Opa!

So, this weekend is the Greek Heritage Festival at my church. I look forward to this festival every year. And, by the time it's over, I tell myself, if I never have another gryo, domade(h) or loukoumade(h) the rest of the year, I'll be okay. But then there's another festival the next month at the church across town and I overdose again on loukoumades. They're fried dough in honey, can you blame me?

I've been attending these festivals my entire life. When we were young, we would spend all day and night there. They had arcade games available for kids to play, so during the year (well, not with the sole purpose of the festival), I would hoard keep quarters in a bag to take with me to the festival.

Looking back, I have no idea where my parents were. Or why they weren't more concerned about where we were (which, I might add, I continue to point out to my mother when she yells at us for not watching our children every second. She denies everything.). I don't think we even gathered together for meals. We just knew to be at the car when it was over and that was good enough for everyone.

As I got older, when arcade games weren't much of a draw for me, I found other things of interest. At the flea market, where one person's trash is another's treasure, I found some darling summer plates one year. Or the jewelry counter, where my BFF and I would buy at least one new ring a year. (Interestingly enough, people would mistake my BFF for the Greek [she's Italian] and me for the non-Greek. And I've been attending this church my entire life. How do they not know me?! We've joked about this in my family for years. Everyone knows my 3 siblings, my cousins, my dog [if we ever had one], but no one remembers me. Yeah. Hilarious.)

And now that I'm, you know, old and responsible, I am asked to (read: guilted into) work the festival. I prefer to work the drive-thru. It reminds me of my days working as a gyro flipper. Plus, I work hard... and no one has to see me. Perfect. (This may be the reason no one at church knows who I am, but that's neither here nor there.)

But the dancing was, and still is, the main attraction for me. When I was 15 or so, my cousin's cousin taught me all the Greek dances she knew. She was a great teacher, too. She broke down each dance into sections and I had no trouble learning the steps as we danced around the pool table in our basement. I try each year to teach my brother the hardest dance, but I just can't do it as well as she did. I guess "Do what I do" isn't much help. Or maybe he's not as good a student as I was, yo. Yeah, that's it. Every year, my BFF would refuse to learn the steps, but insisted on dancing with me anyway. She's a good sport.

So, the festival is upon us. I will spend the next 3 days eating, drinking and, overall, being merry. And on Sunday, I will throw the last loukoumade in the garbage and say, "Never again."

Until next month.