I grew up in an apartment building in Athens with my pappou and yiayia living two floors down. Naturally, most of my childhood was spent in yiayia’s kitchen, where time moved slower, coffee was stronger, and measurements made absolutely no sense.
She would talk about cooking in oka and dramia. Excuse me… what?
The oka (from the Ottoman okka) was an old unit of mass. One oka was about 1.28 kilograms, divided into 400 dramia.¹ That’s right—yiayia’s recipes came with math homework. The system was officially abolished in Greece in the fifties,² but in her kitchen, it lived on forever—especially when measuring ouzo or tsipouro.
So when I’d ask, “How much flour, yiayia?” she’d answer:
“Mia oka!” (1.28 kg or 2.82 pounds, give or take)
“Kai merika dramia” (and a dram or two—aka random sprinkles)
Or the classic: “Óso sikosi!” (as much as it can hold)
And if that wasn’t confusing enough, she had her own personal measurement system too:
“Mia koutalia” (one spoon): Could be a teaspoon, a tablespoon or a ladle. Flip a coin.
“Ligo aláti” (a little salt): Keep shaking until your ancestors whisper, “φτάνει παιδί μου” (“enough, my child”).³ Or the classic: “Mia préza” (a pinch).⁴
“Mia houfta” (a handful): Could be parsley, nuts, or feta… or enough to feed a small army.
“Miso potíri neró” (half a glass) — but which potíri? In Greece, “potíri” is not a unit of measure. It’s a lifestyle choice.
If it’s an ouzo potiraki, we’re talking 50 ml tops — the kind of water you’d use to rinse your mouth after a dentist appointment.
If it’s a flower vase from the balcony, congratulations, you just turned spanakopita into soup.
And then there’s the truly diabolical reference: rakopotiro. That’s not a standardized thing, it’s just “the little glass Pappou uses to forget his problems.” Capacity: anywhere between a polite sip and a baptism.
Or my personal favorite from old cookbooks: “miso potiraki tou koniak.” (half a cognac glass). You’d think: classy snifter, crystal, swirling amber liquid. Wrong. In Greece, it’s the stubby little glass from the psistaria (grill house) down the street, the one that doubles as a toothpick holder when not in use.
“Me to máti” (by the eye): Perfect. My “eye” just made a moussaka enough to feed a village.
“Méxri na gínei” (until it’s done): That’s not a timer. That’s a prophecy.
The point is: when a Greek recipe says a measurement it’s basically daring you to roll the dice. Which is why no two yiayias’ recipes ever taste the same — they were never cooking in grams or milliliters, they were cooking in vibes. In the end, nothing was exact, everything was improvised, and somehow—always—yiayia’s food tasted better than anything in the world. My attempts with “proper” measurements? A culinary betrayal.
I still love to cook. People ask for my recipes, and I happily share the ingredients. Then comes the inevitable question: “But how much?”
My answer: “Me to máti.”
Because the ultimate Greek recipe is simple:
1 oka tradition,
200 dramia love,
and a yiayia watching over you saying, “You’re stirring it wrong.”
Footnotes
One oka = ~1.28 kg = 2.8 lbs. One oka = 400 dramia. Yes, yiayia’s baking required advanced fractions.
Abolished officially in 1959, but Greek kitchens follow their own legal system. Nevertheless, its use survived until the 1990s in the bottling packages of ouzo, tsipouro and related drinks: 80 gr. (“eikosipendaraki”), 160 gr. (“penindaraki”), 320 gr. (“ekatostaraki”), 640 gr. (“misokariko”). To this day when ordering ouzo or tsipouro they may still ask you if you want a “ekatostaraki”. Tradition never dies.
Greek ancestors are notoriously strict about salt. They’ll haunt you if you overdo it.
Préza literally means “a pinch.” Colloquially, it’s also slang for a drug dose—hence “prezakias,” a drug user. Don’t worry, yiayia only meant oregano.
