Everyone in my village makes their own wine. My house has a 500 litre vat downstairs and most of the ground floor space is dedicated to wine making. Most of the old houses around here have an adegga. In the old world economy, if you don’t drink it, you can barter it for something else you need.
When I first moved in and I still had my wits, I decided that my time would be best spent building rather than winemaking. I gave away some four oak barrels, about 100 bottles and a bunch of other stuff to make some space for my hardware.
Two years on, and somewhat less sane and sensible, I have decided to give this wine caper a go.
At the end of the vindima I picked my own grapes. I have two varieties at my place. One is the very typical ‘morangueiro’ also known as ‘vinho americano’ named after the hybrid imported from North America to combat the Phylloxera plague which decimated European vines in the late 19th century.
The hybrid grape is known as isabella, whose parents are vitis labrusca (whose strong strawberry, morango, scent lends itself to the Portuguese name) and the native European grape vitis vinifera. Unfortunately it looks like isabella might have been the actual carrier of the nymph-fly Phylloxera to Europe from the Americas in the first place, where the native American grapes were immune. Subsequent to the plague, the vinho americano was employed as a disease resistant and hardy variety to be used as a rootstock. In poor and needy early 20th century Portugal, many farmers preferred to cultivate isabella without grafting or restoring the native varieties. In viticulture, not only was it recognised that the grape produced very poor quality wine but the hybrid grapes were considered an aberration on the European wine industry, and a ban was put on the commercialisation of this variety. Hence, you won’t find morangueiro in a bottle. More recently, morangueiro was a suspected cause of white matter lesions in the brain, i.e. brain damage, but the experts now say that it’s falling on your head after drinking morangueiro that’s the culprit. Still, “it would explain a few things” as my brother-in-law put it.
my grapes: tinta on left. morangueiro on right
Farmers today continue to grow isabella /morangueiro/vinho americano, especially in the Azores Islands where all European grapes had died. It’s the predominate backyard grape in this region. It’s prolific and hardy and some people have even become fans of the taste.
My other grape variety they call “tinta”. This could be one of a number of grapes native to Portugal: tinta amarela, tinta barroca, tinta caiada, tinta francisca, tinta miuda, or tinta negra mole. Or it could be that the neighbours don’t know what it is and it’s always just been called ‘red’. Or it could be mean they think it tastes like paint…
OK, less conversation, more action: I picked my grapes, cleaned them from the stem, gave them a wash and put them in two big buckets. I still own a grape masher, but it’s an enormously weighty contraption and I thought it wouldn’t be worth getting it out for only about 80 litres of grapes. Anyway, as foot mashing is traditional somewhere in Portugal I thought I’d give it a whirl. Set up the camera, washed the feet and jumped in.
And immediately fell on my arse, on concrete, causing a bruise as big as a t-bone steak. It’s slippery in a bucket of grapes. DER.
That night, hot feet woke me up, but I didn’t think too much of it. The following night, after another round of foot mashing, my burning, itching feet woke me up again. Not just itchy, I mean itchy bitchy itchy. I had to get up and give them a cold bath and then balm them gently with ointment until they calmed down.
Obviously that put a stop to any more foot-grape shenanigans. As the week continued my feet just got itchier and so shredded up and gory that I looked like I had leprosy.
the moment before falling, expertly captured
I complained to the neighbours. They said of course, idiot tourist, you see us foot mashing? No. DER.
I continued a once-daily mashing of the pomace with, logically, a potato masher. This process is meant to stimulate the fermenting of the grapes, but already I could see that there wasn’t much happening with the ‘tinta’ batch. No bubbles, not much smell. At this point someone more experienced might have added sugar or yeast to get it moving along, but my neighbours use no additives at all, so why would I?
After a week the neighbours told me I had to listen to the wine ingasso (pomace) and if it was quiet, I should drain it off. Indeed, as the wine said nothing, I drained it off, putting one batch in a brand new plastic jerrycan and the other batch into 5L plastic bottles. As I was draining the last of it through a pillowcase, Tia Maria suddenly appeared shaking her head disappointedly. She used some peasant viticulture terms that lay just outside my vocabulary, but I got the gist. It wasn’t looking good.
The method I was using was to follow what the neighbours do, but I was also bearing in mind advice from wine forums where the people are (perhaps) more concerned with the flavour of their labour. I should have done precisely what the neighbours do, but the trouble is, the traditional method is only focussed on saving the crop from souring. I was at crossed purposes, hedging my bets between an amish-like purity and the web-wino’s techno-intelligence.
At this point nothing was going to save this year’s “vintage”. The tinta had never tasted like wine, and was now swinging towards vinegar. The morangueiro at least had some alcoholic quality to it, but I wouldn’t say it was drinkable, exactly.
The one saving grace was that I also made 30 litres of agua pé from the must of the morangueiro. Agua pé is a drink traditionally given to the workers, to children and to the chestnut-eating people on St Martin’s day. It’s water that has been drained through the grape must, with a bucket of sugar added. It is mildly alcoholic, but is basically a nasty cordial… and that’s alright by me.
And there is a final consolation: if your wine turns out complete crap, you can still distill it to make aguardente. Morangueiro makes great aguardente… but for that story you’ll have to read part two…
For people who work from home, a toasted sandwich maker can be your best friend.
Working from home (or working on home, in my case), you are subjected to temptations to stop work almost constantly. Whether it’s the pets or the kids who want your attention, housework, or friends and neighbours who treat you like you’re on holidays, discipline and avoiding excess distraction become paramount.
Lunchtime is a period particularly vulnerable to focus destruction. You have to try and keep lunch easy and quick and this is where the electric sandwich maker comes into its own. It bridges the divide between a hot lunch and cold one, providing a healthy quantity of food that is still a satisfying boredom breaker.
I have several nifty little tricks I do with the sandwich maker, which was always known by its brand name ‘the breville’ when I was growing up, and when it was a just new fad.
The breville stalwart, as everyone knows, is the toasted cheese sandwich. My variation is to grill some onion on one side while toasting the sanga on the other, and stuffing the onions in at the end. Similarly, the pizza sandwich has your preferred selected ingredient grilled straight on one hotplate while you toast the tomato paste, cheese and sliced tomato sandwich on the other half. You can fry up a bit of bacon or garlic, capsicum, salami, or onion to add later, elevating your sandy from an ordinarily simple tosta mista (the Portuguese love a ham and cheese toasty and it is a mandatory item in every café in the land) to something mais especial.
It can also happen that the home worker is so dedicated that meals can be easily forgotten. With the unfortunate development of the webcam the home worker can be sometimes spotted at desk still in jarmies and bed hair at 11am. Again this is where the breville comes into the fray. By midday, the clock might be saying lunch but the stomach is still saying breakfast and the breville is saying French toast.
Far from being second rate, I consider yesterday’s bread a special occasion. Here’s why:
French Toast in the Toasted Sandwich Maker
an egg
splash of milk
maybe a pinch of salt and a pinch of sugar, a squeeze of lemon or orange juice,
or a drop of vanilla essence.
Yesterday’s bread – preferably a sourdough or, if you’re in Portugal, a mistura. Small bread rolls are ideal. White sliced bread tends to fall to pieces once dunked in the batter.
Mix the batter in a cup and pour out onto something that the bread will fit into – a pasta plate is perfect, or a small bowl. Dip the bread briefly so it’s coated all over, but not too soggy.
Wipe some butter around your hot sandwich maker (that’s why you keep the bit of paper or foil that the butter container comes with) and then chuck in the wet bread and drop the lid. Ssssss!
You can eat them with anything you want but the most traditional thing is honey. You could grill a rasher of bacon on one side of the TSM and have a Canadian-style honey/maple syrup-bacon thing, you can go all northern European and have cheeses and deli meats, or be English and have a plop of marmalade. I have been known to have a big dollop of my latest jam with a slosh of cream! Cinnamon and sugar is also good, especially if the toast is still a bit buttery.
If you are Portuguese, you may wish to hum a little Christmas carol as you are scoffing them down (as rabanadas or fatias douradas are a Christmas dessert thing in Portugal, you see. Mmm wonder if my fav cafe will do them).
Some people don’t like these kitchen gadgets because of the idea of cleaning them. But it’s easy. As soon as you’ve taken out your toast, and it the grill is still hot and a bit greasy, get a piece of kitchen paper and give it a wipe over. It’s clean enough in 3 seconds.
Obviously wine-making is far less important in english-speaking cultures – we don’t even start the season with a sexy name!
No sooner had my flesh eating visitors departed than the neighbours had roped me in to help with the grapes. Actually I volunteered in the name of PR and buying protection from the village mafia who have it in for me again because of the dog.
Apparently (and I would like emphasise the speculative flavour of the word apparently) while my guests and I were casually enjoying a top class breakfast, little darling-wookie-dog went and bit one of the sheep. Funny really because I seem to recall him sitting with us and begging for choriço and presunto… and there are 6 other unleashed dogs in the village, with teeth. One of the neighbours and I have decided it was probably little ‘pulga’ (flea), the remaining puppy, who did the job… I’m sure with further DNA testing and forensic processing my precious will be cleared of wrong doing.
Anyway, back to the grapes. It’s not hard work, and there’s no great rush on, but by the end of the day one is knackered nonetheless, and extremely grateful to the flesh-eater who left a quarter bottle of serious scotch whisky behind. I quite enjoy the work, and I think my neighbours do too. Friends and family drop over to pitch in with the work and eat the food, and there’s a bit of a party atmosphere. They make the work a bit of fun – On day one there was singing, the highlight being a 70 yr old husband and wife love duet.
Day two was mostly farting, but there was a dirty joke which had the old girls weeping with laughter. On day three, we’ve had a great deal of discussion about her (that’s me): my unorthodox picking technique which involves ascending the dodgy vine pergola (we were short of ladders), my dog situation and how the 10m long loose leash method is not fooling anyone, and how cool my board shorts are (thanks to australian surfer brother nick). And there was a whole lot more farting, for which my dog got the blame.
Today we achieved a record 1500 kilos of grapes (the other two days we could only manage about 500-750) and now Tia Maria’s vat is full of squashed fermenting grapes, stems and bits of dirt. As I’m trying to learn a bit before I do my own, I’ll pass on the following notes:
The predominant grape here is Morangeira, there’s a bluer grape they call Tinta and there are white grapes they call Branco. (Imaginative names (not) and are probably in village language not real portuguese). They mix everything in together.
They don’t wash the grapes and they don’t even remove the bigger stems, let alone the little ones. Some dividing of the white grapes happened because they are being picked quite late and a lot were either eaten by bees or rotten already.
Although foot mashing is still widely practised in Portugal as a method for making must (I was pretty keen to zip home and put on a skirt until I saw the size and depth of the vat, and realised it was more a wetsuit and snorkel situation) and they do say it lends a certain flavour to the wine, (ahem). Tia Maria has gone slightly modern and is using an electrically-powered crusher that looks like an old-fashioned laundry squeezer.
The musty grapes will ferment for 3 more days (but six days since the first batch went in). They then listen to hear if the fermenting has gone quiet (yes, that’s what they said). If it has then the wine will be drained from the bottom of the tank into stainless steel vats (although she has some oak barrels that she got from me that she might use this year, she says). Then they’ll test it after a month but it’s meant to wait for 3 months…they’ll try not to start drinking it, but then again, there’s a lot to get through, so why wait?
I’ve asked about chemicals, I’ve asked about yeast, I’ve asked about sugar. No to all. It’s just 100% dirty grape juice. (I must say that it tastes a lot like dirty grape juice too, but it’s free and in Portugal wine is just something you drink, not eulogise, so who’s complaining?) ‘Organic’ one of the smarter neighbours said with a wink, because no one has the time, energy or money for spraying.
After the wine has been drained off, the pomace will be used to make aguardente (portuguese grappa) in a process of heating and distilling.
Then the grandchild-who-inherits-everything will be given the nasty task of removing 500 kilos of filthy mush from the 2 metre high tank, (this I would like to see) whereupon it will be dumped in the street and will flow like the rivers of blood in the streets of mafia-ruled Sicily…
I’m a subscriber to John Irving‘s idea that if you’ve had a crap day, cooking dinner is your last opportunity to accomplish something worthwhile, and redeem yourself.
For an overacheiver, it’s inevitable that most days are a disappointment, unless you’ve managed to get Warren Buffet on the phone discussing your plan for relieving world poverty. Even when I’ve suceeded in laying a few stones in a new wall, I usually arrive at dinnertime with more than a just a hunger in my stomach. I have a hunger of the soul as well.
I thought I’d be wacking up a couple of thick stone walls this week, but I need to find two old gorgeous gates before I start them. I’ve been searching for months for the gates and now it’s really holding me up. The delay has given me the time to have three days of migraines, and a whole lot more to complain about. So instead of writing about how the building is going, I’m writing, again, about cooking, and complaining. There it is.
Anyway… dinner. Half the battle for some people is in deciding what to make. It’s not just that you want the result to be delicious and satisfying. Dinner should also should pay lip service (at least) to healthiness AND be new and thrilling, either because you have an audience to please, or just because when things are new, life brightens up a bit.
I’m writing about it because I have just made another great dinner that met the three essential criteria; Yummy, Healthy and New. And I’ve had a mild revelation.
It was basically a pile of blanched green beans with a bunch of small tomatoes, a small tin of emblemic portuguese tuna, olives, a poached egg and a mean lemony herby mayonnaise. The recipe is not the revelation – it’s about where the meal originated from.
Most of it came from my garden. The beans, tomatoes, the herbs, and the olives were mine, the lemon & egg was from my neighbour and the tuna was from… a tin.
Home grown. Food that has come from your own garden almost automatically satifies all the soul food requirements. You’re relieved of the decision of what to make, because you have to make whatever is ready to eat.
Food from you own garden is different from the boring paid for-kind. Garden direct vegies have the power to convert you to food you always hated. Cabbage for example. I never voluntarily ate cabbage until picking it myself. After all, if you’ve gone to the trouble of watering it for months, you do feel obliged to try it at least once. Trying = New. And now I’m addicted.
And fresher is certainly yummier, and healthier. But there’s something of an added cosmic extra about a great meal made with your own gear. It’s an accomplishment of the human animal’s positive interaction with nature. It’s redeeming. It’s soulful.
Growing your own is of course an essential component in the “dump your job and get a life” program. Simplify. Skip the supermarket bullshit. Skip the packaging and the petrol and the spending. Just like a vista of olive trees and the sound of silence, home grown food makes us happier humans.
But because I’m just a city girl in recovery, I want to ride the high higher. I’m going out for dessert. Yay for that other non-farma antidepressant. Cake.
All my love to Anthony. We learn as we go.
Posted Under: food
This post was written by Emma on September 20, 2009 Comments (3)
After exhaustive research on the ground and in the hammock I have discovered nearly nothing to explain why Portuguese chicken is the best in the world. But it is. You just have to take my word for it. Portuguese chicken, bought from the supermarket, or the neighbours, or eaten in a restaurant, it is invariably juicy and flavoursome. But why?
I was hoping to discover that Portuguese chooks are not reared in cages or fed hormornes or antibiotics. Alas it would seem that actually nor are australian meat-chickens kept in cages and the hormorne thing is just a myth. The widespread use of antibiotics appears to be under control in the english-speaking-web-friendly world at least, (it’s not discussed in portuguese) if only in the sense that the antibiotics (used to control disease in the animals and linked to the rise of antibiotic resistent infection among humans) in poultry production are limited and controlled by legislation and overseen by industry bodies. There was a specific outbreak of antibiotic contamination in Portugal earlier this year, but it was rapidly stomped upon by conscientious EU-fearing government ministers.
Nor are the local fowl a special and unique breed, as I was anticipating.
When the world-wide-web fails me, I turn to empirical study. Let me say that the Portuguese birds do not look very impressive. Compared with your standard production line woolworths frozen inghams style jobbie they look rather puny. Apparently the average life expectancy for aussie-henny-penny is six weeks. But my favourite lecherous butcher tells me that here, felipe-frango might get as little as three weeks to make his mark on the world. So maybe that’s it. They are the suckling pigs of the chicken industry.
Tia Maria (she’s my neighbour and the fonte of all wisdom) has one word to say on the subject and it is “tempero” (seasoning). I don’t dispute the idea that the Portuguese are world leaders in chicken culinaria, but this theory leaves out the one significant control factor in the research. Me. I am the control. I’ve bought the raw product and cooked chook for myself, my way, in various locales across the globe from Titicaca to Toulouse and my Portuguese bbq chicken is by far the best I’ve ever made.
But: one remaining variable: Piri-Piri. Ingredient unique to Portugal.
So, either my cooking has overtaken my tastebuds’ expectations or Piri-Piri has magical powers. Or Portugal has the best chicken in the world. If you are working on your own theories then I would love to hear them.
My Portuguese BBQ Chicken.
I cook this over hot coals under the gargantuan chimney in my kitchen. I get favouritelecherousbutcher to butterfly the bird or halve it, or maybe quarter, whatever. I wash it, throw some salt at it and give it a few stabs with a small knife especially in the thickest flesh. The quantities of everything are, as usual, completely arbitrary, although for a whole chicken I aim for about a cup of marinade because I like to throw it around.
Lots of garlic
zest and juice of a big lemon
olive oil
piri piri – either a few shakes of the fierce Calvé sauce one, or a lot of dried stuff.
Whip this together and spoon it over the pieces after they’ve had an initial colouring on the grill. I use the “juices run clear” test for doneness, although the Portuguese chook pieces shrink slightly when they are done. Anyway I’m usually too hungry to wait for more than 45 minutes and too paranoid to cook it for less. Whatever, it’s fantastic every time.
Saudades for Yen’s. (Vietnamese-Portuguese Chicken Salad).
In Sydney, I lived above a vietnamese restaurant called Yen’s. The food was so good, inexpensive and fresh that I’d eat there about four times a week. Many friends became addicted to it too, to the point where Yen’s became not just a place to eat, but a part of my life. I named my cat Mao, for example, because it’s Vietnamese for cat (way before I knew it sounds like bad in Portuguese).
The problem is that in central portugal it is impossible to get the right ingredients. So this is a recipe of careful substitution, and I think it’s a success because eating this helps to calm the beast when I get savage cravings, or saudades, for Yen’s.
Cooked chicken leftovers, ripped into shreds
a pile of shredded cabbage – Couve Lombarda in Portugal
a small finely sliced onion
two handfuls mint
small handful of toasted peanuts
vermicelli rice noodles, if you can find them, soaked in boiling water
Nuoc Cham (a vietnamese sauce, based on fish sauce and chilli)
Shake the ingredients in a jar and adjust according to your taste. Pour it over the salad just before eating.
equal quantities brown/yellow sugar (dissolved in equal parts hot water), fish sauce, white/rice wine vinegar.
2 small seeded chillies and 2 cloves garlic, juice of half a lime/lemon
dash of vegetable oil.
If you can’t get the fish sauce, I have used a mix of one part white or apple vinegar, 1 part oyster sauce, a dash of soy and a dash of water.
‘For the love of wild blackberries’ does not have the same ring to it, does it? I’m not even sure that they are blackberries, as the dictionary calls them mulberries but they are nothing like the mulberry tree that I used used to climb and pick the fruit of when I was a kid in Sydney.
So please advise, horticulturists, what are these called in English?
This is the time of year in my village when this plant, all year round a painful and invasive nuisance, finally pays back. It’s luscious and intense fruit makes fantastic jam, and I love jam. The amoras season also marks the start of several months of picking, being followed by the grapes, then the olives, oranges and then finally in November it will rain figs. When the figs stop, the rain will start, and it wont stop raining until may.
I really like making jam, but I only recently discovered that other people like my jam too. It makes me especially happy when my jars of stuff are enjoyed by portuguese friends. Normally my giveaways are just too weird for them, but jam seems to fit in with a normal portuguese jam-freshcheese-biscuits afternoon snack or dessert. And I’m only too happy to find a new way to eat jam.
Amoras Jam
For 1 jar of jam, I use approximately;
1 jar fruit
1/2 jar white sugar
juice of half lemon
1/3 jar rosé wine
I like my jams a bit runny, full of chunky fruit and not too sweet. The wine gives the jam a bit more complexity and depth.
I boil it up ferociously until a mass of bubbles have collected high above the surface of the fruit – it looks like boiling toffee. It usually takes about half an hour and I could let it go for an hour, but no more. I don’t bother to skim or even test for setting, but I do wash and boil the jars, dry them, fill them warm and then boil them again.
Apart from having jam on toast (especially good on portuguese breads), I also eat it with plain yoghurt for dessert, pile it on ice cream and serve it with fresh cheese, portuguese style. It would also be unforgettable with pannacotta (similar to leite creme in portugal) or on a cheesecake. Or a pavlova! Oh meu amor!
I consulted the Portuguese pastelaria encyclopedia www.fabricoproprio.net to see where the experts say the best Bolas de Berlim can be found…and my place already has been discovered, and it rates with the Portuguese too. Naturally. (Natário in Viana was where my berlim initiation/problem began. Yes, I agree they are very very good. But I now know better.)
You only have to look at me to know how much I love bolas de berlim. I have been testing the berliners of Portugal since my arrival, so that’s now thousands of them I have put away, so I surely know a good one, especially as I have also tried berliners of Berlin, as some kind of starting point, and can say with some authority that they are crap.
The Leitaria da Quinta do Paço can be found at Praça de Guilherme Gomes, (bit of a mouthful… it’s in ‘Vitória’ up towards the Igreja do Carmo) in Porto. It has recently had a groovy makeover that reflects its own history (as a milk factory) and its commitment to quality. I love this about modern Portugal: more and more it recognises itself in context of history and the wider world. This place says; we were a little milk factory for a hundred years which treated its workers well (check out the photo of the 1959 staff excursion) and took pride in the quality of our milk (there’s a shot of their display at an Expo). Now we are a café with charming old photos on our walls. We have a humble history, we believe in quality, we are proud.
And they have the best bolas de berlim in Portugal.
The Portuguese have a version of Tiramisu called Bolo de Bolacha. It’s simple: layers of coffee-dipped biscuit and thickened cream with grated chocolate on top. Typical Portuguese – they do away with the marscapone and the savioardi biscuits in the italian tiramisu recipe and replace them with inexpensive and more readily available ingedients. So unpretentious. So cool. I love this recipe because it’s a cake you don’t bake (and I don’t have a normal oven) and it’s pathetically easy and quick to make. I know it doesn’t sound that exciting; but believe me, it adds up to much more than the sum of its parts.
Here’s my version. I make it as a semi-frio/icecream. This is so yummy that I can easily eat a whole litre in one sitting. As a result I will not be wearing a bikini this year.
Ingredients;
A packet of Maria Biscuits (these are the most basic sweet biscuits there are. Here they cost 35c per pack. In Australia the equivalent would be Arnott’ s Milk Arrowroot. Except Marias are round and not as thick. )
A litre of Vanilla Ice Cream
Caramel sauce: equal quantities butter and brown sugar, cooked slowly until sugar is completely dissolved and colour altered slightly. Add shot of moscatel or brandy or whatever if it’s for grown-ups.
A cupful of espresso coffee.
Dip the biscuits in the coffee briefly and make a layer of them in an ice cream or plastic container (I line the container with plastic to make serving easier) then plop on a layer of ice cream, then a drizzle of caramel sauce and repeat until you’ve filled the container. Try to freeze it for 24 hours before eating, if you can wait that long. You have to slice it to get the full effect.
Brideshead is Revisiting me! I have been making my way through the 13 heavenly hours of this classic BBC series and I’m surprised that it still stands up after all this time. It hasn’t dated, at all. Mercifully shot on 35mm film, which was a massive luxury for television at the time, (even today only a few TV shows are shot on film). It really is charming and brilliant.
I was only 10 years old when I first (and last) saw it, and so I watch it now with new eyes and a proper understanding of the complex adult behaviour and the machinations of religion, friendship and family that drive the narrative of this great story. I’m also reminded of how much the book/film impressed and influenced me as a little person.
O Eurovision! I love you europy! How did this thing evolve into the Festival of Worstness that it is? Are there seriously no better songwriters than this in the whole of “Europe”? Is melody dead? And what’s with the dancing clowns and hip-hopping mimes? Jesus Wept! At least the semi-clad Roman gladiators doing fisting gestures succeed in distracting you entirely from the music. As for the people they call ‘Artistas’… Anna and Frida must be reaching for the Prozac.
Why the funk do they have to sing in English? “I’m in love with a fairytale/ even though it hurts/ I don’t care if I lose my mind/ cos I’m already cursed” – That was the offering from the winner. Sorry Norway: A LYRIC, IT AIN’T. Spare us your stupidity and sing it in Norwegian next time. I can just see the 2009 auditions : no singing or dancing involved, just an afternoon of smiling midriffs. It looks like every year the show’s heating budget increases, and the stylists’ budgets get cut in half. Next year the ‘Artistas’ will be performing in the nuddy. It’s got to be an improvement.
Anyway, still hobbling about with a cane, taking my powders and pills, waiting for a cure. I’m thinking I might start dressing in black just to complete the old-biddy image.
One fine day before I was struck down by this uselessness, I lit the old stone oven at the back of the “laundry”. Tia Maria (‘Aunty Maria’, as I call the matriarch of the village: it cracks them up every time, even though they don’t know about the drink) advised that it would take about an hour to heat up. After an hour I had to move the fire to the opposite side of the oven and give that side an half hour. Then you’re supposed to take the fire out (the stones are meant to go white), put in the food and shut the door (don’t have a door, so I’m using a stone).
But the stones didn’t go white! Even after 3 hours! By 10pm, I had to just get the food in there or I’d starve to death. I had prepared a cake with lemon and almonds, a dozen bread rolls and a pot of tandoori chicken.
And so, the cake didn’t rise and the bread rolls turned out like scones. But the chicken was heavenly. Next time I’ll have to throw a whole tree in there and keep an infernal blaze going the whole day. I realise now that my ancient oven is about ten times the size of Tia Maria’s modern one…It would be great for a party, a wedding, a bah mitzva – I could roast 20 chooks at once…
Having an outdoor ‘bread’ oven and grill, like the Aussie BBQ, is an essential Portuguese home fixture. That and the coffee machine. My neighbours don’t have dishwashers, DVD or hi-fi but they all have espresso machines… likely they are the inexpensive models… and they make really great, creamy espresso. So if you’re thinking of buying one, look for a Portuguese model and shop for coffee in Petersham or your local Little Portugal.
I have been on a diet since I got back from Paris. My sister-in-law had spent a week in Geneva where, let’s be honest, they is nothing else to do but visit chocolate shops. So not only did we have copious quantities of chocolate for immediate gratification, but I returned home loaded with an ungainly box of truffles and big fat log of nougat. And a big fat log around my middle. But what can you do? I did consider giving it all to the neighbours, but since one of them meantime had murdered my dog, it wasn’t an option unless my revenge was to clog their arteries.
So now, after several weeks of no-carbohydrates-at-night and NO PASTRIES (OMG), I have achieved no weight loss whatsoever. My only hope is that I do have four months (or four years) of physical work in the sun ahead, provided I get better sometime, so that ought to keep me from looking like mutton-dressed-as-lamb…
A diet is futile now I’m sick, anyway. The Portuguese (well, just my village people, anyway) believe that you eat your way out of illness. At home it’s vegemite toast and chicken soup and black tea, but the neighbours here are insistent that if I don’t eat at least 20,000 calories a day, I’m going to die. I read recently that the Portuguese are the only people in Europe who underestimate their weight. IE: They think they are anorexic when actually they have a healthy BMI. When they push me to eat more I feel it’s payback for all the times I hassled my super-lean friends.
