Angol
I had never thought we were poor until one evening at dinner when Mama fixed fava, a thick split-pea porridge. Next to the pot of porridge, she placed a bowl of vrouves, fresh mustard greens that she had gathered from a neighboring field, just as she did as a young peasant girl in her native Crete. She had boiled the greens and sprinkled them with olive oil and lemon juice. I didn't want the food. Soula turned to me with a smile and shrug: "What can we do? We're poor." Her words fell like a final judgment. That explained our life with its clean, threadbare spareness, the house Mama scrubbed and scoured that smelled of Roman Cleanser. You would know this food, these smells if you were poor. But I didn't like Soula saying it. I didn't like the slight smile at her mouth and the way she meant me to accept this fate as mine. excerpt from Greek Soul These compelling stories seen through the eyes of a precocious Greek-American girl evoke, with graceful restraint, the hardships and tragedies of her immigrant family and impoverished childhood in Detroit.
