My grandfather and I had a complex relationship. He passed away a few years ago. He was 93 years old. On many occasions before and after he died, a number of people approached me and shared with me what a great man he was and how he had influenced them.
I had bittersweet feelings towards him. Do not be mistaken. Feelings have nothing to do with unconditional love. When you are raised in a family with a strong ethnic background, such as my Greek upbringing, there is never a doubt about the strong love foundation; emotions, however, they float on the surface of the family underpinnings.
The most difficult internal emotional battles I fought were spawned by a rollercoaster ride of feelings I had toward him which followed me like a sine wave since birth. He was stubborn and often times opinionated. The man had an uncanny perception. It was as if he could sense that I was growing closer to him and when that proximity appeared on his radar he would launch some kind of devastating missile at me. He would show an act of kindness to draw me in. Once I got close he would say or do something to destroy it and this was the ride I was on since I first had memories. This is was his character flaw and it was a side of him that grated against me.
He did have one genetic disposition that I wished I had inherited. The man could shovel a 10,000 calorie meal into his head and not gain an ounce.
He did not eat poorly. Ninety percent of what he ate was natural. I know that he never read the ingredients on a can, but what he purchased closely mimicked what he was raised on and was usually free from artificial ingredients and preservatives.
My grandparents always consumed fresh produce. They lived in Astoria in the borough of Queens, which happened to have fresh produce within a stone’s throw radius of their apartment in every direction. They never owned a car and would walk everywhere.
My grandmother would cook a lot of stewed vegetables and fresh fish. She would cook with pig knuckles. Sometimes she would make a really good creamy stew out of them with whole wheat berries. Once in a while she would make a gelatin out of them. Let’s just say it was not the kind of Jell-O flavoring you’d find in the supermarket. I actually enjoyed it but could not eat much of it. The meat in the gelatin was tasty and had hints of vinegar in it. It is just not easy to eat slippery, cold fatty pork slivers suspended in a clear liquid.
In my grandparent’s kitchen, the cabinets were stacked with cans of sardines and squid. There were jars of lupine beans everywhere. Those little buggers are quite addicting. They are shaped like lima beans but have a pale yellow color. They are encased in an inedible skin with a tiny perforation its edge. They are eaten cold or at room temperature. You squeeze the bean with the little hole pointed to your mouth. It shoots out and you chew. The beans are crunchy with a hint of salt.
I stumbled upon jars of them at the deli next to the Winemaker’s Studio on Peconic Lane. My friend Rick and I went in there for a glass of wine. The stores are connected. When I saw the beans on the shelf, I felt like I was a kid again. Rick got addicted to them. He suggested I make them the official bar snack at my restaurant. You have to be a little cautious when you eat them. If you squeeze too hard the bean can shoot down your throat. There are enough disclaimers on the wall of a bar. I wouldn’t want to add the following sign to mine: “Warning: Shooting lupine beans into your mouth could cause you to choke. Should you ignore this warning, please see the Choking Sign.”
One year, I recall that my grandfather had cured his own lupine beans. He had five-gallon pails full of them in his basement. Each weekend, as he made his trip out to visit us in Greenport, he would bring us a container full. Once they got settled in from their trip, he and my grandmother, with black garbage bag in one hand and steak knife in the other, would visit the grassy areas on the side of the roads, and proceed to fill them with the
dandelion greens that they would collect. My grandmother would then get an ergonomically correct spackle bucket, flip it over, sit on
it under a tree and clean off the weeds from the roots. When boiled in water they were a little bitter, especially if the leaves had grown to maturity; however coated with fresh lemon and quality olive oil, they were delicious.
My grandparents lived into their nineties and they both were unbelievably active until about a year before they passed. After my grandmother left us, we went into their apartment to empty it out. The refrigerator had a small yogurt container filled with cured olives in it. Every morning, my grandfather’s breakfast would consist of “Paximadi,” or “dried bread,” with butter, cured olives and coffee, that my grandmother brewed on a percolator kettle on the stove. He would eat an olive, bite the buttered, hard bread and take a long, loud slurp from the coffee mug.
We all try to do what we can to extend our lives, hoping that one day our last days are filled with joy rather than bi-weekly trips to a few specialists. My grandparents didn’t give much thought to it. They lived a simple life. From them I’ve learned what I believe is the key to longevity: It is a diet made up of natural fruits and vegetables, pig knuckles –both stewed and gelatinized, canned sardines, canned squid, lupine beans, dandelion greens and cured olives with
coffee.
George N. Gianaris is the owner of The Hellenic Snack Bar & Restaurant in East Marion and the author of “Ferry Tales”.
