All during dinner tonight I watched an elderly Greek woman drag tree branches up the hill to stoke her brick oven. At one point another woman arrived, looking even more ancient. Outfitted in head to toe black, with a hooked nose – I swear there might even have been a wart at the end – and a staff, she looked like an archetype out of the Brother’s Grimm. The two of them began to quarrel, accompanied by hand waving, spitting on the ground and, I assume, oaths of damnation and threatening hexes. I was riveted. Then just as quickly as it had erupted, it evaporated: the older crone left, shuffling up the hill and the woman pictured above returned to her oven. I cautiously approached and asked if I might take a photo. Yes, she said, breaking into a sort of smile. What are you baking, I inquired. Rusks.