The Feasting Virgin Read online

  Table of Contents

  Titlepage

  Praise for The Feasting Virgin

  Dedication

  Foreword

  The Virgin

  The Dilemma of Birth

  Into the Pot

  The Vision

  An Odd Job

  Tha Se Faw!

  SPANAKOPITA

  Beep!

  Link of Loukoumathes

  LOUKOUMATHES

  Baking a Baby

  BAKING A BABY

  Papoutsakia

  PAPOUTSAKIA (Little Shoes)

  BÉCHAMEL SAUCE

  Béchamel Sauce

  Roosters and Hens

  STEWED ROOSTER

  The Family Tree

  Babies R Us

  A Flashing Light

  Bread

  BREAD

  Sweet Sour Pie

  CALLIE’S SWEET SOUR PIE

  An International Visitor

  Time Capsule

  A Captured Spring

  Dinner at Dionysis

  In Callie’s Panties

  Hurricane Horiatis

  The Dinner Scene

  STUFFED SQUASH BLOSSOMS

  Belly Dance

  Mirage

  Green with Envy

  Apple Wishes

  GREEN ENVY APPLE CRISP

  Heart Attack

  Pig Heaven

  Macy’s, a Holy Place

  Pork Rump

  Maya

  Friends

  A Prayer for Gus

  The Elevator

  ROAST PORK WITH POTATOES

  The Next Step

  Beauty Before Comfort

  Mythos

  A Shiny New Penny

  Now or Never

  Pregnant at the Park

  Revealing Life and Death

  The Prenatal Visit

  From the Sea

  Purity

  The Reunion

  Cleansed of Sin

  God and the Kitchen

  AVGOLEMONO SOUPA

  Resurrection

  Gus Grows Up

  The Virgin’s Feast

  The Promise

  A Soul

  Xeni Leaves the Building

  An Empty House

  Melting

  At the Table

  The Inside

  Surrender

  The Outside

  Greek Festival

  I Am the Mother of My Imagination

  Gus Needs His Mother

  GREEK COFFEE

  Dome within a Dome

  The Koimisis Miracle

  The Pulse of Life

  The Virgin

  The Baby Divine

  Second Chances

  The Brilliant Host

  At the Hospital

  No More Secrets

  Birth

  Marina

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise for The Feasting Virgin

  “Whether you’re Greek or otherwise, anyone who’s been fed on cultural identity since birth will be totally enthralled by Georgia Kolias’s funny-yet-heartfelt, timely, and deliciously sensual debut novel. You need to read it. It will make you hungry, in many unexpected ways.”

  —Patricia V. Davis, author of The Secret Spice Trilogy and Harlot’s Sauce

  “The Feasting Virgin is a sensuous love letter to Greek food that will surely make you hungry. Through sexy cooking scenes and authentic recipes, Georgia Kolias brings the magic of food to life, showing how the heat of the kitchen can bring even the unlikeliest of pairings together. This novel teaches us to respect the origins of our food, encourages us to be our true selves, and celebrates the ultimate power of love.”

  —Michele Ragussis, Celebrity Chef and Food Network Star finalist

  “The Feasting Virgin is a miracle! I laughed and I cried! This is Greek womanish storytelling - gutsy, magical, wise, funny, passionate, and immersed in the irresistible smells and flavors of a good Greek kitchen. In the crucible of Kolias’ imagination, tradition, and even the most painful memories, can become ingredients for something altogether wondrous and new.”

  —Helen Klonaris, author of If I Had the Wings

  “The Feasting Virgin is wildly inventive, both moving and hilarious, and full of delicious surprise.”

  —Nina Schuyler, author of The Translator, The Painting, and How to Write Stunning Sentences

  “The Feasting Virgin is fresh, sizzlingly comic and tender at the bone. Plumbing the kind of longing that transcends the flesh, Kolias serves up every earthly delight: Greek food, Greek family, eros and mother love. Magical and deeply real, this is the big, fat California Greek lesbian novel you didn’t know you were missing.

  —Hilary Zaid, author of Paper is White

  “A sensuous, delightful banquet of a book with characters as irresistible as a batch of warm, sweet loukoumathes, dripping with honey. Georgia Kolias serves up a slice of Greek-American culture, complete with companion recipes, that is a welcome antidote to a time of anxiety.

  —Julie Christine Johnson author of In Another Life and The Crows of Beara

  “A beautifully wrought story told through the gaze of a woman who lightly inhabits two worlds, fully belonging in neither. With hints of magical realism, the characters fight their way through thousands of years of patriarchal bonds to try and find the perfect recipe to realize their needs, their wants, and finally, their deepest desires.”

  —Susan X Meagher, Award-winning author of Chef’s Special and The Right Time

  “The Feasting Virgin takes its characters on an unforgettably sensual journey through yearning for the unobtainable and learning to trust our deepest desires. With layered, unforgettable characters and a clever plot twist, Georgia Kolias has tenderly rewritten the traditional Greek Family.”

  —Jordan Rosenfeld, author of Women in Red and How to Write a Page Turner

  “The Feasting Virgin is a novel for our time of pandemic, when we have returned to baking and breaking bread at home. Georgia Kolias shows us how ancient culture nourishes us, portraying the joys and dilemmas of third culture kids. Just as when my yiayia patiently taught me how to put together the ingredients of our cuisine, so The Feasting Virgin imparts the recipes of the motherland translated into love, a family breaking bread.”

  —Aliki Barnstone, Poet Laureate of Missouri, translator, critic, editor, and visual artist

  For my three luminous miracles:

  Skyler, Theoni, and Apollo.

  Foreword

  On November 7th, 2015, I lost my wife, Sandra Moran, and the world lost a talented writer and learned scholar. Sandra was a professor as well an author and shared her talents as an instructor and mentor at the Golden Crown Literary Society Writing Academy. Because Sandra gave so much to the Writing Academy, in 2016, the Golden Crown Literary Society established a scholarship in Sandra’s name. The scholarship is given to a Writing Academy student who displays the potential to make a significant impact on lesbian fiction.

  In April 2019, in addition to manuscript samples from other applicants, the scholarship committee read a sample from an early version of The Feasting Virgin. The committee unanimously selected Georgia Kolias as the 2019 Sandra Moran Writing Academy Scholarship recipient.

  In July 2019, I was honored to present the scholarship to Georgia. And now it is my great honor to present this wonderful work of fiction to you.

  After you read The Feasting Virgin, I know you will agree that Georgia was the perfect choice for this coveted scholarship. And, like me, you no doubt will be looking forward to her next novel.

  Enjoy reading The Feasting Virgin!

  Cheryl Pletcher

  Ashville, NC

  April 2020

  MAY DAY
<
br />   for Georgia

  Spit on the ground; protect against the evil

  eye. Sprinkle basil droplets from a bowl.

  Bless home with amulets of blue glass. Mouth

  prayers and spells and names of beloved people,

  each name a breath, and save them from the lethal

  germ. Bend to Earth. Weave Maia a wreathed crown

  of olive branches, laurel, and wildflowers.

  Picnic beneath the grape arbor. Fly gleeful

  kites for the daughter’s returned to her mother.

  Forget your work. Love your ingredients

  more than your guest’s appetite. From air’s wild

  yeast, bread will rise. After winter, you’ll touch her,

  feed her tomatoes and cheese radiant

  with oil, honey sweet as being with your child.

  —Aliki Barnstone

  The Virgin

  I’m not asking for much. Some greedy people want money, cars, jets, or boob jobs. I just want a baby. It’s a simple wish that comes naturally to so many women, who are then compelled by some biological imperative to bring forth life. It seems unfair that for some women the wish is so easily granted—or even an unwanted accident—when for others it’s a struggle. Some of us are reduced to desperate measures, brought to the edges of our sanity and willing to try nearly anything to make our wish come true. I know what most people would say to me. You’re thirty-eight years old and a virgin. You have to have sex to have a baby. But I’m not like other women, and I won’t rely on a man to get pregnant. I would rather pray each day for a virgin birth.

  How can I be thirty-eight already? Almost forty. What do I have to show for myself? Piles of baby clothes that I have bought, and even sewn myself, for a baby that hasn’t come. I don’t have my own home or a big job. I stay in a guest cottage, caretaking someone else’s home while they travel the world. I teach bored housewives how to cook Greek food to please their husbands, and sometimes they let me watch their babies. Whatever odd jobs I can patch together to make enough money to live.

  My joy comes from planting fruits and vegetables in the garden, watching the seedlings poke their heads up through the dirt and bloom into glorious produce that I transform into delicious meals for one. These hands that pray and search my body for signs of life and come up empty are always full of ingredients: ripe tomatoes, verdant greens, sultry olive oil, salty anchovies, and magical yeast. Cooking is the only thing I do well. Even though I can’t get the recipe right for baking babies, I can make any kind of dish you can think of. Just give me a request and I’ll show you what I can do.

  I was trained to be a good Greek wife from a very young age. That means that I can cook and clean. I know how to foster the religious life of my family, and I know how to be subservient. This last one is the most important trait of all—learning how to honor, serve, and obey my future husband. From the time I was a little girl my husband was already more important than I was, even though we didn’t know who he was yet.

  I remember being five years old at a Christmas party at my godparents’ house in San Francisco. It was dark outside, and inside were lots of twinkly lights and a big, bushy, silver tree with round blue ornaments. There were piles of presents under the tree, and I wanted a Bozo the Clown punching bag for Christmas more than anything. The other children and I lurked around the tree, trying to see if our names were written on the biggest boxes. It seemed like everything was exciting and moving fast. The men smoked cigarettes and leaned forward, telling stories under their breath and slapping their knees as they laughed in the living room. My nouno, my godfather, would grab me as I walked by and put me on his lap and rub his bristly face against mine and bite my cheek. “Tha se faw!” he would say and take another bite. His lap was always hot, and I would squirm away feeling special and confused. My father never smoked, or grabbed me, or bit me, and when he drank he got mad. But the other men liked him because he told funny jokes and gave them free steaks at his butcher shop.

  The women were in the kitchen in their skinny, shiny dresses and high heels getting the food ready. Their aprons were frilly and clean. They never seemed to get dirty. As each dish came out of the oven, the women complimented each other on the aroma of the lamb, or the nutty color of the béchamel sauce topping the moussaka. My favorite was the baklava, with chopped walnuts and cinnamon sugar tucked between crispy layers of filo and drenched in honey syrup.

  My mother made the best baklava. She and my sister and I would sit in the kitchen and crack and shell a whole burlap bag full of walnuts over the course of a weekend. Our fingers would turn red and hurt from ripping open the sharp shells. But it was worth it for the freshest nuts, creamy tan and crunchy, free of any blemishes and handpicked to remove any little bugs. My mother always taught me to pick the best ingredients, using all of my senses so that I could make the best food. Picking produce by color, smell, and touch. Fish by firmness and clear eyes. Meat by bright color and bloodiness.

  Young Greek wives are often picked by reputation, and being the best cook is second only to virginity and subservience in desired qualities. My mother told me to make myself useful and handed me a big silver tray. She told me to use both hands. As I walked to the living room the ice cubes clinked against the sides of the short glasses, and I could smell the 7-Up and whiskey. I served the men in the proper order, starting first with my nouno because it was his house and he was my godfather. He grabbed me and kissed me again, scratching my face with his bristly face and said, “Bravo, Koukla!” He almost made me drop the tray, but I was holding on tight with both hands and smiling because my mother trusted me with it. Then I went to the oldest male guest, and then the next oldest guest, and my father, and so on until I got to the youngest man old enough to drink. They smelled like cigarettes, alcohol, aftershave, sweat, and importance. As I was leaving the room, I noticed my nouno blowing air into something. I stopped long enough to see that it was a Bozo the Clown punching bag! He saw me standing there and grabbed me with his free arm, circled it around me tight, put his finger up to his lips—“shhh! It’s our little secret”—and winked at me. I ran back into the kitchen so fast that I almost tripped, nearly dropping the tray.

  Well, I probably don’t have to tell you what happened next. Of course, it is so obvious. But it wasn’t obvious to me back then. Little Greek girls don’t get punching bags for Christmas. Punching is something that little boys do. They punch and grab and prod. Just as little Greek girls get taught how to be good wives, little Greek boys get taught how to be strong husbands. The boys learn how to push Bozo down, and the girls eventually learn how to try to get back up.

  That was the same Christmas I got Doll. She had a bottle and diapers, and when I fed her, she peed her pants. Even though at first I thought the punching bag was cooler, I came to realize that a baby doll was the best. I could hug her and dress her and feed her and tell her what to do. When I was mad at everyone else, I still loved her. She always smiled at me and never yelled. Sometimes I tucked her into my pants like she was sitting in my kangaroo pouch and hopped around the house. But then my mother would scream at me to be quiet and Doll and I would go hide under the dining-room table and play house.

  I have tried to take good care of her, but she is over thirty years old now. One of her eyes doesn’t open anymore, but I like to think of her as winking at me. Her short yellow hair has gone bald in some patches from all the brushing, and no matter how hard I scrub I can’t get some of the gray dirt off of her face. But she has all her arms and legs, ten fingers and ten toes.

  I’ve never given these hands in marriage. I’ve kept them for myself. I could see why someone would want a Greek wife. She’d make you food, do your laundry, clean your house, serve you cold alcoholic drinks, and give you her virginity. But what does a Greek husband give his wife? He makes and spends the money, maybe throwing her a buck if she begs. He orders her around in every room of the house. He burps after dinner and doesn’t even notice all the care she put into picking t
he freshest dandelion greens or cooking the pork chops just right so that they stay juicy and tender.

  The older I got, the wiser I got. So, I thought to myself, why would I get married to some guy who’d make my life a living hell? Praying for a virgin birth seemed like a better bet to me than surviving the experience of being a good Greek wife. After all, the greatest miracles can happen when you are pure of heart.

  The Dilemma of Birth

  The spiraling sensation worked its way up from Callie’s vulva, through the small of her back, and up her spine. She swayed in small circles, following the energy flow while releasing full breaths from between her lips. Her body was submerged in a bright blue plastic tub filled with warm water. Her red hair dripped with herb-scented water and sweat. Her only cover was her freckles. Surrounding the thick inflated walls of the tub were lit candles with undulating flames and petals from roses, pansies, and freesia. In a clear glass vase stood a stalk of tuberose emitting a thick, sweet fragrance and browning at the edges of the pale green-white blooms. Twelve women stood in a circle surrounding the tub with arms intertwined, their eyes half-closed and humming an indeterminate tune, but with great intention and synchronicity. With each escalating moan the women began anew, starting at a muted high pitch and slowly bringing their voices lower and louder as the contraction took full grip. The effect was similar to that of a weight lifter grunting, or a martial artist yelling out at the kick.

  Callie alternated her position in the tub between sitting upright with her arms outstretched, moving her hips in ever increasing circles, and falling forward on all fours screaming. The scene was exactly as she had planned it. All of her good friends were present, all of her favorite flowers were scattered throughout the room, and it was nearing dawn. The only light came from the candles and the rising sun filtering through the lace-covered windows. She could feel her baby working with her to emerge from her body, pressing his feet against her womb and pressing his head toward her opening. Each contraction brought with it the spiraling sensation of energy up and down her spine and she worked with it, not against it, as her midwife had coached her. She had been laboring for eleven hours and was nearing the time to push.