"Spoon Sweets" (Γλυκά του κουταλιού)

Ah, spoon sweets. Not only are they fun to say, they're also numbing to eat. And they're everywhere:


A touch overwhelming? You should try eating them. Or rather, you should try eating one because that's approximately all your tooth enamel can withstand. OK, to be fair: The existential point of spoon sweets is that they are so sweet, you need but one to satiate that ever-gnawing need for something sugary that afflicts most, if not all, of the Greek populace. Remember, this is the same country where people can eat an entire piece of baklava, layer upon layer of syrupy sweetness, without a single wince. And let's not forget the cream-filled pies, the glistening halvahs, and the condensed milk drinks. In the land of insanely drippingly sugary creations, the spoon sweet is king. And to eat one is to experience a small ceremony of sorts. The shimmering thing is brought to you on a special spoon sweet dish, swimming in spoon sweet goo, to be eaten with a tiny spoon sweet spoon, the whole affair accompanied and followed by the obligatory glass of water:


Is it not perfection?

But all of this skirts the issue, I realize. The burning question being, "What the hell is it?" And that's where the true magic of the spoon sweet manifests itself. From what we can tell, just about any fruit or vegetable can be transformed into a spoon sweet. Figs? Check. Whole tiny lemons? Check. Zucchinis? Check. Watermelon rinds? Naturally.


And the recipe for metamorphosis is simple: Boil said object, cut or processed into bite-size pieces (the "spoon" part), in enough sugar (the "sweet" part) to render it preserved. There are, of course, variations on the theme: toss in some spice (clove, for instance, or nutmeg or cinnamon), stuff the sentenced plant ovary with an almond, etc. But you get the idea.


In the humble opinion of the Horiatiki editorial board, the best spoon sweets are those made of fruits and vegetables which naturally contain some tartness or sourness to offset the sugary onslaught. We enjoyed a very tasty sour cherry spoon sweet, for example, and offer rhubarb as a potential candidate. Another way to give the otherwise one-dimensional spoon sweet some depth of character is to spice it heavily, as Mama Pliakoni does with her absolutely edible almond-stuffed firiki (tiny apple) and peach creations.

But now for a prize-motivated Horiatiki Interactive CyberQuiz. Whosoever answers the following two questions correctly via our sophisticated Post a Message Option will win a jar of sickening spoon sweet gobs of his or her very own, to be hand-delivered by a member of our staff or a proud representative of the United States Postal Service upon our return. Sharpen your #2 pencils. [And take heart: In the absence of a correct answer, the most entertaining one will suffice.]

Question 1

Take the name of the fruit or vegetable shown here in spoon sweet form and rearrange the letters to spell a number in a Romance language. Add seven, and tell us how that country's southeastern EU neighbors would say the resultant sum in their national language.


Question 2

The fruit or vegetable shown here in "green" spoon sweet form is likely one you've never thought of ingesting before at this particular stage in its development. Imagining the alphabet as a circle, shift the letters of the first syllable forward 4 places and the letters of the second syllable backward 2 places. Rearrange the resulting letters to spell something precious – where are such things found?


Yum. Me.