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My Greek grandmother and godmother, cousins,
My grandma baked and cooked homely,
My Nona, my godmother exotically,
Each one perfect, one couldn’t fault either,
Their husbands, playing backgammon
Looked up and winked at each other,
Each one betting a fiver!
Their competitiveness intensely extreme,
They would have won if they’d thought
Of working as a team.

A pinch of salt each one would throw
Over their shoulder, to ward off the evil eye,
Each one not prepared to lose, 
Win the prize or die,             
Both wanting to outdo the other,
Never willing to give in, to one another.

New Year’s Eve was approaching, 
The famous Vasilopita Bake
Was on, huffing, panting, rushing,
And kneading,
The challenge nearing an end, each cake
Put into separate ovens, who had the knack
To bake the best?
Their reputation as the best baker put to the test.

How would the Vasilopita look, 
How would it taste,
Energy, heart failure and shame,
At risk.
We have to wait,
To see who wins, it might not even apply
To either one’s fate.

What was all this excitement about?
My gran always dropped a sovereign
Into the mixture of this cake,
It was real, and certainly pure gold, no fake,
It was said that whoever found it, would
Without doubt,
Find great happiness and good health,
Good fortune and incredible wealth.


My nona however was caught out cheating
With a needle began searching
In my gran’s Vasilopita bake,
Always wanting to be a winner,
Marked the spot on this cake.
But bad luck for nona, granny peeped,
And when no one was looking smoothed 
The cake out, cunningly she settled a sliver
Of paper under nona’s spot, told my grandfather
The whole story, did my grandmother,
For she had the sovereign marked for a cause,
Which I will explain below in due course.

New Year’s day came, 
Afternoon tea the highlight,
My grandfather being the host, 
Cut the Vasilopita cake
And handed the prized piece to my gran
Who made a show of sounding delighted,
Nona was not enchanted,
My grandpa opened the front door and beckoned
The homeless man,
He placed the gold sovereign in his hand,
The poor man danced with joy, and said,
He was the richest man in the land.

Nona had lost,
It would have cost
Her a very dear cousin and friend,
Had it not been for my dear gran,
Who gave nona a hug, you can
Never do and must not repeat,
The same ever again, I was discreet,
But knew from the start,
And you broke my heart,
But I forgave you because I love you,
Now I suggest you bake another Vasilopita,
For yours burnt to a cinder,
This time, try not to let it turn to tinder.



POEM OF THE DAY 28TH MARCH 2025




What the word means.
In the third century AD in Turkey, a Greek bishop named Basil who was later sainted, stood up in adversity and danger to his own life to the Emperor of Turkey and reclaimed the treasures the Greek Christians had lost to him.  The Greeks bake a bread every 1st January to honor and commemorate him - Vasilopita.
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