‘Ella, mazepsa spanakia,’ her voice bellowed from our answering machine, as if there was a bad connection. She’d rung to tell me she had picked spinach, silverbeet and dill from her garden. She could show me how to make spanakopita, spinach pie. Was tomorrow okay?
The message was from octogenarian theia Giorgia, quite possibly the last backyard spanakopita maker in Collingwood. Her spinach pie is legendary amongst our friends and relatives. It is bursting with greens and herbs, creamy fetta and ricotta. But the pièce de résistance is the crisp layered homemade pastry, oozing with butter. To eat one of her pies is to experience decadence in its most earthy, aromatic form.
The family and I dropped our usual Saturday morning chores to learn from the mistress of spinach pies. We figured theia Giorgia wouldn’t be around forever, and the minutiae of our weekend could wait. We swung by to pick up my mother, who didn’t want to miss the action.
Walking down the narrow path along the side of theia Giorgias’s single-fronted weatherboard, I was transported back to my own childhood home just streets away. Ours was a jungle of concrete, with edibles covering every inch of remaining space. In theia’s garden, there is a chaotic array of pumpkins, silverbeet, herbs, spring onions and beetroot along the path. Negotiating freshly-washed sheets, we cram into the tiny kitchen. Preparations have already begun.
‘Welcome. You’re a bit late. I’ve chopped the greens and made the pastry. Wipe the outside table and we’ll get started’. She hands me a sponge.
The pastry had already been made? How was I to learn? And yet, I sense a recipe of sorts would materialise from my mentor eventually. Soon a neighbour arrives, Kalliopi. She carries a bag of leeks from her garden and three industrial-sized baking trays. How many backyard spanakopita makers are there in Collingwood?
We are ready to begin. Before long, Kalliopi and theia Giorgia are bickering over the correct technique for rolling out the dough with the long stick.
When I finally muscle my way between them, my movements are clumsy and tentative. Kalliopi, the more formidable of the matriarchs, corrects me until I finally get the hang of it. I roll out the silky mound of pasty: turning it, rolling it and turning it again in smooth strokes until it is the size of a large pizza. We brush the flat disc with melted butter, and then pull the pasty gently until it stretches across the table, like a pale, translucent skin.
As a child, I had watched this done by older women, admiring their slow, careful movements. I can’t help feeling I have finally ‘arrived’ into the sisterhood of filo makers.
If I’m to be a true initiate, I need to know what goes in the pastry. Theia Giorgia says, ’About two kilograms of plain flour, some water, a cup of vegetable oil and a touch of salt. This will make enough for six large pies’.
When she goes back inside, Kalliopi counters: ‘Her pastry is not doughy enough. You need more flour. And then you have to let it sit until it’s done.’ How long would that be? ‘About the time it takes you to do your chores.’
My two teachers were themselves shown how to make spanakopita by other women in the neighbourhood. The original recipe came from the north of Greece, where they specialise in this filo (literally meaning 'sheets') technique. They stand back as I take the lead. My mother looks on, proud to watch me handle the pastry with growing confidence, perhaps a little put out that she was not the one to teach me. The women gossip about the other spanakopita makers: who drinks too much, who suffers from ‘nerves’, who is not well. Many are in their late seventies or early eighties. But most still manage to make spanakopita.
We cut the pastry into squares with the rim of a spoon, and layer each of these, buttered side down, to form a mound.
We pat this down and put it aside.
Finally, we have a dozen mounds.
We roll six of them out again to line the bottom of each pan and fill the shells with the thinly chopped silverbeet, spinach, leek, dill, fetta, ricotta and seasoning.
It appears the amounts vary depending on what you have to hand, and personal preference. Again, my questions about quantities are furnished with the vaguest of answers.
Finally, we cover the greens with pastry and press the edges down. The job is complete.
We sit down to a pie that’s just come out of the oven.
It’s superb as always. I’m given three to take home. I clutch my packages, pleased I now know how to make spanakopita, albeit with only the vaguest of recipes.
I’ve joined the sisterhood. Now it’s up to me to find my own way.
