Is Karen Becoming Greek?

Karen is a world traveler.

She loves ethnic cuisines.

Mexican.

Thai.

Japanese.

Hungarian.

You name it, she loves it.

She is adventurous.

Me?

Not so much.

Yes, I have traveled.

Yes, I have tried local cuisines.

But most of the time, I stay in my safe zone.

Sometimes I blame this on my intolerance to certain things.

Parsley.

Curry.

Sorry, but I can smell curry from 1,169 miles away and I immediately bolt.

Turmeric.

Spicy food.

And… okay, enough.

You get the picture.

At some point, I even became allergic to garlic.

Well, not exactly garlic.

Chinese garlic.

The garlic of choice in the United States.

Organic local garlic?

No problem.

Greek garlic?

No problem.

Chinese garlic?

My body files an official complaint with the European Court of Human Rights.

And here is the thing.

Greeks do use garlic, of course.

But not the way Americans use garlic.

Americans heard garlic was good for the heart and immediately asked:

“Does it come in liquid form so I can drink it while walking down Fifth Avenue?”

Greeks use onions like a national foundation.

Garlic, however, is used with some restraint.

A little here.

A little there.

Not in everything.

Not in breakfast cereal.

Not in bottled water.

Not in a wellness pill designed to kill unsuspecting Greek men.

Early in our relationship, I was feeling under the weather. Karen, from the other end of the phone, suggested I take a couple of her wellness pills.

So I did.

I felt worse.

Much worse.

“How many did you take?” she asked.

“Two.”

“Take two more,” she instructed.

So I did.

Oh, the pain.

The cramps.

The sweating.

The dramatic Greek death scene, except there was no bouzouki playing in the background.

Then I looked at the label.

98.79% garlic. Ok I exaggerate

Chinese garlic.

My bride-to-be almost killed me.

A silent death.

Very elegant.

Very wellness-oriented.

Then Karen became pregnant, and the doctor said:

“Absolutely no feta cheese.”

Wait.

What?

No feta?

Greeks have survived a gazillion centuries munching on feta, and now suddenly my pregnant wife could not have any?

My family in Greece was mortified.

An emergency family summit was called.

There were probably cousins involved.

Maybe an uncle.

Possibly someone from the village.

Because in Greece, if a pregnant woman cannot eat feta, we do not just accept it.

We investigate.

Then Karen’s list of traditional Greek foods she did not like started growing.

Shrimp saganaki.

Sea urchin salad.

Vlita.

Figs.

The smell of figs.

I felt safe.

All my favorite things were now officially off limits.

Maybe this relationship was going to work after all.

Early on, I asked her the most important compatibility question.

“Chicken. Dark meat or white meat?”

“White,” she said.

“Dark,” I said.

Excellent.

The relationship may proceed.

There was only one small compromise.

The chicken behind.

You know what I mean.

We both loved it.

Every relationship needs common ground.

Ours was apparently located on the backside of a roasted chicken.

So there we were.

Karen, the adventurous world traveler, suddenly suspicious of half the Greek table.

And me, the cautious eater, defending sea urchins, wild greens, figs, feta, and the emotional importance of proper garlic.

And then we moved to Kalamata.

This is where the whole system collapsed.

Because now, almost every day, Karen discovers another Greek thing she supposedly did not like.

“Oh, I like these vlita.”

Excuse me?

These vlita?

The same vlita that used to look suspicious?

“The saganaki is delicious.”

Wait.

The shrimp saganaki?

The same shrimp saganaki that was once on the international list of foods Karen Davis would not negotiate with?

Then came the next blow.

Sea urchin.

She likes sea urchin now.

Sea. Urchin.

What happened to civilization?

What happened to order?

What happened to the sacred marriage agreement where I eat the weird Greek things and she politely looks the other way?

Now I go to the market, buy things, cook things, and suddenly I have to hide them before Karen discovers another food she has apparently always loooooved.

And the list keeps growing.

Koulourakia.

Tsoureki.

Although now she says it tastes like challah.

Excuse me?

Diples.

Lalagia.

Stuffed zucchini with avgolemono.

Gournopoula.

Lemon roasted potatoes.

This one deserves a hearing in front of the Supreme Court of Greece.

Karen hates lemon roasted potatoes.

Hates them.

Except now she likes these lemon roasted potatoes.

Of course.

Because apparently they are not lemon roasted potatoes.

They are Kalamata crispy lemon roasted potatoes.

Different species.

Different passport.

Different legal status.

At this point, the list is never ending.

Every few days she discovers another Greek food she supposedly does not like, tastes it, smiles, and casually announces:

“Oh, this is good.”

This is not a marriage anymore.

This is a naturalization ceremony.

She is becoming more Greek than I am.

Honestly, someone should make her an honorary citizen.

No written exam.

No questions about Greek history.

No requirement to explain the tax system, because nobody can.

Just put a plate of vlita, sea urchin, gournopoula, and crispy lemon potatoes in front of her.

If she reaches for the fork before I do?

She passes.

And then came the cherry on the cake.

The unheard of.

The impossible.

Marinated sardines.

Karen does not like sardines.

This was established law.

In the United States, sardines were one of the few decent fish I could usually find.

Baked sardines?

No.

Sardines cooked with tomatoes?

No.

Sardines cooked with anything?

“No, no, no.”

Fine.

I accepted it.

Marriage requires compromise.

I would eat the sardines.

Karen would pretend the sardines did not exist.

Civilization would continue.

Then we moved to Kalamata.

Fresh sardines appeared.

Real sardines.

Beautiful sardines.

Sardines that had not spent their lives inside a sad American supermarket refrigerator wondering where the sea went.

So I bought them.

I cleaned them.

I marinated them.

They were mine.

My last private Greek stronghold.

A few days ago, it happened.

Karen resisted.

Sort of.

Kind of.

For about eleven seconds.

Then she tried one.

On a piece of toast.

With avocado.

And yes.

You guessed it.

She loved it.

She LOVED it.

My last remaining fortress has fallen.

The vlita were gone.

The saganaki was gone.

The sea urchin was gone.

The lemon potatoes had already betrayed me.

And now the marinated sardines.

This is no longer a food story.

This is an occupation.

The end of Greek civilization as we know it.

The xenoi have conquered us.

And they brought avocado.

So is Karen becoming Greek?

Maybe.

Or maybe Greece does this to people.

Slowly.

First, it changes what you eat.

Then it changes what your wife eats.

Then it changes what you are willing to share.

One day your New Yorker wife looks at a plate of wild greens and says:

“Can I have some more” and she pulls the plate next to her.

And just like that, the Greek husband realizes the danger was never the garlic.

The danger was conversion.

Hers.

And possibly mine.

But please stay away from my sardines.

Too late… RIP my sardines!