At my grandma's...

My grandmother's house is more than a house, it is a haven where we run to in times of trouble. It is a meeting point for all the family.

 After leaving their homes in 1974 my grandparents settled in the house built for them by the government. Over the years they made that place their new home, my grandfather a carpenter by trade, making the furniture for the house and my grandmother a seamstress making curtains and cushions. They planted lemon and mandorin trees in the front of the house and a jasmine tree to remind them of the home they had left behind. I would spend my summers in that house which has become a second home. We would sit on the front porch sipping lemonade as my grandmother patiently made necklaces for us out of jasmine petals with a thread and a needle which as a seamstress had once been her sole pastime.

Over the years the house has changed, one could say for the better but also for the worst. My grandparents once had a back yard where they grew vegetables and herbs. It is now a monstrosity of a building for car manufacture, a symbol of the ugly reality. On my yearly visits to the island we would sit in the back yard eating freshly picked figs and prickly pears with halloumi cheese and village bread. Now my grandfather has to buy them. It is his pastime, driving his little moped down to the town's market, bringing back fresh produce which my grandmother has written on the list for him in her calligraphic letters.

Despite their meagre pension there is always something to eat whether it's fresh fruit or my grandmother's homemade delicacies. Fresh olive bread hot from the oven or her famous "daktila" sticky fingers made with pastry which is fried and covered with syrup or "pourekia," filo pastry filled with halloumi or cream. When we were in London we would get our yearly box full of Cypriot food including my grandmother's treats.

My grandmother's house is a stoical example of survival against all the odds. There is always something to offer guests, there is always generosity. I have written before about my grandparents' great dinners. There is a warmth in all that they do for others, bringing back memories when they were younger and more well off, but they have created other memories in that little house with grandchildren who attentively listen to stories of days gone by. All is left are the pictures and two old blankets taken hastily yet a mind full of reflection.