I mistakenly said to a neighbor a couple weeks ago that we should throw some kind of birthday celebration for another neighbor. Which I came to regret. Because said first neighbor started to dictate what to cook and prepare for guests. And I hate being told what to do. It's my being the first in birth ordinance and a classroom teacher or school district council coordinator in me that chafes at that kind of overt direction. I said to her point blank, no I'm going to make said second neighbor a birthday plate of mezze. Only the birthday wasn't this past Tuesday as I thought but is this coming Tuesday. No matter. I cooked Greek cuisine anyway. I prepped bell peppers, yellow squash, and a huge eggplant by sprinkling salt and drizzling olive oil on for grilling.
I popped phyllo wrapped mizithra cheese and spinach rolls that I got at the Middle Eastern market into the oven.
And made kofte meatballs with ground chicken, minced onion, minced garlic, bread crumbs, dried mint, dried oregano, cumin, ground coriander, a bit of cayenne, salt and pepper.
And then fired up my charcoal Weber and started grilling. And then drinking a glass of wine.
I was pretty pleased with the results even if my meatballs did stick to the grill a bit because the chicken was so lean.
I was too tuckered out to make tzatziki and hurriedly made a tahini-miso-garlic-lime sauce for the grilled protein and vegetables instead. Arranged all the elements above onto a dish along with dolmas, hummus, and spicy chickpeas and gave the birthday woman her present. Done. Don't ever tell me what to do. Because it made me manic and got me into a fight with the hubs. Please don't.
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