-Henry David Thoreau em Walden
Logo cedo, todas as manhãs ao tirar as primeiras bicas para os primeiros clientes a fumarem ao balcão (provavelmente não o primeiro cigarro), gosto de ler a frase ou pensamento que a Rita escreve no quadro de ardósia.
Gosto das pessoas das Beiras com os seus sotaques. Vim carregada de cerejas, azeite, ervas aromaticas, ervilhas, alface, cebola nova, repolho, azeitona e força.
Força porque não sou a unica a viver separações e reuniões. É bom saber que há mais pessoas lindas a viver no mesmo barco contigo.
ps. Aceita-se encomendas de rodilhas.
Susana, vou a sua loja com as rodilhas esta semana!
....one of my favorite picture books One Hundred Flowers by Harold Feinstein is the backdrop for my WIP.
Does anyone have dark blue fabric with small purple flowers for a trade with me? I only bought one yard of this fabric and will definitely need more of this coloring. Please leave a message if you can help. :) Thanks!
Today I learned that my colleague who is nineteen years old worked as a volunteer firefighter for five years. Two years ago in a fire at Serra da Malveira her face was burned (it healed and is unnoticable). She and four other colleagues became trapped by the fire. Three were very seriously burned and she escaped by running 12 kilometers away from the fire and only stopped when she came upon a fire chief from Almoçageme. She does not remember. They told her that that is how long she ran.
She is a small person (only about 1 meter 50 cm, if that). Today she seemed a giant.
THE FISHER GIRLS OF LISBON
One of the prettiest sights in Lisbon is early morning down on the quays when the graceful, gaily-painted fishing-boats come in and land their cargoes of fish. The quays are wide, some of them sloping down to the water´s edge. Here the fish are landed and piled in heaps while a crowd of waiting women set to work to fill their large flat baskets. With their baskets gracefully balanced on their heads these women take off for the market near at hand or to sell their fish about town from door to door. These women are a colorful people and most picturesque. They have gaudy hadkerchiefs tied around their heads beneath small black felt hats which provide a rest for the burdens they will carry(and rodilhas too!). The sleeves of their cotton blouses are turned up above the elbows, and their bare feet show below very full, short, brightly colored petticoats. A law has been passed in Lisbon requiring these fisher girls to wear shoes. This does not seem to have caused thes women much concern, however, for they still go about unshod. The shoes are always carried somewhere about their person and should they meet a policeman are quickly donned.
Though quiet, gentle and shy, these Lisbon fisher girls indulge in a great deal of good-humored repartee and they have a fund of ready wit at their command. It is sometimes quite amusing to listen to the banter that passes between these busy workers on the quays and fishermen, who shout their remarks from the much encumbered decks of the boats.
Lisbon´s harbor is about ten miles from the sea from the city is situated on the Tagus River and not on the ocean.
Hoje Dia de Espigas: Hoje, no dia de espiga a papoila simboliza o amor e vida. Desejo muito de ambos para todos vocês.
Eu hoje pensei tanto no poema de Cesário Verde no link da fotografia da Luisa Cortesão. Não conhecia e é uma DELICIA! Tão bonito...tenho que conhecer mais poemas dele! A great excuse to get to the library.
When finished (putting the woolen quilt together and while hand quilting it at my slow pace) I would like to move on to working with linen. I started a pillowcase awhile back, but I think I will make it a quilt. Luckily, I read this entry from the very beautiful Purl Bee blog . There I found the work of Jen Bervin who transposed poems and fascicles of my all time favorite poet, Emily Dickinson onto quilts. Amazing.
Nas férias no verão na terra quando havia festas na aldeia nós (malta nova) lá iamos em busca de flores (hortensias) para o Arco. As senhoras mais idosas recortavam os papeis para por em volta. Os homens iam ao campo em busca da madeira para construir o Arco. Depois de decorada erguia-se o Arco, merendavamos, tocavamos e dançavamos um serrão. Lá vão mais de vinte anos!
Este livro dos autores, um deles um famoso artista irlandês que há 40 anos fundou e revitalizou com o Lima de Freitas a olaria Algarvia com a abertura de a casa de Porches Pottery (ainda hoje gerido pelas filhas do Patrick Swift), e o outro um famoso poeta, contam-nos de um Minho que os encantou. Com desenhos e estórias eles descrevem um povo com uma alma forte e uma terra que naquela altura ainda era parecida com aquela que quando os Romanos a viram há dois mil anos pensavam que tinho chegado aos Campos Elísios.
Nesta passagem os autores encontram a Pedra Furada (nome de uma terra e uma pedra pre- histórica) entre Rates e Barcelos na N.306 e encontram ou são encontrados por uma família camponesa.
Se gostam do Minho, esta é uma passagem do livro que realmente vale a pena ler.
...«"Well have a drop, uma pinguinha, to try," said he. The women vanished and the pinguinha was brought in the shape of a huge blue striped earthen jug full of a very dark ruby-red liquid which was slightly frothy at the rim and stained the very glaze of the jug itself. The women produced glasses-fine glasses, which was odd, because we have noticed that the country folk drink out of pottery bowls in the tabernas. After another whispered conversation between the women the old man asked us if we knew what broa was (it is the local home baked maize bread). Again the ladies vanished. When they came back they brought a vast cake of bread, a spotless white table cloth, napkins, and a knife. The cloth was laid meticulously on the old wall and the bread was cut and set out and the glasses filled. There we stood about the stone and drank and broke the sodden rich-flavoured bread. Only the visitors ate, neither the old man, the young fellows nor the women would join us. It seemed to be ritualistic, almost, that the visitors should eat and drink while the rest watched with approval-the young ones with some amusement. It was superb fare. The wine dark and filling the mouth with a scented taste of all the dim adegas one had ever entered, and the bread seeming to contain the whole of the countryside in its slightly sour earthy aroma. The talk turned, as it must do, on emigration. The young man had come back from France. He was glad to be home. But what they wanted to know was simply: where is the best place in the world to earn money now? From the way they spoke one knew that they would quite unconcernedly set off there, whether it was China or Peru. While we talked and ate the heavy bread a young man came over from the big house-he was a fresh complexioned red-headed youth, a student who was going on for the priesthood. He politely inquired from the old man and his family if he could interpret for them, joined us for a moment and then went into the church where he began to play the organ. Standing there, with our bread and wine, grouped about the Pedra Furada, listening to organ music sifting through the open door of the chapel while the late afternoon sun filtered through the autumnal leaves, was one of the strangest and most moving experiences of our travels through the Minho. » **
Enquanto a fotografava apanhei esta da sala.
Talvez posso fazer como o Amateur Gourmet mas só aos Domingos ...leva tanto tempo. Gostei do entusiasmo dele. Com a maquina eventualmente consigo fazer pão mais compacto e saudável com esta farinha em menos de metade do tempo. Daniela, os teus são fantasticos!
Sandra, vamos às compras. Bora!
Não conhecia e gostei tanto e embora o Minho seja especial para mim começo a perceber que por aonde passeio em Portugal há qualquer coisa que me faz gostar mais e mais deste país. Tenho uma imensa vontade de voltar às enigmaticas Beiras, conhecer Trás-os-Montes, estar no Alentejo no pico do verão, e passear nas serras Algarvias porque fazem- me lembrar um cenário de um livro de Tolkien. Tanto, tanto para ver que me vai levar uma vida de certeza!