First, you got to scoop your hand into the huge bowl of ground meat, onion, rice, egg and mint; you rolled your gob into a meatball and plopped it onto the middle of an opened grape leaf, fresh from the garden. Then, you folded each delicate side carefully over to the top of the ball, and said “Etsi … etsi … etsi … et ketsi,” which means “This way, this way, this way and that way.”

The last two words were spoken emphatically, and then you placed the wrapped ball face down onto the pile of Dolmades you were both building inside a gnarly metal soup pot. The pot tilted a bit from the huge dent in its side, created the day my Nana threw it in anger when she found out she was pregnant. She already had 3 kids and thought those days were over for her, but the best was yet to come, and though my mother was named Estelle she was forever called Chickie, after Chicken Little, by her 3 much older, adoring siblings. My Nana, I’m told, would scowl whenever Shirley Temple was on and say “my Chickie is prettier and can dance better.”

(She used to squeeze my cheeks and say “I’m taking you to Hollywood and we’ll ALL be rich!” She had great taste, my Nana.)