process begins with carefully thumbing through recipes born in her kitchen and calibrated with added measurements in the kitchens of my mother, aunt and cousin.  Next I craft a hand-written grocery list, careful to specify brands and characteristics of ingredients.  As I shop I handle each item with care, noting its freshness. Once home I coordinate each item according to its place in the process, and choose appropriate pots and pans for the final step of cooking/baking.  It’s all a very hands-on procedure, and as a consequence it creates a certain intimacy with the ingredients, their preparation, and the end result.  Of course, as Yiayia would say, the hidden (but most important) ingredient is always love… driving a definite intentionality and mindfulness of the family and friends who will enjoy the meal being prepared.

 

Lest we assume this slow, deliberate process to be so anachronistic as to be headed for the memory heap, I recently welcomed my great-niece Sydney into my kitchen to make a favorite Greek delicacy, Baklava.

 

Our hands worked together in happy harmony as I layered sheets of phyllo dough which she basted with butter.  She scooped toasted nut mix onto the phyllo then spread it with her hands, careful not to tear the delicate dough.  The gesture was so matter-of-fact and practical to her, yet so poignant to me.  For just a moment, in my imagination, those were my Yiayia’s hands.  The wooden-handled pastry brush, the oversized baking pan, and even the gas oven heating up behind us were Yiayia’s. 

 

When the finished product was ready for packaging, Sydney thought first of family and friends. It was then that I knew the intergenerational link had been forged.  Because Sydney is precisely the baker that my Yiayia was, and her first tasters are always family and friends. Beyond my kitchen her hands explore new recipes and interesting ingredients.  They execute involved cake decorating schemes. And they deliver blessings of kindness and taste sensation to so many grateful recipients.

 

To you, Sydney, I say Yastakheriasoo!  Or I can use a more shortened version by removing the inside letters to create a universally-known Greek affirmation… YASOO!