Scents, flavours, even songs evoke memories and transport us to another time and place. Over the years, we’ve all gotten so busy, leaving little time to cook or bake, to celebrate family traditions. But we need those rituals, the familiar scents and flavors. They take us back. Like the smell of fresh baked goodies people recall when they arrived home from school. For me, the lemon-scented everything we cooked in our Greek home. The fresh, aromatic herbs, that when chopped, smelled like spring inside the house. 

Cooking and baking often conjure memories of my mother and Yiayia, Greek for grandmother. Mom cooked, could cook well, but she did not enjoy it. To her it was a chore she’d happily delegate to someone else. Feisty, opinionated, and fun-loving, she preferred to crack jokes and do other things. So, when she went to work in our family’s restaurant, she bequeathed cooking duties to me. My nine-year-old self, who would rather sing and dance (and often commandeered the centre of any gathering as my stage), had to go home straight from school to prepare dinner. She wanted it hot and, on the table, as soon as she arrived from work. I became skilled in the “make something from whatever we have in the house” meals. I learned to improvise, to make substitutions. To try new things. All my siblings had assigned chores. No kid wants to stay at home to perform these tasks. Sometimes in jest, we likened ourselves to Orphan Annie, though it was not a hard knock life—not at all.

Yiayia always held my heart. She had more time to sit, tell stories. Braid my long hair. Teach me. To be honest, I never wanted to leave her home; I wanted to move in and stay forever. I revelled in her stories. She told me ones she didn’t tell others — although only if I asked. Some stories my mother and her siblings didn’t even know! 

My short-statured, matronly yiayia — also a spirited woman — carried the weight of her life on her hips. Her older brother died at age three soon after the family moved to Chicago from Greece. This bit of information came to light while doing a report for school. None of her children knew she had an older brother and when I mentioned it, they thought I made it up. So, one day my mother and I trekked to the cemetery on a mission to find out if he existed. He did indeed. As a young girl, she suffered another huge loss. When she was ten, her father died suddenly. 

My great-grandmother raised five children alone. As the eldest, Yiayia helped with her younger siblings. My great-grandmother didn’t speak much English in those days. I asked my mother how in the world she supported her family. The answer: “We didn’t ask questions.” Sad. She also encouraged not to ask questions, which isn’t right. We need the stories. We need to know. Like the saying goes, “How can you know where you’re going if you don’t know where you’ve been?”

When the most eligible bachelor in town sent the neighbourhood matchmaker to arrange a marriage to my grandmother, her mother didn’t hesitate. They married three days later. Don’t cringe. It turned out to be a beautiful life. Yiayia fell madly in love with her husband. They welcomed seven children. Our beloved matriarch became a widow in her fifties but loved her husband even more when she died thirty years later. I’ll never forget the way her face lit up when I asked about my grandfather, whom I never met. Her cheeks turned pink, like she had just fallen in love. And she always started one of those stories with her hand on her heart and her gaze to the sky, like she could see him wave from Heaven. “My husband,” she would say, then continue.

Now, back to the food. Since Mom disliked cooking and baking, I learned at our restaurant and from Yiayia. What a treat to bake with my grandmother. If she assigned you to watch the oven, you knew she trusted you. Among other confectionary delights, we often rolled koulouria, traditional Greek Easter cookies she made year-round. Buttery, flavoured with orange and lemon zest — and whiskey. I remember beating eggs and lightly brushing the egg wash on the cookies, so they baked to a golden colour. When my turn to monitor the oven arrived, I rose like a victor receiving this badge of honour. 

Yiayia baked several times a week. She’d say, “If someone comes over, I have to have something to serve.” People always visited; her house could’ve had a revolving door. She’d say, “Stop over anytime,” and meant it. I recall people showing up at midnight or in the wee hours after a night out. Each time, she ushered them to her kitchen, coloured in avocado green. They’d sit on forest green vinyl chairs at a white table inlayed with — you guessed it — forest green. She would ply them with coffee and some confectionary delight, engage in conversation. After a while, she sent them off with a hug and a smile, and a directive: “Come back again soon.”

My favorite childhood memories include Yiayia. I never imagined she would leave us. I refused to pose for photos with her because I thought she’d always be there. Then at age 23, I lost her. Regrettably, I have only unearthed one photograph of myself with her. I missed her. Missed her cookies. I wanted to bake them. I needed them. Because then Yiayia would be here. But I didn’t have the recipes.

Fortunately, an older cousin recorded them. Unlike some women, Yiayia wrote down her recipes and shared them. She wrote, “A handful of this”, but how much is that? Hands are different sizes. My cousin dumped Yiayia’s handful into a measuring cup, then noted the equivalent. For “a cup of this”, Yiayia used a specific coffee cup. Again, my cousin measured and documented. Later we learned to go more by the feel of the dough, but that’s a secret learned only from experience.

Each time I baked these cookies, they tasted more like Yiayia’s. One day, feeling nostalgic, my mom’s youngest sister invited us to her house to bake Yiayia’s cookies together. Mom, who preferred to be a spectator, declared herself the “supervisor”.  Several aunts and cousins joined our fun. We made Yiayia’s recipe for koulouria with its abundant ingredients. The recipe yields a mountain of dough—enough for about two-hundred-plus cookies, depending on their size. 

At the kitchen kitchen island, I added the ingredients one-by-one to the bowl of electric mixer. Others sifted flour, greased baking sheets, zested oranges and lemons. Bright citrusy scents filled my aunt’s kitchen.

A pound of butter, creamed. Sugar. Vanilla. Eggs. Then the remaining ingredients, plus one last liquid before the flour—whiskey. The recipe indicated six capfuls. I carefully poured the first and added it. Then I poured another capful.

“Don’t be stingy with the booze!” Mom called, waving her hand.

The rest of us looked at each other, confused. Mom came around the island and knocked the bottle as I poured. My brows raised. My aunts’ eyes grew wide as saucers. A lot of whiskey.

“More! Keep pouring into the bowl while you drop the cap.”

My mouth dropped. My aunts gritted their teeth. 

“I’m the oldest. I know,” Mom said. She resumed her seat at the table.

We shared Yiayia stories, talked about other recipes that we missed. We rolled dough into braided twists, “S-es”, and “O-s”, like she did. As the cookies baked, the aroma transported us to Yiayia’s kitchen. For a moment, we were kids running through her classic Chicago bungalow, Yiayia warning us to slow down. 

Mom eyed the cookies. She grabbed a warm one from the cooling rack. She inspected it, then lifted it to her nose. She took a bite. “Perfect!” she said, chewing, then motioned for us to try one. Though the whiskey flavor was strong, the cookies were tasty. “Try more,” she said, slapping her leg. Mom rushed back to the table, unable to control her roaring laughter. She sat facing the window and buried her face. She refused to let us in on the joke. 

Later, we got it. You see, since Mom wasn’t a baker, she did not know that the alcohol bakes off—only the flavor remains. My jokester mother thought that by adding extra whiskey, then urging us to taste-taste multiple cookies, she would get everyone drunk. Mom passed away a few years ago. This is among my favorite memories. 

These days, I’m the only one who bakes Yiayia’s cookies. I’ve mastered the flavors. As I begin to mix, I summon her spirit to ensure they turn out right. We share them with family, who eagerly await them, the taste and smell wrapping us in an otherworldly embrace. Once, a cousin said, “When you bring the cookies, it’s like Yiayia comes to visit”. 

If I close my eyes while we bake, I’m back in the kitchen with Yiayia. Since losing my mom, these cookies remind me of her, too. My daughters often bake with me. Each time, just before we add the whiskey, I hear a voice in my head — a message from beyond. Her boozy directive has become a mantra, a regular part of our baking ritual. We say the words aloud, in unison: “Don’t be stingy with the booze.” And laugh ‘til it hurts.

Try them for yourself! Enjoy the cookies and a good laugh.

Yiayia’s Koulouria

With Mom’s Spirited Addition

Koulouria

Ingredients

1 lb butter and ¼ stick margarine

4 cups sugar

14 eggs

½ cup milk

Scraped peel of 2 oranges and 2 lemons

6 tsp vanilla

2 Tbsp baking powder

½ cup orange juice (no pulp)

1.5 tsp baking soda

6 capfuls whiskey, overflowing—Mom said so

1 bag Ceresota unbleached flour, plus extra

¼ cup Mazola or Wesson oil

Instructions

In a mixer, cream butter and margarine. Add sugar and mix, about 5 minutes.

Add 12 eggs, one at a time. Once mixed in, add the milk. Mix until light and fluffy.

Scrape the peel of the oranges and lemons. Add to mixture.

Pour in vanilla and add baking powder. Continue to mix.

In a separate bowl or glass, pour orange juice. Add the baking soda and let it foam for about 1 minute. While it’s foaming, it’s time for the whiskey. Mom’s voice will fill your head: “Don’t be stingy with the booze”. Warning: if you are, she will haunt you. Insert Mom’s cackle here. Go ahead. Add a little more. She’ll love you for it. Pour it in. Caution: Laughter will ensue. Go with it. It’s good for the soul. After the baking soda has activated, pour in the orange juice blend. 

Add flour, 1 cup at a time. After the 4th or 5th cup, you won’t be able to use the mixer anymore, so transfer the dough to a very large bowl. Begin kneading the dough and add just enough flour so that the dough is not sticky and is easy to form shapes. 

Note: If you melted some of the butter when you started or if you listened to my mother’s ghost and added more than 6 capfuls of whiskey, you may have to adjust the amount of flour. Even weather can affect how much flour is needed. Likely you will use the entire bag of flour, and some extra. Dough should not stick to your fingers

Move dough into a ball in the center of the bowl. Lightly pour oil around the dough and work it in. This makes them soft.

Cover the bowl with a towel and let the dough rest for about 20-30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 350°. Grease the cookie sheets. 

Roll the dough into thin “tubes”. Twirl some into twist shapes. Curl others into “S” shapes, and “O” shapes, and place on the cookie sheets.

In a small bowl, whisk two eggs, then drizzle in a small amount of water water. Lightly brush egg wash onto the cookies. Bake 10-12 minutes until golden. Ovens vary, so start with 10 minutes and then determine if more time is needed. Transfer to a cooling rack. The cookies taste even better the next day when the flavors have had a chance to converge. And don’t worry, you’ll get all the taste without the buzz.

Yield: Approximately 250 cookies (depending on size)