FILO PASTRY
The last time I baked galaktoboureko – a Greek pudding made with an orange-scented batter and handfuls of dried, flaked filo – I posted a picture of the filo on Instagram asking people to guess what it was. It could have been a bed of white blossom, finely shaved coconut or a beautiful, minimalist type of confetti. Nobody guessed what it was. Usually, when working with it, the idea is not to let the filo dry, as it shatters and you can’t shape it, but these petal-like pieces were lovely to handle.
When I look at what the Greeks do with filo, I could weep. There are more Greek pies in my repertoire than British ones whether buttery, golden or sesame seed-strewn, filled with bulgur, feta, big handfuls of pine-flavoured dill, or eggs, black olives and roast tomatoes. They’re easy to make and endless in their variety. You can imagine their invention; a resourceful Greek mamma looking at what she has in her garden or her haul from the market. Bitter greens? Leeks? These will do very well.
The weeping is to do with how badly we, in contrast, often treat
