Throughout elementary school, I remember being shocked when my friends would talk about visiting their grandparents for the Fourth of July or Thanksgiving. My grandparents lived a nine-hour plane flight and seven time zones away, so a casual weekend visit was obviously out of the question. My parents did their best, especially considering the hassle of traveling with two kids. They took us for long summer visits every three or four years, but to a 10-year-old, three years feels like forever.

As a result, I was always looking for ways to bring Greece back home with me. I collected seashells on the beach, wading into the chilly waves to search for undiscovered, unbroken shells. I remember being absolutely inconsolable when my prized possession, a clam shell larger than my dad’s hand, fell from its place above my bed and shattered into too many pieces to glue back together. Besides the remains of long-dead sea creatures, I also brought back stuffed animals from my grandparents’ apartment, cheap souvenir magnets for our fridge collection and of course, food.

Now that I’ve outgrown seashells and stuffies, Greek food is my favorite thing to stock up on for the long journey home, particularly Greek sweets. From σιροπιαστά to τσουρέκι, I take back anything and everything I can fit in my suitcase. In the Thessaloniki airport, I act like a kid in a candy store, piling boxes of baklava and other syrup sweets into my arms until I’m playing a dangerous balancing act, teetering up to the checkout line with my Jenga tower of goodies. It may sound impractical, but most places package their products for travel purposes, making it fairly simple to put them in a carry-on or even mail them across the Atlantic, as my grandfather occasionally does upon my request.

However, one Greek sweet has eluded all of my attempts to preserve it long enough to last through a plane flight and it’s the one I most desperately crave to have at home: τρίγωνα. Filo is shaped into a triangular cone and soaked in sweet syrup. A luscious pastry cream made from milk, eggs and butter is then piped into the casing, creating a canary yellow dome in the opening that can be topped with slivered almonds or crushed nuts, though it’s most often left uncovered. Served chilled, the cold cream is firm but still supple when you bite in, perfectly complementing the crunchy filo cone. Its neutral, vanilla-based flavor also offsets the pastry’s sticky sweetness, though there’s no escaping the syrup once it gets on your fingers.

Trigona is quite unique to Thessaloniki, having been invented in a suburb called Panorama in the 1950s or 60s. While they’re commonly sold in patisseries all around the city, the original baker, Elenidis and his eponymous store are heralded as the best and, to many Thessalonians, the only trigona worth having. 

I couldn’t agree more. All other trigona I’ve tried have a host of issues, from soggy filo to curdled cream. Only Elenidis maintains the highest standard of quality in every batch, guaranteeing a perfect trigona experience…with one caveat. 

You have to finish your box of trigona within a few days of purchase, as trigona does not preserve well. First off, you’d better get them in the fridge within two hours of buying them, unless you want the clean cream caps to start sliding off and soaking the bottom of the box. Then, you need to make sure everyone in your household is aware of the urgent need to consume them and is prepared to participate in a concerted effort. My brother jumped ship this year, leaving me to make my way through the batch on my own. And while I love trigona, I was less than thrilled to be eating them for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

In the end, I didn’t manage to eat them all before they started to slowly degrade, turning soft and mushy as they sat in a cesspool of syrup. At that point, I was faced with a difficult choice: forlornly finish off the last few putrefying pastries or admit defeat and throw the box away. Like I said, I love trigona, so I went with the first option, willing to eat even the sad remains of what used to be my beloved treat. 

But this is the problem I face every time I’m on my way to buy my tsoureki and Papadopoulos cookies, and I happen to pass by Elenidis: is it worth bringing trigona back to the States if it’ll be significantly worse for wear by the time it gets there? 

My brain says no, but my heart says yes. My heart says that even an imperfect taste of home is better than nothing. With so many miles between me and my favorite city, part of me wants to hold on tight to the few things I can bring back, even if it’s impractical. It’s the same part of me that kept the shards of my cherished clam shell on the nightstand for years after it broke. 

However, my dad is more pragmatic than I am. After a failed attempt two years ago that resulted in a syrup-covered suitcase and some rather trampled trigona, I wasn’t allowed to transport trigona across the Atlantic for this trip. It may be for the best, but it was still with a heavy heart that I walked by Elenidis on our last day in Thessaloniki and gazed through the glittering windows, festively decorated for the holidays. I stared for what seemed like an hour, trying to soak in the citrus and vanilla scents emanating from the store. I felt like I was drowning, taking my last gasps of air before the waves crashed over my head and pushed me back below the water.

It may seem dramatic, but food is all I have here to remind me of my heritage. Even if I wasn’t born in Thessaloniki, I spent months there during the formative years of my childhood. All of my father’s family still lives there; we have no relatives in the United States. Returning to Greece every few years at a new stage of life and seeing the city with fresh eyes has made it seem even more special. If home is where the heart is, Thessaloniki definitely has my heart. So, does that make it my home? 

Now, you see why I so badly want to save my trigona. I’m open to any and all ideas: if you think you have a solution, let me know before next Christmas. If I’m successful, I’ll be sure to bring you a trigona to express my eternal gratitude.