Fresh Mousaka.

The smell of fresh, homemade mousaka is currently massaging my nostrils, as it must have proliferated this house a thousand times before. I’m currently with my parents at my grandparents house in Harlesden for Father’s Day, having come over on the tube yesterday. It’s good to see them. I know this house very well indeed: it’s a place I have been visiting since I was an infant. Indeed, just a metre from where I’m typing this is the armchair where my Greek grandfather, my Bappou, used to sit me on his lap and sing a Cypriot nursery rhyme to me, swaying me gently before lowering me to the floor in a ball of laughs. My grandparents, of course, are not here any more, yet what remain are my memories of this old family house, still being used as it always has been: as a meeting point for my family, where we can get together, relish one another’s company, and eat delicious Greek food.

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