By James Banakis

February 6^th, 2026

Recently, John Kass and I were discussing a column he was working on. Of all our common varied interests, food has been the first and most lasting bond that we have shared through the years. We were discussing the importance of fresh locally sourced produce. He told me a heartfelt story of his Theo Taiki who came to the United States for the first time for a visit. The relative was from the mountainous Peloponnesian region we were both familiar with. It’s an area of Greece known for sheep herders and very humble agrarians who in the words of Nikos

Kazantzakis, “bow trustfully over the soil the entire day, sowed, waited with confidence for rain and sun, and in the evening folded their arms and place their hopes in God.”  Farmland there is measured not in acres, but in humble rocky plots, hanging like shelves on the side of the obstinate age-old mountains.

His relative, usually talkative was quietly and pensively watching endless fields of corn as they traveled through our rural Midwest. Finally, he asked if they might pull the car to the side of the road.

He got out and walked reverentially up to the tall ripe stalks of corn and scooped the rich black soil in his hands and tears spilled down his cheeks. In his column Kass remembers his uncle saying,

How flat, how rich, so beautiful, one small field could feed a whole village for a year! What a country, my boy, what a country! America, America.

John’s story allowed my mind to drift back to remembrances of my paternal grandmother. Her name was Ariadne. In mythology Ariadne was the daughter of King Minos of Crete. It was Ariadne and Thesus who devised a plan to slay the fearful Minotaur. I only mention that because I’m fond of mythology.

Ariadne owned one of those wonderful historic row houses in Pullman on the southeast side of Chicago. During WWII she was a still a youngish widow. She and most of her neighbors started “Victory Gardens” on the large vacant field across from their homes. At the time it was patriotic to supplement the war effort by growing produce for home use. My devout grandmother, like Kazantzakis’ depiction would plant her crops, and place her faith in God. For years she baked “Prophora” the bread to be blessed as part of Church services.  Her baked bread and pastries were the stuff of legend in the community.

Long after the war was over, when all her neighbors gave up their garden plots, Yia Yia took most of them over and created to what was to me, then a child, a real farm. When we went to visit, we’d arrive early.  My grandmother would place a large hat on her head, gather her implements, a bushel basket, my brother and I, and head to the field. As I write this, I close my eyes and concentrate, and I can still smell the intense, intoxicating varieties of fresh mint, basil, dill, rosemary, chives, marjoram, oregano, and parsley.  She cultivated corn, tomatoes, potatoes, beets, onions, squash, bib lettuce, and vegetables galore, all in well-tended rows. My brother and I would watch her cultivate the soil and water the crops. The two of us would hold the basket as she picked just what she needed to prepare the meal that afternoon.

As a young girl she had immigrated to Mason City, Iowa and ultimately to Pullman from the island of Samos in the eastern Aegean.   She was a culinary artist who specialized in seafood dishes. Also, no one in my experience every made stuffed poultry and roasted stuffed lamb breast as well as she.

On this day she prepared one of her specialties, baked halibut (Plaki) incorporating all her freshly selected herbs and vegetables. There was also a huge, lush salad with lots of parley and dill, and crusty bread for dipping in everything.

I would sit in her kitchen drinking the half coffee, half milk concoction that my grandmothers always prepared for me. I’d watch her confidently timing everything and multitasking. Years later I identified her self-assured style as that of accomplished chefs. I remember that all her cooking utensils were large and heavy duty. When it came to cooking and gardening, she was serious-minded.

In her kitchen, above her on the wall hung a stern religious icon and a large, framed color print of Franklin Roosevelt, looking heroic in a black Navy cape. As a young boy, I always assumed that it was the deceased grandfather I never met.  Years later my father told me FDR was on the cover of the Sunday Tribune magazine, and Yia Yia framed it. She had a crush on the president.

At dusk after supper, before going home, it was out to the farm again. There we collected produce to bring home. Yia Yia pointing out what was ready to be picked and what wasn’t. She instructed us to be gentle with the tomatoes. We also would collect lighting bugs in an empty peanut butter jar with holes punched in the lid so the bugs could breathe.

Then there were hugs and kisses as we scrambled into the station wagon for the trip home. Lastly a box of pastries, cookies and hard candy passed through the back window that she almost forgot and yet more kisses.

Back home my grandfather’s friend, and famed Oak Park artist, Jim Bjork had his own truck farm on a huge vacant lot in Berwyn. His farm started life out as a WWII victory garden, just like Yia Yia’s. Jim a talented, gentle witty man was a precursor to hippies. He’d sit on the far end of the counter at Candyland for hours sketching, and engaging customers. My grandfather would feed him, occasionally dropping off over burnt toast or a kitchen mistake which he consumed gratis. Occasionally I’d sit with Jim, and we ate ice cream together. I enjoyed the way he and my grandfather teased each other.

During the summer my parents would drive to Jim’s farm where we again collected the wonderful local produce. Jim like Ariadne revered the soil. The bountiful farm stand was his domain, and summer business. He’d give my mother instructions on how to prepare what we gathered so as not to overcook and ruin the flavors. Jim always claimed that my family overcooked vegetables. You see, my mother’s side of the family were adequate cooks, but nowhere near Ariadne’s ability.  When I go back and look at old family holiday dinner photos, Jim Bjork was there. Seamlessly he’d mix in with an adult beverage playing poker with the uncles into the night.

Through the years in all the restaurants I’ve operated, I have always sought out fresh local produce.  I was never caught up in trendy “farm to table” movements. I rather have always viewed fresh and local as just part of advocating for the customers. It’s also always fun to have food festivals and seasonal specials. Produce is optimum when sourced in the growing cycle nature intended. If presented properly and in a timely fashion diners and the restaurant staff become engaged.

Sadly, for all our abundance as Americans we have adjusted to bland tasteless produce as the price we pay for being able to eat anything at any time. We demand strawberries in January. Here’s a test…. go into any supermarket walk through the produce section and breathe deeply.

Chances are the only thing you’ll inhale will be a faint whiff of floor cleaner. Then walk through a peach orchard in July or smell a freshly picked homegrown tomato. These are the aromas that man was gifted beginning in the Garden of Eden.

With the holidays approaching, I was discussing family food and party memories with my brother Chris. He used a term describing one beloved family member’s cooking and entertaining as her “love language.” I think his definition is best explained as expressing your love for someone by preparing something special, feeding and attending to their body and soul. His descriptive phrase made me realize that so many of the people in my life who I’ve loved and loved me expressed their love through food. It’s as primal as a mother’s instinctive love of a child yet can be conveyed as modestly as a valentine.

Now here’s the best part of that special expression of love. Even though so many of those people may now be gone they still send that love to us every time we a recognize their hidden spice in a stew, or eat Nonna’s Sunday sauce, Abuela’s wedding tamales, or prepare a whole lamb on the spit, as our fathers patiently once demonstrated. Our senses, always hard-wired, never let us forget what becomes their eternal memory.

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Jimmy Banakis is a life-long restaurateur.  He was an honorary batboy for the White Sox in 1964. He attended Oak Park River Forest High School, Nebraska Wesleyan University, and Chicago-Kent Law School.  He claims the kitchen is the room he’s most comfortable in anywhere in the world. He published an extremely limited-edition family cookbook. He’s a father and grandfather, and lives in Downers Grove Il.