Sharing secrets

The weather forecast promised unwelcoming forty degrees and cloudless sapphire sky spirits away last hope of salvation. Suffocating humid wind is inducing stickiness of the material to flesh. My two Pomeranians which habitually glorify their morning walks, look at me with the bewildered expression of somebody who lost their mind even considering to wend one’s way on this sizzling ground. They were not exposed yet to the brightest star and they both already panting and drooling. Papa’s old joke comes to mind: “Wife is asking her husband to go to the grocery shop to buy some bread. Husband is then answering that it is so hot that even the dog won’t go out. The wife is answering back- then go without a dog.”

I am on my way without a dog to a local fruit and vegetables store to get the watermelon .The wisdom of selecting a perfect one kindly provided to me by my granddaddy. We were at his house when he picked one out of the stock on his balcony and patted it gently like I seen bold men rubbing their heads. Remember he said: “ It must be firm and symmetrical with no lumps or bumps. If you identify any, it means that it subjected to irregular amount of the sunshine or water that cause dryness. Then lift it up, it should be weighty for its size that indicates it is full of water and therefore nice and ripe. Following step is to look at the underside spot that should be yellow and that stipulates that this beauty was sitting and ripening under the sun. “He winks and continues: “Without a doubt, the famous knocking technique, which includes firm rap with your knuckles and listening to the sound is great when mastered. That he wraps up is an unmistakably straightforward system to get it perfect each time you purchase one. This flashback brings an extensive smile to my face, and the colorful fruit and vegetable seems to be grinning back at me.

A loud Greek heavy accent slices the air, and I look in the direction of a commotion.

A middle aged woman tasteless or as some may suggest theatrically dressed standing in front of the refrigerator and speaks to somebody in Greek on the other end of the line. Then she picks up about seven packets of unrecognizable product and kisses it. I tiptoe my way to the fridge only to find out that the kissable object is out of stock. Only the curious have something to find will be my slogan of the day as I rush toward this strange woman. Luckily she does speak English with a heavy Greek accent and explains that she came across fresh vine leaves, that not very common in Australia and now she is going to make dolmades. She says the word as though she is talking about some goddess. The unimpressed look on my face brings an astonishment to hers. She asks me if I tried the homemade dolmades and from my hesitation she comes to her conclusion. She pulls out one packet of fresh vines leaves out of her basket and placing it in my hand while simultaneously reassuring me that it is very simple. Her excitement contagious and I let her pull me into the herbs corner that smell like basil for the sharing of a secret family recipe.

 I buy all the ingredients required for dolmades as per her instructions. I am heading toward my parked car when I hear the Greek accented voice yelling: “Don’t forget the lemons!