I wasn’t raised in a traditional Greek family, with two Greek-speaking parents; nevertheless, my Mom and her family made it their quest to infuse us with a love for all things Greek. My Dad graciously allowed it to happen, although, over the years, he’s made every attempt to stick a Scottish label on us, but not much sticks to Greece (pun intended). Somehow, I managed to make it through thirty years of life before I realized my “Greek” family originated from Italians. So four generations ago, the grandparents of my grandparents left Italy and made their lives in Greece. And so, I willingly embrace all things Italian.

My Mom did a good job of incorporating American food in to our lives. I’m pretty sure she did it so my Dad wouldn’t starve. And though he loves her cooking, he doesn’t fully appreciate the more colorful aspects of Greek cuisine. Thankfully, I inherited my Mom’s palette and have no food fears. Well, except for lima beans, and badly cooked okra. Oh…and liver.

At an early age, I learned to eat first and then ask, “What is that?” When a plate was set in front of me, regardless of the smell, texture, or look of an item, I was required to take a bite. This small obedience was, as I look back over my life, one of the best gifts my Mom gave me. If not for that little rule, I would have missed out on so many wonderful and exciting flavors from many different cuisines.

When I was eighteen, my family, in different variations, spent the summer in Greece. We lived many days on the beaches of Glyfada, Tolo, and Vouliagmeni, only coming out of the sea for a few hours to eat a delicious lunch. We ate fresh fish, village salads, crispy potatoes, slabs of cheese, lemony horta, and loaves of fresh bread. With wet hair and wet bathing suits, sand between our toes, and sunburned skin, we took pleasure in eating the simple but scrumptious food. Bread was for dipping, lemons for squeezing, fingers for licking, and forks were, well, forks were optional.

The other night I saw an episode of FoodTV’s Chopped: When Chefs Collide (Episode 3.1). In the appetizer round, the chefs were tasked with creating an appetizer out of Manila clams, kumquats, and croissants. The Greek chef, Peter Giannakas, Chef and Restaurateur of Ovelia Psistaria Bar, New York, NY., was eliminated in the first round. He created a dish that, according to the judges, was difficult to eat. They also commented about the flavors of his dish; however, since they were too afraid to get their hands messy, I question whether or not they actually tasted the dish. As the chef was eliminated, he said to the judges, “Don’t be afraid to eat.” I laughed so hard I nearly cried. My Mom would be proud of him.

Thanks to her, and the generations of Greeks who came before me, I am not afraid to taste – even if it means getting messy or trying new flavor combinations. I believe my love for cooking is in the genes, seasoned by my Mom, and whipped in to shape by hours of practice. For that I am thankful and, Lord willing, I will have many more years to eat like a Greek.

As I carried the tree in the house, Kaitlyn stood inside the back door and said, “T’mon Judy…you tan do it.” I had to set down the tree because I was laughing so hard. I cleared a path of furniture to the tree’s designated resting place and then carried the tree through the house. A few of the frozen needles fell off and left a path on the floor, which Kaitlyn insisted I sweep up right away. She helped by pointing them out to me.

Down in the basement we found some Christmas decorations and a few boxes of lights. I plugged in the string of lights to test them which caused Kaitlyn to “oooooh and aaaaaah.” I draped them on the tree and then connected the star. Needless to say, the effect inspired four or five verses of “Oh my goodness, Judy. It’s so bewtiful.”

It was getting a bit late so we decided to leave the rest of the decorations until morning. Caressa and I easily convinced Kaitlyn to get in bed by stringing the last box of lights over the window trim in her bedroom. From his crib, Jeremy’s eyes twinkled and a great big smile broke out on his face.

I’m so thankful to be sharing Christmas with Caressa and the kids. It’s a blessing I never expected. My heart is happy and I feel like Buddy the Elf does about Christmas. I like smiling. Smiling is my favorite thing. I serve a gracious God who always manages to add a little something special to the story of my life.

All around the house there are reminders of God’s goodness. Toys arrived from everywhere and now spill out of cupboards, get stuffed between the cushions of the couch, hide out in the valleys of kitchen bowls, and get arranged neatly in the remote control basket.

“Is that a baby cow?” she asks. Then in a slightly worried voice, “Where’s the mommy cow?” I pull the mommy cow out from under a cushion. Big smile. “Oh! There’s the mommy.” All is right with the world.

In another corner of the house, a little fellow with chubby cheeks drools on his bib and looks for his next bottle of milk. He smiles easily and rarely cries – unless of course you take too long fixing his milk or changing his diaper. There are three of us tall enough to reach the counter. He doesn’t wait long.

We’re a happy bunch. Finding joy in the small things. A basket of blessings. Giving thanks.

I walked by the little, orange square more times than I care to admit. After three days, I finally picked it up off the tile floor and balanced it on the end of my finger to inspect it. There, looking back at me with huge brown eyes, was Dora the Explorer. The little, orange square was a perfectly folded band-aid that had fallen off the finger of my new roommate, Kaitlyn.

Like Dora, Kaitlyn has big, brown eyes and short, brown hair. She’s two. She’s spicy. She’s potty-trained. She’s got chubby cheeks with a mysterious dimple on the right one that comes and goes whenever it pleases. In less than a week, Kaitlyn has managed to wrap me, Judy, around her little band-aid covered finger.

Kaitlyn’s brother, Jeremiah, is equally cute but 95% less spicy. He’s two months old and in the “eat, sleep, and poop” stage of his life – not quite sure if he wants to smile yet. But I’m growing on him and it’s only a matter of time.

The stork didn’t bring them. Their Mom, Caressa, is a beautiful, young woman with her whole life ahead of her, and a not-so-lovely life behind her. Sometimes a girl just needs a break, and a hand, and a soft place to fall.

But before the three of them walked in my door, there was Olivia. Grandma Olivia. She moved here several weeks ago to get a fresh start – find a new life. Step right up. I serve a gracious God who is all about changing lives.

So the five of us are finding our way together, with a lot of help from the unbelievably kind and generous folks in the church. They went above and beyond, supplying cribs, strollers, car seats, clothes, toys, diapers, milk, and more. I’m thankful. So very thankful.

Tonight when I came in the back door I heard Kaityln’s footsteps coming down the hallway. As she entered the kitchen, she broke in to a big smile, lifted her arms to me, and said, “Judy’s home.” It doesn’t get much better than that. I am a happy girl.

To my surprise, the paint I had purchased three years ago was no longer available in its original form. Well, I wasn’t totally surprised – just not quite ready for plan “b.” Thankfully, I brought the can with me and the oh-so helpful guy with the orange apron mixed me up a huge 5-gallon bucket. He heaved the bucket into the orange cart and we were on our way.

As we made out way to parking lot, after leaving my left cornea as payment for the giant bucket of paint, I realized there was no way I could lift the bucket out of the orange cart. My Mom’s been working out at the gym, but she wasn’t going to be much help. I told my Mom I was going to ask someone for help.

In a breathy voice I said, “Wow. You made that look so easy. Thank you, Sir. Thank you very much.” He chuckled, smiled and then walked back to his giant truck.

The unsuspecting man was rearranging the stuff in his truck so he could unload his orange cart. The guy looked pretty big, so I didn’t think he’d have any difficulty with my 5-gallon bucket. I said, “Excuse me, Sir? Would it be possible for you to help me move this bucket in to my car?” He looked at his cart, looked at the parking lot, and walked over to help.

As the guy got closer his body got bigger. He was tall as a sequoia and just as wide. He was a freakin’ Paul Bunyan. Even before he lifted the bucket from the basket I was in love. He put his hands on the bucket like it was a teacup and without using his arm or back muscles – or making any heaving sounds – he lifted the bucket in to the back of my car. In a breathy voice I said, “Wow. You made that look so easy. Thank you, Sir. Thank you very much.” He chuckled, smiled and then walked back to his giant truck. I had to fight the urge to run after him and throw my arms around his legs and beg him to come to my house and fix things and paint in high places. My Mom was with me…so I edited my thoughts.

When I went to lift the bucket out of the car, I tried to use the same lifting method he did and the bucket wouldn’t budge. I finally gave up and used the stupid handle and walked the bucket in to the house. It’s official. I want one of those in my house. And I’m not talking about the bucket.

“When you’re sixteen years old, will you still let me hug you?” I asked sweet, little Mac when he was small enough to sit in my lap. He said yes as if there wasn’t a doubt in his mind. But I still wondered. It seems like only yesterday.

Now, he’s driving a truck and stands about nine inches taller than me. So much has changed. But one thing has stayed the same. Mac still hugs me, hangs out with me, and lets me love him.

I’ve enjoyed watching Mac grow in to a man. His love for God flows naturally in to every aspect of his life. He’s a team player, a leader, a brilliant student, a natural athlete, a fierce competitor, and a protector of those weaker than him. And, he loves my cooking.

I’m thankful for a part in the story of Mac – a part close enough to know the fierce gladiator has a huge heart and a passion for life.

Next year he’ll be a junior in High School, a co-captain of the varsity basketball team, and I’m thinking he’ll be 6′4″ by the time he graduates. I’ll have to stand on the bottom step to kiss his face, but I’ll enjoy looking up at him.

Happy Birthday, Mac! You’re a good man and I have so much respect and love for you. I’m soooooo looking forward to the next few chapters of your life.

I’ve been getting adjustments at the chiropractor, and as a result, it’s got me thinking about pain. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not the adjustments that cause the pain.

Before I moved here, I was regularly getting adjustments to correct a problem with the bones in my neck. Long story short, when I was a teenager, a benign tumor was removed from between my ribs, and the surgeon who sewed me up, well, he must have missed a few anatomy classes. I’ve got stronger back muscles on one side, which eventually caused the other neck and back muscles to fight to gain balance. Why can’t they all just get along?

Anyway, after I moved here, I just stopped getting adjusted. And the pain came back. But for some reason, I learned to live with it. I’ve gotten familiar with pinched nerves. I’ve learned to move and sleep differently to avoid neck grief. Relieving the pain wasn’t a priority.

Why is it that we can ignore pain and become accustomed to it? And then, when it goes away, we seem to forget that the pain ever existed? I’m going to have to do a little research and get to the bottom of this. I’m fascinated. And for the record, I’m thankful for my new chiropractor and all the pain relief he’s bringing.

P.S. That’s not my neck x-ray. Just pretend.

Halfway to Seattle I turned green and had to fight nausea. Very humiliating to say the least. Made my way to the gate for the next leg of my flight and that’s when the Dramamine took effect. I fell asleep and nearly missed my flight. God is gracious and I woke up to the sound of my flight being called. The flight was pleasant but the nausea never passed. I arrived at Newark with only thirty minutes to make it to my gate.

The Airtrain between terminals A, B, and C was broken with no estimated fix time. The only way to make it from terminal A to C was by bus. I went outside to the spot where the bus would arrive and waited and waited. Finally, the bus arrived and I made it to terminal C. I stood in line for security along with everyone else and my plane departed without me. I went to the Continental counter to inquire about rebooking my flight and was sent to another counter. And another counter. And another counter. Finally, after being passed around SEVEN times, I fell apart.

They have four huge sections of the airport set aside to deal with people who missed their connecting flights. LOTS of people miss their connecting flights. Now I’m not an engineer, but I hardly think you need a degree to figure out that something is wrong at Newark airport.

There I stood crying, nauseated, and working a Dramamine buzz as the Continental ticket woman had the audacity to tell me it was my fault I missed the flight. I said something about my inability to land the plane earlier or fix the airtrain, or drive the bus faster. She then announced that there were no more flights to Athens. The next available flight was the next day at 5:30pm. The thought of spending the night at Newark airport brought forth more tears. Mine…not hers. She booked me on the flight and gave me a complimentary room in a hotel for the night. I’m thankful I didn’t have to sleep at the airport so I’ll leave out the nightmare that was Howard Johnson’s. Needless to say, you get what you pay for.

My flight to Athens was fantastic. Great seats. A lovely Greek woman sat next to me which helped the time pass more quickly. We exchanged information and I promised to contact her when I arrived home.

Another stamp in my passport. My baggage arrived in Athens. My Mom was waiting for me. I am a happy girl.