On the one hand, there are new traditions and treats to try on for size. Here in Portugal, I fight through the crowds at the grocery store to buy almonds. Chocolate almonds, jordan almonds, candied almonds, you name it. There is no Easter in Lisbon without covered almonds, Easter bread with an egg on top of it, and a big piece of lamb. (But mostly-- almonds.)
Alas, here is the double edge I mentioned: as much as I enjoy almonds, the Easter candy of my own youth is nowhere to be found. In particular, do you know what they don't have? Peanut butter eggs.
Easter without peanut butter eggs. It looks sad, as I am typing it.
So what is a girl to do but figure out how to make her own? And in the meantime, why don't I give these almonds a try?
Although technically spring has sprung, it seems that the weather has not chosen to cooperate yet. For me, this is not unwelcome since:
a) I thrive in cooler weather and can maintain a happy mood for longer periods of time;
b) The baby has many cute long sleeved outfits and sweatshirts which he is getting good use out of; and
c) Comfort food tastes better when there is a chill in the air.
Case in point: this Marinated Pork in Wine and Garlic, known in its native Açores as Torresmos de Vinha d'Alhos.
Lily the kitty loves bacalhau, too. (Or is that fear in her eyes?)
It may seem strange for a blog called The Bacalhau Chronicles not to feature bacalhau in every post. After all, if my goal is to cook 365 different bacalhau recipes, why do I only cook it once or twice a month?
Erm... good question. There are two solid answers to this one.
1. I am growing to like bacalhau more and more. It is a learning project for my tastebuds which I am embracing and appreciating. But I am not ready to eat bacalhau every day, not even in the name of blog science.
Hello, my name is Jen and I am a spicy food junkie.
Sad to say, I'm actually not interested in a 12-step program to cure my addiction. The nasal-clearing rush you get from a big green pea of wasabi on a piece of sushi. The tingling burning lips you get from too much hot-label salsa on a burrito. The kick in the back of the sinuses you get from a cheese sandwich slathered with English mustard. The combination of blistering hot sauce on wings that can only be tamed by a dip in some blue cheese sauce. These are happy feelings.
Generally, I don't indulge this urge for spice very much these days. As you can see from the recipes on this site, Portugal is a land where the flavors match the temperament of its people and its climate: mild, pleasing, and friendly. On the rare occasions I have encountered "spicy" food, I find that my weathered American tastebuds barely register the kick, while Portuguese friends are gulping water and fanning their mouths.
Sometimes, though, a girl needs her heat. And this Jamaican-inspired baked rice and bean dish really hits the spot.
Christmas Eve is a big deal in Portugal. It is the day when the presents are opened, it is the night of the traditional meal of bacalhau, and it is the day when the family gathers together for the holiday. So I was not too surprised when we arrived at Bacalhau Boy's sister's home for the Ceia de Natal and we were greeted by this huge sideboard of goodies:
It is a big year for the Bacalhau Chronicles, y'all. This will be the first year Bacalhau Boy and I spend Christmas here in Lisbon. Do you know what that means?
I am going to finally experience FIRST HAND that most holy of all bacalhau days-- Christmas Eve.
Bacalhau Boy and I are just a few hours away from hopping a flight to see my family in the United States. I am anticipating too much awesome board game playing and cupcake baking and historical sightseeing to actually have time to post anything to the blog until our return.
So while we are off having family fun, I am sharing two of my favorite new Portuguese foodie diversions to keep you entertained.
Sounds familiar, you say? That could be because this blog is by the authors of the recently released book, Eat Portugal. It is perfect if you are visiting Portugal and want help navigating menus so you can be adventurous and yet not get stuck with, say, roasted pig snout. (Unless you are into that...)
The blog has some great features on typical Portuguese foods, many written by one of my favorite bloggers, Lucy Pepper. So until my bacalhau pan is back in action in a couple of weeks-- try this out!
This show has me hooked! The original Australian version has intrigued me for years, mainly because there are an outrageous number of contestants, overly complicated rules, and what seems like eight shows in between each elimination.
On the other hand, the contests they devise encourage creativity that is actually achievable, and all the more interesting as a result. The Portuguese version is even more up my alley since the ingredients used are not the ones I would gravitate to normally. I can say it has taught me a lot about getting in a "Portuguese cuisine" state of mind.
See you again in October, refreshed and ready for more bacalhau.
Summer in Portugal hearkens back to a time I... really don't remember. Ever. For the first decade of my working life, I counted myself lucky that while I didn't exactly have time for "vacation", I got to travel quite a bit for my job. That counts, right?
As I pass through my third summer in Portugal, I am finally learning how to blend into Southern Europe in August. Basically, it is best not to plan on getting anything done. If you are not off to the beach for the month (why aren't you?), then everyone else is.
Our butcher shop and one of the local groceries are closed until... who knows? They each forgot to put up a sign. The bakery that delivers our bread twice a week was closed down for the whole month. Cafes throughout the tourist district are shuttered up.
And since my main client is a university which (you guessed it) completely shut down their administrative offices for August, I have had an enforced vacation the likes of which I have never experienced. Even in my high school and college days I had full-time summer jobs. This was utterly disorienting to someone raised with an American work(aholic) ethic.
So when I wasn't busy feeling guilty about my own sloth, I had time for the summer things I always wanted to do. One of those things? Growing balcony vegetables.
I am a fan of tapas. A huge variety of bite-sized morsels that makes a meal out of appetizers? Sign me up.
Nowadays, though, I live in Portugal. A place where tapas is a word used by the country who historically plays Marsha to Portugal's Jan: a country also known as Spain.
So we don't eat tapas in our house. We detest tapas. We avoid tapas and their shiny perfect hair and adorable miniskirts and effortless popularity with guys named Doug and Charlie. Tapas, tapas, TAPAS!
I did not realize how insulated I was from the lives of the animals I eat until I was denied the emotional distance (and convenience) provided by the American supermarket.
In theory, I am a great supporter of knowing from whence comes my food. It is only logical that since I choose to be a meat and fish eater, I should understand my choice involves, you know-- living things.
Whatever finicky tendencies I had as a child (ketchup on mac and cheese, anyone?), I left them all behind once I hit college in New York City. There is a whole world of food on that little island: sushi, burritos, bagels and lox, spanakopita, sesame chicken, kim chi, soul food, falafels, and on and on. I became an enthusiastic believer in trying new things.
This characteristic has served me well in Portugal.
Octopus, blood sausage, pig trotters, tripe, snails, and fried sardines-- they all require a bit of fearless tasting for me, whereas they are second nature to Bacalhau Boy and his clan. When my family came to visit last year, my sister-in-law won the prize for most culinarily adventurous by tucking into a pig snout from the elaborate platter of meats my father-in-law proudly presented for lunch.
Now, to be fair, Bacalhau Boy is no grand fan of offal or entrails. We rarely eat snout. But this past week I craved the taste of summer-- the kind of summer which my inner child's tastebuds would recognize. I made pulled pork sandwiches with homemade cole slaw on top. I made a chilled sriracha macaroni salad that left my mouth tingling with delicious spiciness. I grilled cheeseburgers American style-- WITH the bun, eaten by hand.
But oh, how the pendulum of married life swings.
I filled my belly with familiar deliciousness. Also, I watched my dear BB good-naturedly eat the mayonnaise-laced cole slaw and the vinegar-based barbecue sauce and the spicy sriracha salad despite his hatred of mayonnaise, vinegar, and spicy foods. I felt a teensy bit bad for him, even though I couldn't understand his weirdo tastebuds.
Finally, once my inner child was appeased, I figured it was time to take pity. The next night I made my honey some real Portuguese comfort food.
In the middle of a hectic day at work, I ran down to the cafeteria to grab something to eat for lunch. Ten minutes later I was sitting at my desk, simultaneously eating a ham sandwich and proofreading a draft on my laptop. The Portuguese staff came in, saw me, and did a double take.
Why?
Because to eat a cold sandwich for lunch while sitting at a desk working is completely oddball American behavior. My Portuguese co-workers (much like Bacalhau Boy) require lunch at a table! With utensils! Hot food, and plenty of it.
Things can seem a bit through-the-looking-glass here when it comes to meals. There are many ways in which a North American visitor might become confused. Here are the five top mistakes I have made things to remember when eating in Portugal:
Summer has hit Lisbon, and it will linger like a socially inept houseguest well into October.
Yes, I understand that this is an ungrateful attitude toward a warm climate. And I'll be the first to admit, coming to Portugal for a beach holiday and enjoying the heat and constant gorgeous sunshine is a spectacular way to spend a week or two. But commuting via crowded bus, lugging home bags of groceries, doing the vacuuming, and finding business attire that covers nakedness but does not bring on instant sweating? All less than awesome realities of life in sunny climes.
About six months ago, I saw my first episode of the Biggest Loser. I had never wanted to watch it before, but as is the nature of living abroad, when you find English-language shows, you give them a try. And in this case... I was promptly addicted and I dragged Bacalhau Boy right down with me. (You're welcome, BB)
So, how thrilled were we when we found out that Portugal was getting its own version? (Answer: MUITO.)
Last night was the premiere episode of Peso Pesado (Heavy Weight). Bacalhau Boy was looking forward to seeing the presenter, Júlia Pinheiro-- a woman he claims has more in common with the Weakest Link's Ann Robinson than with sweetheart Alison "Sami" Sweeney. I was looking forward to seeing if they could find a Portuguese Jillian to be both psychologist and sadist extraordinaire.
In the end:
Júlia was not (very) scary, and it was too early to tell if the trainers were, either.
The first challenge was exciting, humiliating, and had an "oh, TWIST!" moment, which was excellent.
There is a new element of the show called the Comando who took aside two contestants and made them do push-ups while he splashed them with buckets of cold water. That was pretty awesome.
All-in-all, we will likely be as addicted to this show as to the original.
What surprised me the most, though, was the first Temptation. Júlia led the contestants out to say farewell to their "best friends"-- and there was a buffet of Portuguese food at its finest. (Skip ahead to 3:00 minutes to see the food--)
Now... at this point in the evening, Bacalhau Boy started to make noises. Noises like, "Uhhhh... Ooooo... Ohhhh... Mmmmmmm." I was rather startled. These are the noises that I usually make whenever the Biggest Loser tempts their poor contestants with delicious and fattening food. Not Bacalhau Boy.
"Ohhhh, that looks so good to me, I can really feel the temptation. I never feel that way when they show those nachos and cheeseburgers and crap on the other show."
I was stunned. "Nachos and cheeseburgers and crap"??? A sério? I guess the sliced meats and cheeses and olives looked lovely and if I were at a party I would try some, but suffice to say I would not have to work hard to resist them, either. Not like a cinnamon roll. Or a big plate of mac and cheese. Or nachos...
At this point, the cholesterol really hit the fan. The producers began to unveil plates of the contestants' favorite dishes. (Starting at 5:30" on the video)
And this-- this is when you know you are living in a different country. The Biggest Loser morphed into a scene from Fear Factor. The favorite dishes of the contestants include (in the order in which they are revealed):
Picanha with fries and rice: Picanha is the sliced rump-cap of beef, very popular in Brazil and Portugal. Bacalhau à Brás: Saltcod with eggs and fried potatoes Bacalhau com Natas: Saltcod with heavy cream and fried potatoes Lasagna: Errr, you know this one, right? Cachupa: A pig's foot, sausage, and bean stew from Cape Verde Dobrada: Tripe (pig intestine) and chickpea stew typical of Porto Beef in Mushroom Cream Sauce and fries Migas: A kind of bread stuffing served with fried pork
Somehow, I don't think that Peso Pesado is going to torture my natural apetite instincts the same way the Biggest Loser does. But what a way to get to know the food cravings of Portugal and pick up some new ideas!
In the past two years, I have managed to learn a bit of Portuguese. This is helpful for lots of reasons.
1. I can go grocery shopping and know what I am looking for.
2. I can talk with Pedro's family.
3. I can understand what our "mulher a dias" (equal parts cleaning lady and grumpy grandma) says when she criticizes my messy dresser drawers.
4. I can eavesdrop on public transportation. (Hey, it's good practice!)
But the BEST reason I have for learning Portuguese is Portuguese television. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then television must be the eyes of a nation. (Yeah, that's right, I was an English major, yo...)
Anyhow, since I can't offer plane tickets to Lisbon for all my family and friends, I had to at least share a few of my very favorite Portuguese shows with you.*
(And yes, there is a recipe at the end. So hang in there.)
*Note: I loved these shows long before I spoke Portuguese, TV being a visual thing and all. So I hope even if you don't know your obrigada from your chouriço, you will give these gems a try.
1. Home Makeover Show: Querido, Mudei a Casa!
"Honey, I Changed the House" is similar to the TLC show While You Were Out. There is a two-day makeover which is kept secret from one member of a household while professionals transform one room. Genius in any language!
There are certain hallmarks of this genre which are all here:
The Before/After Room Scan, complete with music which maximizes the chance you will oooo and ahhhh.
The BlahbittyBlah when the designer talks with the host about how awesome the room is while as a viewer you just want to get to...
The BIG REVEAL for the homeowner.
BUT-- watch the clip below and tell me if you do not notice one very glaring difference at around 5'45". Go ahead, I'll wait.
I grew up in a not-so-warm place, so it always amazes me when spring comes in reality at about the same time the calendar says it should. Today was that day for Lisbon, and it was glorious.
I should point out here that this is one of the only ways in which Portugal is prone to running perfectly on schedule. If you are meeting a Portuguese colleague or friend, by all means show up on time, but bring a book to read while you wait for them to arrive.
Which reminds me:
Meeting friends for afternoon coffee is a wonderful, ubiquitous tradition here. I knew when I was out walking today, I would see plenty of happy folk enjoying their "bica" with a side of sunshine.
Errr... wait a minute...
Ahhhh, of course! The traditional first outdoor café of the spring, at GREATOPUS Digital Printing Express.
I did mention that the afternoon coffee was ubiquitous, didn't I?
I have never liked being 5'10". As a girl I had visions of growing up to be a wee woman with red curly hair and green eyes. But, alas-- brown hair, blue eyes, and a decidedly un-dainty 5'10" was what my genes had in store for me.
From the time I was in 4th grade, I got used to being in the back of the line on the way to class picture day. It would always be my head peeking out from behind the daintier masses, you see. And, of course, as my body lengthened, so did my feet. When I was in middle school I secretly shopped for shoes from a catalogue of "big sizes" for size 10 hooves like mine. On the plus side, I never needed to have my skirts or pants hemmed, but on the other hand I did look ready to go wading in a shallow pond at any moment.
When I left Pawcatuck for Columbia University, I thought for sure I would feel more at ease with my surroundings, more able to be myself in this anonymity of New York City, in a tower filled with ivy and ambition and actual skyscrapers. In many ways I did feel more at home there-- but the dating scene reminded me once again of just how far my head was above sea level. I would go out in 3 inch heels, look around me at the tops of the as-yet-unbalding heads of the world's next crop of investment bankers and lawyers, and sigh with resignation. And then go back to the dorm to dye my hair red. (At least ONE of my fantasies was going to come true, dadnabit!)
In the years that followed, I discovered that nature was kind in the long run. As I grew older, people got taller around me. That is, 5'10" wasn't as tall in 2005 as it was in 1990... and I could buy shoes in regular stores, too! Skirts actually came down to my knee. I met women taller than I was. I won't say that I ever felt dainty, per se, but I certainly felt like one of the girls again.
Cut to: Portugal, 2011.
Average height of a fully grown female: 5'2".
Biggest size available in any shoe store: 9.
Number of times I have elbowed an old lady in the face while waiting for the bus, because her face was at waist level and I just didn't see her: 2.
Chance of finding a pair of pants that is cut to fit my legs: 1.2%
*sigh*
Do you suppose that by 2020 I will feel like a girl again? By 2030, I may even be dainty?
