Cairo - Olympia Provisions

M y sister Michelle has always bailed me out.

Like the time I moved to Greece to cook without first discussing with the management how much they were going to pay me. I worked for the entire summer before finding out I was only getting paid room and board. So I had to call Michelle to buy me a ticket back to Switzerland, where I had moved from our hometown of Sandy, Utah, to do a four-year stage in Wildhaus, a tiny mountain village that has an amazing, one-of-a-kind food culture.

Or when I was preparing to leave Switzerland and the Swiss put the fear of god into me about going back to the U.S. (I hope you enjoy this appenzeller because youre never going to eat handmade cheese again. Or drink good beer. Or eat good sausage!) Michelle told me to come to Portland, vowing that their prophecies wouldnt become reality. She had moved to Portland during my time abroad, and having never visited the city, I braced for a wasteland of vapid food. I readied myself to never eat chocolate again, to be cool with Dennys, to see the world through Costco blue-colored glasses.

She picked me up at the airport, and perhaps sensing my apprehension, took me straight to the Portland State University farmers market. There I saw mche, Tillamook cheese, Oregon truffles, cherries from the Gorge, smoked fish from the Nez Perce reservation, and giant salmon fresh from the Columbia. It was then, after experiencing the inspiring Wild West ethos of Portland, that I told Michelle about my dream of making meat in the Old World traditions Id learned in Switzerland. And Michelle understood the vision because, well, it was in our blood.

Our dad didnt move to America until he was in his late twenties. He grew up in a tiny Greek village in the mountains where there was no choice but to do everything for yourself. And so he was a natural entrepreneur: a farmer, beekeeper, distiller, and butcher. He brought this ethos with him, and we grew up on three-quarters of an acre outside of Salt Lake Cityan exotic Greek island in a sea of Mormon suburbia.

Dad had a Greek column built outside on the porch. The lawn was a Greek oasis of whitewashed furniture, sundials, and a large fountain of Venus pouring water out of her bota bag. Indoors we had a bright blue carpetyes, to mimic the color of the Mediterraneanand all-white furniture (covered in plastic, obviously). Covering one wall was a painting of the Parthenon; just above it was the Greek key stenciled as a border around the room. So damn Greek it hurt.

The backyard was a fully functioning farm. You name it, we had it: lambs, ducks, geese, chickens, a hundred-plus pigeons (which we raced and ate), beehives, pine trees, and a garden bursting at the seams. Hungry? Find something in the backyard. Scrape your knee? Pour grappa from Dads still on it. Need glue? Go cut into the pine tree and mix the sap with sand to make it pliable. Oh, you were planning on buying it? Are you lazy or just stupid?

On Sunday afternoons, while our Mormon neighbors began their workweek, our lawn was awash with drunken Greeks dancing around a lamb on a spit. I would be the one playing clarinet, as my dad forced me to take lessons so I could play tunes from Zorba with a bouzouki band. My parents once were called to the principals office at school because we stunk of garlic so badly that the other kids parents complained.

Michelle was mortifiedby all of it, really. She hated the animals, hated the backyard, hated the Cadillac Brougham, and hated doing chores on a Saturday morning, like digging a potato cellar for my dad. The only refuge she had was the roof of the shed, her little oasis away from the animals, where she could suntan naked with our cousins in preparation for one of her beauty pageants.