"The Theater of Dionysus" by Alec Newell

Nero once performed here - photo by Newell

There was nothing like a few days in Athens to make us really appreciate being back on Samos.  Kathy had her wallet lifted on the Athens subway; but luckily, her passport, credit cards, and driver's license were not in it.



grilled calamari (squid)

We had a couple of really nice meals in the Plaka, and the hotel we stayed in had a beautiful view of the Acropolis from the roof, where we liked to have a relaxing drink, make a few trans-Atlantic cellphone calls, and play a hand or two of Gin just before turning in at night.

The Parthenon at night from our hotel's roof-top patio

After seeing the museums and the Agora, I had wanted to have a closer look at the Theater of Dionysus which lies in a niche' that was carved from the base of the Acropolis.  I'm old enough to remember when the stadium in Jacksonville was called the Gator Bowl, and its annual featured game was billed as, "The world's largest outdoor cocktail party."  But the great granddaddy of all organized public drunkenness had to have been the Festival of Dionysus, "Open containers WELCOME."




Less than half a block beyond the entrance to the Dionysian Theater, I happened to notice a group of Hells Angels, not riding motorcycles, but waiting to board a Disney style train tram for a guided tour!???  In Athens, some things you expect to see, others you don't.







Kathy's Retirement and Sweet Greek Dreams

by Alec Newell

Archeological Museum in Athens, 6/9/2015 - by Newell

Last Friday was Kathy's last day of teaching.  It marked the end of more than thirty years of  teaching in a career that spanned more than four decades.  That afternoon after school, she met with friends for tapas and drinks at Tacolou (the old Homestead Restaurant).  She brought home flowers, wine, t-shirts, a yearbook, and gift cards for Starbucks, the Fish Company Restaurant, a pedicure - and more.


The next morning she met another retired teacher who brought two glasses and a nice bottle of wine to share while they had a pedicure.  My job was to get Lilly, who is no light traveler, packed and ready for her stay with Helga.  By that evening we were packed for the trip, Lilly had been dropped off, and we off to the Fish Company (in the old Pic-n-Save building) for a celebratory pre-trip dinner.  Between the fried calamari appetizer and the grilled Wahoo and seared scallop entree's, a big commotion broke out in the bar.  We rushed over there just in time to see American Pharaoh cross the finish line to become the first Triple Crown winner in 37 years.



Visual Arts Chair, FHS - Retired

After Key Lime cheesecake, we went home, to bed, and fell into a couple of cholesterol-induced comas.  About 3:00 am I was awakened by what I thought was the dog wanting me to let her out.  But there was no dog, the noise was coming from across the bed;  it was Kathy actually laughing out loud in her dreams. 

Agios Konstantinos: Independence Day 2014





The beach where we swim

The beach at Agios Konstantinos is where we swim most afternoons.  It is a quiet little hamlet, one of the fabled “Seven Villages” along the north ridge of the island, an area known and prized by Greek nationals for its pristine beauty and cultural authenticity.  Just a few kilometers east of Agios Konstantinos, and set against a dramatic backdrop of rugged mountain faces, two hundred year old stone houses with terra cotta tiled roofs sit on plots of farm land and vineyards that grow right up to the edge of post card perfect beaches.  Shortly after leaving the Whitehouse, Bill Clinton visited the area and stayed in a house that one of his staffers had bought in Monolates, a mountain village that sits directly above Agios Konstantinos.

In Monolates there is a tavern named Lucas with an open air veranda, shaded by the living grape vines on the pergola above it; you can look down the mountain from that veranda with a cool drink in your hand, and see the concrete enclosure of the break wall and the fishing boats below.  When there is no wind, the shadow of their hulls  is visible against the harbor bottom through the crystal blue water of the Aegean Sea.

The water at the beach can be surprisingly brisk, enough to take your breath away, even in July, but it’s easy to get used to and very refreshing.  After a swim we usually shop for groceries in Agios Konstantinos or eat at one of the seaside cafés there.  You can smell your lunch cooking as you sip an afternoon frappe’ or a glass of wine made from the vine terraced hillsides above, and notice the mountains of Turkey across the water in the distance.



From an outdoor café
with Turkish mountains visible in the distance

Kathy began visiting the area in 1992 as a summer instructor at the Art School of the Aegean.  The teaching job lasted into the late 1990’s, but by then she never stopped coming back.  As I sit at the keyboard, it is the morning of July 4^th, 2014, and we have a beach day planned for Agios this afternoon.  No fireworks or watermelons on our agenda today, just Independence.

photos by Newell - 2014

  



For a 2012 post with a picture of Bill Clinton in Agios Konstantinos, click on:

http://mysamoshome.blogspot.gr/2012/06/arrival.html

Temple of Hera

Ruins of the ancient Hera ion, or Temple of Hera at Ireon

The Via Sacra or Sacred Road

Six kilometers southwest of the ancient city of Samos (present day Pythagoria) and near the shore of the Aegean Sea, there are several vast hectares of architectural rubble with a single massive column jutting up out of the wild flowers and foundation stones that surround it.  It is the focal remnant of the once magnificent Temple of Hera or, latest and greatest of the many temples erected on this plain, to the goddess Hera, over a period of several millennia.

Leading up to the column you can still see long sections of the stone paved Sacred Road which once connected the ancient city to the temple complex.  The road itself had been lined with an impressive array of votive shrines, inscribed stelae, and marble statuary.  The Kouros of Samos, the largest statue of its kind in Greece, was excavated from near the Sacred Road in 1980 and now stands in the Archaeological Museum in Vathy.

The temple campus is seated in a low fertile plain, created by silting from the river Imbrassos.  It was on the bank of this river in the shade of a willow tree that, according to mythical tradition, the Greek goddess Hera was born.  This was an important sacred site to the ancients, and it has become a ‘must see’ destination for thousands of the international tourists who visit the island each year.

The site of the ruins, the Island of Samos, the willow tree, and the peacock, were all sacred to the cult of Hera.  Images of willow branches and peacocks are still used to identify depictions of Hera on ancient coinage, and wild peacocks still populate the island.  Last week we narrowly missed being slammed into by one that was flushed from a mountain road by our rented car.  Vestiges of the tradition are still everywhere, if you know what you are looking for, or at. 

The Kuros of Samos

Since the 19^th century, progress has been made to excavate, document and conserve what remained of the building foundations and the finely carved marble fragments that were salvaged, but the fact is, most of the temple has been carted off over the years to become building material for farmhouses, paving stones for streets, and watering troughs for livestock.  I once saw a rural cottage with a big carved slab of solid marble that functioned as an outdoor laundry sink, and I know it didn’t come from the Home Depot.

Nothing happens quickly here, but as old buildings start coming down over the next few centuries, there is no telling what might show up.  Somewhere on the island a grand architectural fragment could surface that had been used as a cornerstone for someone's long forgotten chicken coop; it wouldn't surprise me 

 

photos by Newell - 2014

St. John of the Fire: Village Festival 2014

  Video by Newell and Skaggs

 

This year the festival caught us a little off guard.  We’d been on the road above the village taking pictures, collecting wild flowers and rosemary, and sampling ripe fruit from the trees along the road:  figs, plums, apricots, and sour cherries.  We’d planned to drop our tote-sack off at the house and head back up to Cristo’s for dinner, but just as I unlocked the door a man in the street addressed us in English, “You live here?”

“Yes.”

“So do I.”

“Here, in the village?”

“No, I live in Samo Town.  I come here for (unintelligible word) at the school.  Are you going?”

“Yes.”

The man was wearing long pants and obviously Greek.  We were wearing shorts and obviously not Greek, so I’m sure that he was taken a little aback at seeing foreigners unlocking the door to a private residence in such remote corner of the island.  Vourliotes is not a tourist Mecca.

Earlier, Kathy and I had been hearing Greek music from the upper road and assumed it was coming from one of the restaurants below, but it was coming from village's elementary school.  They must be having the Festival of St. John at the school this year!

I’m guessing that there were close to two hundred people there with music, dancing, and long tables of food set up in the schoolyard.  We were both handed plates of food and I was waved off when I offered to pay for it.  Free food and wine are a traditional part of the celebration.  This year we recognized dozens of faces in the crowd and we were greeted warmly by many of them with the traditional hug and kiss on each cheek.  I felt myself blush a little a few times and tried to manage a few Greek words in response, which only made them laugh and repeat the kiss-kiss greeting.

On our way home from the festival I noticed the man who had given us the fish.  He was relaxing on his patio with a cold drink, surrounded by his family, his brother-in-law, and another man who spoke pretty good English.  I stopped off and wished them all a “good evening” in Greek, and even managed to find the Greek words for "fish," "delicious," and "thank you," which made them all laugh.  Then I offered a more eloquent thank you in English, with the one man functioning as an interpreter.  Before I could get away I was being loaded up again, this time with a dozen little brown eggs, a bag of large pink and yellow sweet cherries, and about an eight pound sack of potatoes that the men had just dug from the soil that morning.

I tried to explain to the man with the good English that this was not necessary, I had not come here for more food.  He raised his hand, cocked his head and said, "It is OK, you are neighbors now!"  If I had just a few words to describe the village and the people in it, I think I would have to say, “Earthy, warm, and generous.”

For earlier posts on the Festival of St. John at this site click on:
Folk Dancing (6/30/13)
Village Festival (6/27/12)
Click on any picture to enlarge it.

Prodigal Plants

 

 



Kathy, dickering over the price of pots
 with the gypsy pot merchant

No one has ever accused me of being overly fond of ornamental plants.  It once took me two years of diligent abuse, with a lawn mower, to kill an azalea bush I didn’t like.  But coming up the hill ahead of Kathy on our arrival back on Samos this year, I was immediately stricken by the sad condition of Kathy's plants, or rather by the absence of Kathy's plants, in our alley.  After all the work she had put into landscaping last summer, I knew she would be disappointed.

I had been with her at the nursery, when she had adopted her plants, and I had been in the car when she chased down the gypsy pot merchant who sold terra cotta pots out of back of his pick-up truck.  I watched her lug potting soil up from the village parking lot, and I remember her pride at the thumbs-up she got from the neighbors when she’d finished.
 



What I didn’t want to believe was that most of her plants, and the nice pots they had been in, were gone.  I might have expected dead plants, victims of neglect, or perhaps some broken pots, the casualties of children’s play or a speeding motor bike, but kidnapped plants?  No way, not here.

During dinner our second night here Stella, who owns the restaurant where we were eating, pointed out some of Kathy’s plants around the platia that Stella herself had rescued, moving them up to her restaurant where she could water them.  But these were plants were the stragglers, orphans without names; Kathy’s favorite plants, the ones in the nice pots, were still missing.  On our evening walks, I’d watch her eyes dart to a cluster of plants, in an alley or by a doorway, looking for some tell tale clue as to where her prodigal plants might be.

In a few more days plants started showing up in the alley as if by magic, one here, two there; all of them had obviously been well tended during our absence.  At week’s end we were bringing a new desk back to the village from a shopping trip, when we surprised an old man who was bent over several very large potted plants in our alley, very familiar plants in nice terra cotta pots.  He was winded and spoke no English, but eventually made us understand that there were still two more of our plants up by the church if we wanted to move them ourselves.  He was exhausted and could do no more.



photos by Newell

 

At this point a woman arrived to explain, in very limited English, that she and this man had moved the our plants up to the church after we’d left for the States last year, and that they, and several of our neighbors, had been caring for them in our absence.  If we would but move them back up there ourselves before we left this year, they could be taken care of again next winter.  They uttered a polite “kalispera,” and toddled off, almost before we could express our profound gratitude at such an unexpected kindness from total strangers.

Thunderstruck

A rare and exciting thing happened this morning: it rained, or tried to.  Many Dutch and German tourists come to Samos to hike the mountain trails for exercise, or to bathe naked on clothing optional beaches to replenish the Vitamin D to their sun starved bodies.  I’ve come here all the way from sunny Florida, to mourn those brief afternoon thundershowers which fall there every summer.  On Samos a lone cloud in the summer sky is a remarkable occurrence, but this morning we woke up to a totally overcast sky.  I set out on my morning walk determined to take full advantage of the rare shade that the cloud cover offered. 



This cloud appeared the day before the
story.  It was such a  rare occurrence that
 Kathy actually took this picture of it.

I saw a woman pinning damp laundry to a clothesline, and a man mixing cement from paper bags of dry mortar in an uncovered street.  I stopped to pick a few figs from a curbside bush and walked on.  A breeze began to stir and the air was charged with those negative ions which produce that feeling of euphoria you experience just before a cloudburst.  Then I heard it, faintly at first, like the distant sound of a mechanical cement mixer.  What are those people thinking?  Don’t they understand that in a matter of seconds the bottom is going to fall out of the sky and these streets could be ankle deep in water?

I stopped to be sure my footsteps were not creating the sound, and there it was again, no doubt about it, a low rumbling peel of thunder off in the distance.  Then I felt what I thought could be a rain drop. I looked down and saw small droplets of water splattering on the flat dry paving stones at my feet.  I immediately changed directions and started for home.  About half a block from the house I almost broke into a sprint as the sound of thunder and the spattering of droplets increased.  I reached the door and fumbled with my keys.  As I stepped across the threshold and into the house, Kathy asked incredulously, “Was that thunder I just heard?”

“Yes, a minute ago I didn’t believe it either, but it’s already starting to rain. I just beat a downpour here by seconds.  This is amazing!”

I grabbed a half-full cup of cold coffee from the kitchen counter and sat down to the keyboard to document this wildly unprecedented deluge that was about to occur.

photos by Newell and Skaggs

That was about thirty minutes ago and the streets are still dry.  The sun is out, the clothes on the line are almost dry, and the mortar piled up in the open street has probably received more moisture from the workman’s brow, than it did from the sky.

What happened?

 

Going Native

 

The woman across the street is in her 80’s and keeps a gated garden just below the cemetery.  It has vegetables, fruit trees, and chickens.  Since our arrival she has been bringing us eggs, apricots, and small variety of sour cherries that are ripe now and seem to be everywhere.  The cherries (about the size of chickpeas) are pitted, boiled with a little water, lemon juice, sugar and cinnamon, and then served over fresh yogurt for dessert.  It is, in native parlance, no'steemo (delicious).

There is a young couple in the neighborhood that has children who play in our alley way.  The children’s father is a jack of many trades.  He wears red bib overalls and fishes.  The day before yesterday his wife brought us a plastic bag full of fresh fish her husband had just caught and cleaned as sort of a “welcome back to the neighborhood” gift.  They were typical of the fish the villagers eat at home, grilled whole over a charcoal fire, and dressed with a sauce made of onion, parsley, oregano, and olive oil.

 

At an open air market yesterday, we picked up some eggplant, a variety of green beans that only grow on the terraced hillsides among the grape vines, and some lemons.  Lemon trees are common here and can produce fruit the size of oranges, so lemons are inexpensive.  Everyone makes liberal use of them.

Last night Kathy cooked the green beans and I grilled the fish and sliced eggplant over a hot charcoal fire in the alley.  The eggplant was seasoned with olive oil and a little sea salt then cooked crispy on the outside.  I brushed the fish with olive oil, dusted them with sea salt and pepper, then cooked them whole ‘til the skin was crisp.  Everything, including the cold water, was served with fresh lemon slices.  We had yogurt and sour cherries for dessert. Kathy washed it all down with a locally produced white wine that comes in clear half liter bottles that are sealed with the old fashioned, non screw, bottle caps.  It’s very inexpensive and a big favorite with the locals.  Kathy, who prefers her fish boneless, raved about how surprisingly good the grilled fish were.



photos by Newell

 



We played Gin in the alley until after 10:00 pm.  Kathy lost, and by custom (loser washes)  she got stuck with doing the dishes.  As luck would have it the water was off again, so to compound the penalty, she had to heat bucket water on the stove to wash the dishes.

 

2014 Season Kick-Off

 

Touchdown Samos:  June 12, 2014

 

 

It is usually a bad idea for me to offer opinions, or to post comments on anything within 24 hours of touching down after a 10-hr. transatlantic flight.  That is especially true if that flight was bracketed by two shorter hops with all of the usual snafus associated with connecting flights, different carriers, baggage transfers, automated boarding pass kiosks, TSA agents, and Customs officials.  Let me simply offer here, that at the time of this writing, my wife is talking to me again, I think.

After we’d hauled our luggage up the mountain Kathy showered, changed clothes, and took a nap.  I shaved, sat down on the edge of the bed, and fell into a pre-shower coma.  I awoke to find that village water supply had been shut off, and would not be turned on again until late the next morning.  Knowing how sound carries in the village, I struggled to suppress the salvo of shipyard expletives that would have otherwise followed.

In Vourliotes, gossip travels at the speed of sound, so I’m sure that by the time we’d walked up to the platia to have dinner, most of the village already knew that their “Ameriki” neighbors were back on the island.  At least the dinner was nice.  The meal was elegant in its simplicity, and taken in the kind of authentic Old World outdoor setting that could inspire a Hollywood movie set or a Disney theme park; it was, as they say in the credit card ads, priceless.

  

Sunday, June 15, 2014

We’ve all heard the story of how a war was lost because of a General’s horseshoe nail.  Sometimes travelers, after weeks or even months of careful planning, can find themselves undone by the simplest of unforeseen bends in the road.  Deplaning in Athens Thursday, a sharp eyed fellow passenger happened to notice that Kathy’s wallet, with all of her money, credit cards, and passport, had fallen out of her purse and was lodged up under her seat.  It could have been a disaster.

I had my first real shower today since leaving Mayport.  It seems that there is a break or obstruction in the water line that supplies the village, and there has been some political foot dragging about spending the money to fix it.
 

Note the absence of a guard rail on this curve

and the barely visible hubcap (white dot) in the rocks below

 (Click on photo to enlarge it) 

 

On the road to Karlovasi yesterday, we noticed that a construction crew had begun work to widen the road, but they’ve started in a place where the road was already relatively safe.  On one particularly dangerous curve, I happened to see the wheel cover from an automobile wedged in a rock formation that jutted up and out of the Aegean Sea about 30 feet below us.  Kathy was driving and I was thinking about what a great picture it would make, but for safety’s sake, I had decided not to distract her by mentioning it.  I saw her glance up to the rear view mirror as a motorcycle streaked past us and narrowly missed hitting a truck in the oncoming lane.  Her remarkably jaded comment was, “That’s about the only thing that gets done in a hurry around here.”


 A closer shot of the wheel cover, but still difficult to see.

(Put your cursor on any picture and click to enlarge it)

 

P.S. These pictures were taken with Greek drivers still on the road.  We had to park the car in a place where the road still had a little shoulder to it. I sprinted up the narrow part of the road, snapped these shots, and sprinted back to the car dodging two way traffic in both directions.  It was no cakewalk.

For a live video and more pictures of this road from earlier posts click on:

Greek Drivers (7/2/12)

Road to Karlovasi (7/14/13)

Curtain Calls

Curtain Call: Ride to the Airport

A good entertainer knows when to get off the stage, and I had really meant to,  but there is still an episode or two left to do yet.

A late dinner party at Christos'

There was a farewell dinner party for us up at Christos', and while we had planned to make an early night of it, we didn't.  There may have been people from the party still sitting at the table as we were waking up to leave, I don't know.  The morning was unusually cool, crisp, and clear.  As we headed down the mountain, the stars were still out and the sky was just showing a faint pink glow.  A string of lights between the sea and the mountains indicated the shore line of Turkey in the distance.
 

Giannis was waiting  in Kokkari to drive us to the airport and I suspected that it had been a late night for him too.  There wasn't any traffic on the road, but his mood seemed a little too expansive for that hour of the morning.  He alternatively hummed a tune that was still playing in his head from the night before, and enlightened us on the historical derivation of place names for settlements on Samos and "Tourkai" (Turkey) that still lingered from Ottoman times.  I tried not to notice the 100 kph that was registering on the speedometer, after all it was still his car, but when he braked for a cat in on a blind curve, I was glad that in our own haste, we'd skipped our customary pot of coffee that morning.

 

Curtain Call: Baked Goods

Inside the neighborhood bakery

 

The trip back was brutal, twenty five hours of sleep deprivation punctuated with moments of sheer panic as we sweated for an hour and a half to get past molasses paced TSA attendants in Philadelphia, to make a tight connecting flight to Jacksonville.  The capper came just inches from the finish line, when a chatty customs agent leveled a saccharine smile at me and asked if I was bringing anything back anything "to eat" in my carryon bag.  Kathy, who knows how I hate to buy anything in airports, was aware that I had stocked up on breakfast pastries and cheese pies from Nikos, the village baker the day before, and that this could be a fly or die moment for us if I faltered.  Kathy intervened by handing the man our declaration cards and  added warmly, "It's all right here, and thank you so much for everything!"

photos by Newell

I woke up at 4:00 AM this morning, right back here in Mayport just like I have done thousands of times before, but with the oddest sensation that the whole trip had all just been some kind of weird hangover dream; but I'm sitting at the keyboard drinking American coffee and munching on an ever so slightly stale cheese pie thinking, "this really ain't too bad."

Nikos, the village baker

 

The Blog

This year’s trip has been a delightful adventure, and the experience has far exceeded any of the expectations I had of what retirement would be like; but looking back the real odyssey has not been in living this adventure, but in documenting it.  I had been aware of things like computers, cell phones, digital cameras, and the internet for some time, the people around me were using them every hour; but initially I had come to regard them as clever techno gadgetry for cutting edge consumers with the resources to buy, and the leisure time to play with them.  I was still living with a rotary telephone in the bedroom.

Just before last year’s trip my father’s health took a turn for the worse.  Suddenly I had grave reservations about pulling the trigger on, what for me was, an extravagant three week vacation which had been in the elaborate planning stages for the best part of a year.  My father was a man who loved a well turned phrase and had a great sense of humor; he was also an endlessly positive man who wanted to see me make the trip.  I knew that with satellites and cell phones I could talk directly to him several times a week and monitor his situation.  My bargain to myself at the time was that I would email him short entertaining accounts of where we were, what we were doing, and when possible, attach digital pictures to the text.  It would be an instantly deliverable version of the postcards people used to send in the 19^th and 20^th Centuries, and I knew he would enjoy them.  An unanticipated boon to the process was that I could get 24 hr. feedback from them as well, so I began to attach a regular group of family members and friends to the address headings.

A couple of weeks into this year’s trip Kathy set me up a blog site from which to publish “Postcards from Samos.”  The initial effect was that I all but stopped hearing from the folks back home.  I didn’t know if they just didn’t know how to access the stories from the link, or if they were just no longer responding to them.  When the postman comes only once a day, I don’t sweat the mail, but when email could come any minute of the day, I catch myself checking it more often than I do my watch, which is an amazing transformation from when I would go for months at a time without looking at it.   I used to spend more time deleting emails than I did reading them. 

The second thing I noticed was that “Postcards” was being read by more people globally, than by the folks back home for whom it was being written.  There were more people in Greece alone reading the blog on a daily basis, than there were in the U.S., with additional hits coming from Russia, Turkey, Belgium, France, Germany, Netherlands, Brazil, Canada, the U.K., Hong Kong, Iraq, Estonia, Latvia, Serbia, Thailand, Ukraine, Czech Republic, Poland, Australia, and South Africa.  The compulsion went from checking the email to tracking blog hits from the time of a posting to see how it was being followed from country to country as the Earth turned and the time zones changed.  It has been fun and I have enjoyed writing the stories, but I think it’s time to give it a rest, at least until next year.  When I step onto that plane tomorrow, I’ll be ready to get back home to Mayport.

 

Adio

Leg of Lamb

Like the obligatory snap shots tourists to Egypt have taken of themselves standing in front of the sphinx, or astride a camel in front of the pyramids, most travelers have an agenda.  Mine was to cook a leg of lamb on the grill before we left, a Greek thing, in the finest traditions of Homer’s Epic Heroes and Zorba, it was still an unchecked box on my “to do” list and we were into the last week of the trip.

I had acquired a meat thermometer, made inquiries as to which woods might be suitable to the task, and had pretested the grill on less ambitious cuts of meat, but the most consistent advice I kept getting from the locals was to forget it, “Your grill is too small…it could take four hours or more…. it is too difficult a thing to cook outside of an oven….after smelling it cook on the grill all day, you won’t want to eat it….etc.”  Not even the butchers were too encouraging, they advised chicken, pork, or steak, but a when a leg of lamb for the grill was mentioned, it was usually met with a non committal shrug.  I’m a pro on the grill, an ace on the smoker, but like a field goal kicker during the closing minutes of the game who looks up to see the opposing coach call a time out, I was getting performance anxiety.



Collecting wild rosemary

Despite the expert odds makers’ gloomy predictions, I bought a leg of lamb in Vathi and spent the next day picking rosemary, gathering dry branches of olive wood, collecting lemons, and grinding garlic with a mortar and a pestle.  Kathy started asking if I wouldn’t like to invite company over for a dinner party and share the lamb with a few friends.  I drug my heels until she got the message, I was not anxious to be in the spotlight if this thing went badly.

Sunday came, the fire was built, and the project went off without a hitch.  I concocted an herbal, lemon, olive oil, marinade and basting solution for the lamb, and Kathy sliced up some fresh tomatoes, put some our neighbor’s golf ball sized onions on bamboo skewers, and cut up some zucchini for the grill. The meal wasn’t good, it was spectacular, end zone dancing delicious.  I wish now that I’d cooked for the whole village, but I’d hedged my bets.  If I wanted to be carried off the field on the shoulders of appreciative dinner guests, I would have  to wait.  As they say in Gator Football…..”Next year.”

 

photos by Newell and Skaggs