"The first clue that a meal was unsavory was our father's claim he was presenting us with a delicacy."
"Maybe priests were just as bad at math as Jesus."
"Frankly, Homeland Security would be wise to contact our yiayias for a diplomacy consult."
"Once the egg cracking contest began, we were no longer family-we were soldiers on a battlefield trying to vanquish our adversaries."
"When I die, I want to go to Heaven savoring that last, rich, salty bite of spanakopita on my lips."
For K. D. Papandreou, growing up in a Greek-American family was a topsy-turvy experience. While breakfast cereal and morning cartoons were allowed on Saturdays, Sundays were always church daze. And trips to Grandma's house were fun because there was always plenty of spanakopita and honey candies. Still they knew, once they crossed that threshold, that American rules and customs no longer applied. That meant no Oreos, pizza, or TV. It also meant trying to avoid eating tripe stew on the holidays. Luckily, the tooth fairy was a regular visitor, so they had pocket change to spend on gum, chocolate, and other essentials.
K. D. has decided to call Baklava for President a memoir so there's no finger pointing about her childhood recollections. And she's taken the liberty of cleverly altering everyone's names so she won't have to go into the Witness Protection Program after her family reads this.
But she knows there is one thing they all agree about: food is love and, if something is good, more is better.
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