In Greece, these are the cookies—everyday, unassuming, casually dunked in coffee, never demanding too much attention. Where I grew up, the closest equivalent might be a classic chocolate chip—no fanfare, just a quiet, familiar comfort when you need a little something sweet. Koulourakia are the supporting characters of the cookie world. They don’t steal the spotlight, but they’re always there, steady and reliable.

It almost feels like sacrilege to show them alone, without their ever-present companion: a cup of dark Greek coffee. But they deserve their own moment. On a stark white background, nothing else in the world. A tribute to their quiet heroism. Their delicate, hand-shaped twists—formed by instinct, by hands that know the motion without thinking. Their perfect crumble, practically begging to be dipped into hot coffee or tea. The broken bits, casually popped into your mouth mid-conversation.

There will be crumbs. There are always crumbs. But the best part? Savoring the crumbs.

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But to an outsider (and I’ll be the first to raise my hand!), this little chocolate feels like uncharted territory, a hidden gem among a sea of imported sweets. The moment I saw it, I knew it had to be captured in a drawing. The crinkled green foil, alive with shifting reflections, promised both delight and frustration as I wrestled with its elusive colors. The folds and creases of the wrapper’s interior, claiming to be white yet undeniably not white. The hazelnut core—more than a shape, more than a shade—daring me to translate flavor into form.

At first, this candy was foreign to me. A curiosity. Now, I know it intimately, every glint and shadow, every crumb of chocolate. But for those who grew up with Noisetta in every candy bowl, what do they see? If we both look closely, do we meet in the same place?

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The moment you press down, the golden layers crumble into a constellation of crisp, delicate shards. For a fleeting second, you consider using your hands instead—until you lift the piece and realize just how impossibly saturated it is, each bite a cascade of honeyed excess. You will go through this ritual every time, convinced there is no good way to eat it. But here’s the truth: there is no wrong way to eat baklava.

It is an experience. A delightfully messy one. And when you embrace that, when you give in to the syrup and the crumbs and the inevitable sticky fingers, it becomes something even greater—a small, golden lesson in savoring the moment.

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14 x 11 inches

A frothy, chilled coffee, as sweet as you like it. For me, bitter is best. Is it the energy boost that we crave, or is it the icy coolness that perfectly hits the spot? Whether you're seeking relief from the relentless heat of a Greek summer or the blistering pavement of a bustling mid-city festival, the Greek Frappe offers more than just refreshment—it’s a moment of respite.

Legend has it that this beloved drink was born out of necessity. A Nescafé employee, unable to find hot water for his usual instant coffee, opted for cold water and ice. With a shake, the magic happened. A simple innovation, yet it quickly became a cherished symbol of Greek summers and a staple of outdoor gatherings. It perks up the senses, refreshes the soul, and brings a little burst of energy that can carry us through to the night.

In this drawing, the Greek Frappe is captured in all its chilled, frothy glory—a tribute to the unexpected hero that fuels our days and nights.

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The way honey catches the light is pure magic, blooming with deep amber tones that shift before your eyes. The liquid’s smooth curves play with the shape of the honey dipper, refracting in the most delicious way. A feast for the senses—before it ever touches your lips.

And any honey lover knows: when that inevitable golden drip escapes the jar, you have no choice but to swipe it up with your finger and steal a taste. 

10" x 14" (12" x 16" in the frame)

colored pencil on 100% cotton paper

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