Last weekend, I whipped up a feast fit for a Greek god—gyros with a side of Greek fries. Okay, so maybe I’m not a god. I’m not even Greek. More like a geek. But if I were a Greek god, I’d be Pan, the goat god. That way, I could tell my girlfriend to either marry me or pull my goat for a change. (If you don’t get that reference, consult my journal entry Get Your Goat—highly recommended reading.)
So, there I was, Geek Goat God Chef, assembling the essentials: pita, meat (mushrooms for me— even gods have dietary quirks), Roma tomatoes, red onions, and, of course, Tzatziki—fun to say, even better to eat. The romaine lettuce? More Roman than Greek, but I let it slide.
When it was time to build our gyros, I turned to my girlfriend and declared, “Gyro good to go!”—as if I’d just ended world hunger. She stared, unimpressed. Either awestruck by my culinary genius or quietly reconsidering our entire relationship.
But the gyros themselves? No joke—they were divine. So good, in fact, that I’m now seriously considering having a big fat Greek wedding. That is, if my girlfriend ever stops pulling my goat and actually marries me.
To be honest, though, after making those gyros, my kitchen looked like Zeus had thrown a tantrum. Or worse—like a Minotaur had tried to make dinner and lost a fight with the fridge. I nearly smashed a few plates myself—“Opa!”—just to pass off my despair as festivity.
And what a big fat Greek wedding it would be. I ate so much Mediterranean food; I might be the Mediterranean now. If my girlfriend gets cold feet, I wouldn’t blame her—I’ve put on a few pounds (curse you, falafels) and now resemble something that could eat the tin cans off a Just Married car. If I ever hope to fit into a tux, I should swap Tzatziki for plain Greek yogurt. Or better yet, embrace my fate and get married in a toga—breathable, stylish, and, most importantly, expandable.