news-record.com

Editor's note: Charlie Headington is a UNCG lecturer and slow food advocate. He and his wife, Debby, are spending the fall in Greece and Italy, working on organic farms as volunteers with WWOOF, World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. This is the first of several installments on their experiences.

Thursday, Sept. 4

Today, we will be at a farm in the Pelopo nnese of Greece. I'm a bit anxious that we may appear too old for farm work. Most volunteers in WWOOF, an international organization of volunteers on organic farms, are in their 20s and carrying backpacks. During the past four years, when we spent several months on several farms, we've proven our worth, but you never know.

Jennifer Kotsifas greets us and sets us up in a room in her family's new straw-bale structure. We have running cold water and no electricity but a kitchen area, a bathroom, a bed and a table. Her husband, George, made it, hand molding the stucco surface with rounded edges and a textured finish.

Jennifer and George Kotsifas are living their dream. Jen is a chef who loves fresh, local ingredients and wants to teach Mediterranean cuisine. Outgoing and personable, she can handle the flow of incoming people and prepare tasty and creative meals from the daily harvest. George is my age (60) and owns a hotel in Santorini. He grew up in New York City, but he dreamed of returning to his family land in the Pelopo nnese and, like Odysseus, finally did after 20 years, taking Jennifer with him.

Now with two beautiful and high-spirited daughters, Elle, 5, and Amalia, 3, they are building a working farm, cooking school and retreat center. It will be green: organic food, solar energy, self-sustaining. WWOOF volunteers have helped them with the larger projects, but George is clearly the master builder and Jennifer the master chef.

We drink some raki and partake of our welcoming meal, the first of several feasts. Then off to bed. Tomorrow, we begin our work.

Friday, Sept. 5

We are pruning olive trees. Suckers grow up from the roots and along the branches. Without suckers, George says, the mother has more to feed her good children, the fruiting branches. He should know. His ancestors planted many of them in the late 18th century; they are more than 200 years old. And each tree has been pruned to form four, maybe five, main branches that must support the fruiting branches and a 200-pound pruner like me.

Greece is the world's third largest producer of olive oil. Greeks consume more oil per capita than any other country, five gallons per year. Eighty percent of the trees in Greece are olive trees, and the quality is so high that 70 percent of it is extra-virgin, the highest designation (compared to 50 percent for Italy and 30 percent for Spain).

We climb into the trees, some of which have stair like branches and some that do not. Balancing ourselves, we free one or two hands to cut away the excess growth. Today we prune 18 trees. By day's end our hands and arms are scratched, burrs stick to our clothing, and we are tired.

Jennifer insists we eat the main meal with them every day. We happily comply, for she takes great care in her preparation. Her pesto will be extra fresh. An eggplant paste will come alive with lemon and tahini. The squash slices will be grilled on high heat. Her bread is from home-grown grain called Blackbeard, an ancient variety.

Our daily rhythm is established: up early for work before the heat takes over; then at 1 p.m., the main meal of the day, made more convivial with the farm wine, which induces a long rest. We do a few more hours of work until dusk and then make our own light dinner before bed.

Saturday, Sept. 6

By 7:30, the sun is on the far hillside of the valley. We prune in the shade. After three hours we are surprised to learn the family is going to market and for a swim. "Will you join us?" the girls ask.

The Saturday market is spread out in a large parking lot. My favorite part is the long aisles for fruit and vegetables. The produce of the Mediterranean is laid out at my feet: melons, lemons, grapes. We buy some of each. A woman selling honey asks, "You taste?" We taste and buy a regional speciality, thyme honey.

Greens - purslane, kale, spinach, chicory - most with strong flavors, are grown and eaten all year long. Traditionally, they were wild, and the name "horta" designates the wild greens eaten at many Greek meals. We found an old woman who had a pound of mizithra, a dry, salty cheese that is excellent raw, baked in oil or, as we will have it this night, thrown in an omelet.

The beach's sand is soft to my feet. I look out toward the sea; there is the island of Kefallonia and, next to it, Ithaki or Ithaca, Odysseus' homeland. As a boy, I read Homer's story, and here I am at this shore where the land of grapes and olives meets "the wine-dark sea."

That night, we work until 9. I water 40 young fruit trees, and Debby picks tomatoes to make into a sauce. For dinner, we make a large omelet with the two eggs from the henhouse and our cheese and potatoes. When we clean up and go to bed, the moon is almost half full.

Sunday, Sept. 7

From the town, the church bells ring; from a monastery two miles away, monks chant prayers. Swallows patrol a nearby meadow. Today is our day off, and we're going to the beach again.

George spent 10 years in America and five years in Canada. Back in Athens, he perfected his trade: restaurants, hotels and hospitality, eventually establishing a five-star hotel, Porto Fira Suites, on Santorini Island in the Cyclades. Jennifer often traveled from home in Australia to southern Europe and wanted to stay. She made her way to Santorini with the premonition that it would change her life. It did when she met George. Five years later, they have two daughters and a re-established farm. As George says, "The shot is long." (It's a long shot.)

Life as Fate, sculpted by fortune and chance, is an ancient notion. Each lifetime has so many enticements, decisions and possibilities. "One must choose," George says. And neither Odysseus nor George expects to be rewarded in heaven for his cunning on Earth.

Small steps lead up to the beach promenade and long rows of cafe tables. In the morning, we had a sweet treat, and later we had a full meal of fried feta, a Greek salad (not like our Greek salads!) and fresh fish from the morning's catch.

By four o'clock, we are tired and still had to hitchhike to town. Petra/Peter, an old man in an old van, picks us up. "America? I've lived in New York, San Francisco, Chicago ...." I begin to wonder if he is showing off because his English is not very good. His cell phone rings. It's his son.

"Here, speak to my son."

"Hello, son of the man in the van. Your father is a nice guy."

"Yeah, did he tell you about traveling in America? He tells everyone."

"Why, yes, he did. Did he live there?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, but it was so long ago. He thinks it's such a big deal."

Monday, Sept. 8

This is our final day of work. We are finishing pruning the olive trees.

Life on the farm incorporates tradition and change, even a willingness to break the rules. Jen is exploring a traditional cuisine. There were rules in George's family: Monday, beans; Tuesday, fish; Wednesday, vegetables; Thursday, meat; Friday, vegetables; Saturday, leftovers; Sunday, lamb. Jen plays with the components - grains and beans, vegetables and fruit, oil, spices and herbs and some meat - and sees a world of possibilities. Each meal is Greek, but also something new.

George's roots are deep: a 2,500-year-old culture, a 200-year-old farm, 59 years on three continents, learning five languages. But he values his land more if it is developed; legally protected pine trees "disappeared" from his field so he could grow crops. Religion is both necessary and not. "I don't believe all that stuff, but we need a little of its rules, laws, maxims."

Tuesday, Sept. 9

There is a changing of the guard. Two slender British young men, Ollie and Lenny, take our places at work and at the table. We tell them that the farm is a great place with great food and a modest work load. They like that.

George calls a taxi, and we say our goodbyes. By the time we roll our bags to the main road, the taxi arrives, and in a minute, we are gone.