The Perfect Hint of Cinnamon
Alexandra Demo
In a household whose matriarch dreamed about the morning meal, I never suffered from the torture of breakfast deprivation. To this day, the sight of a harried granola bar, scattered bites of fruit, or worst of all, an obvious omission of breakfast, literally pains me. In our home, breakfasts ran the gamut from generic (scrambled eggs and bacon) to gourmet (homemade orange rolls). Yet when YiaYia was around, breakfast transformed into pure heaven.
“YiaYia” denotes the Greek translation for grandmother, and connotes pinched cheeks, unintelligible exclamations of affection, and an incredible prowess in the kitchen. My grandmother was no exception and her culinary command compensated for the bruised cheek blood vessels. Under the guidance of her eagle eye and expert hands, even the most mundane morsel became an exquisite culinary adventure.
The woman was legendary for dishes as numerous as the miles separating her from the mother country, from lemon chicken with rosemary potatoes to traditional Grecian classics like spanikopita or baklava. Yet it was through her French toast that she achieved immortal stature in my eyes. She insisted on thick, hearty bread saturated in the rich, cinnamon batter and kissed by the griddle to a golden perfection. A drizzling of melted butter and authentic maple syrup polished off the masterpiece.
My adoration for her rendition of the classic was almost as legendary as the meal itself and eventually established a cherished tradition. Whenever we were together, about once a year, we would awaken the house to YiaYia’s French toast. It was a surprise for the family, our beloved secret. “Good morning little one, time to rise and shine!” she would cheerily exclaim as her trademark scent of Grecian baby powder tickled my nose and a smooth hand would gently glide across my forehead. Sleepily rubbing my eyes, a cushy figure encased within a plush velvet robe with loosely pinned black curls gradually came into focus. After I struggled out of bed and into one of the matching velvet robes she always bestowed upon me for Christmas, we would sneak through the slumbering house together to the darkened kitchen.
“Come on my precious koukla,” she would say, folding one of her aprons in half to fit my tiny frame and pulling over a chair so I could join her at the counter, “YiaYia needs your help.” Usually she assigned me the all-important task of sprinkling the precise amount of cinnamon to the batter. “This is the hardest job of all, sweetheart, because it has to be perfect. You must add just the right touch of cinnamon…” was the unfailing reminder of my primal significance. Being utterly convinced of her supernatural ability to discern the exact necessary quantity of cinnamon, I would nod solemnly, indicating my acceptance of this momentous duty. The proportion of cinnamon was her secret. With too much, the appreciation was lost, and adding too little risked an underdeveloped flavor.
Once she was satisfied with the consistency of the yellow batter flecked with cinnamon, I would ceremoniously hand her the saturated bread slices from my post as second-in-command. I relished this position, completely affirmed in her choice of me as her special helper. YiaYia laid the slices facedown on the hot griddle and they hissed in protest. I watched with awe as a sharp turn of her wrist jarred the noisy slices upright, radiating a perfect bronze glow. YiaYia anointed the golden slices with a smattering of butter before drenching them in warm, authentic maple syrup. By this stage, the entire family would be inquiring after the piêce de rèsistance whose scent had been sufficient to rouse them out of bed.
