Coimbra Rain Days

Coimbra rain days.
Aqueduct stands uncaring
While centuries pass.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Today at lunch, while our laundry was washing two storefronts down, I had bacalao baked in the oven with sliced buttered potatoes and a small green salad.

It was amazing. I have eaten codfish half a dozen different ways in the two weeks we've been in Portugal. It's always been wonderful so far. The waiter/cook asked me how I liked it, and I replied that I loved it. "Is this mama's recipe?"
"No; it's my recipe. But mama taught me." We began with a cream of carrot soup. Oh, Lordy; that was good. Of course I dipped my bread in that. Just made it better.

While Kathryn ran across the street to see if the bookstore had a small-enough-to-carry Portuguese-English dictionary, he and I got to discussing the Roman ruins of Conimbriga in the town of Condeixa ("condesha"). One of the regulars came in added his two cents worth. I now have a side trip to work in. Tomorrow.

The bookstore had a dictionary, but it weighed a brick.

Yesterday, Kathryn and I stopped at a small pastelaria. That little place had four tables and eleven chairs. Today's lunch was at a place with five tables and, again, eleven chairs.

These are not big places, y'all, and families are making a workable income in them. Each has its own signature foods; some bring in specialties, all have wonderful munchables made right there, baked, fried, toasted, grilled.
Almost every meal we've had . . . no . . . -every- meal we've had, we've brought half of it back to our hotel for a second dinner, midnight munch, or breakfast. 

A cup of hot chocolate in the evening at a sidewalk table is like drinking hot pudding, hot mousse. The longer it sits and cools in the cup, the thicker it becomes. The waiter provides this minuscule stamped-metal spoon with the chocolate. Don't say "cocoa" (pronounced "coco); that's coconut. 

Here in Coimbra we seem to have found our "third place," a little teashop-and-pastelaria. The owner/cook/waiter delights in practicing his English (It seems everyone does; I don't think they appreciate what I'm doing to their language.) I always ask what each pastry is. Yesterday it was a small crust holding a milk-and-egg-yolk-with-sugar filling. It is a traditional dish originated by the nuns, who used the egg whites to keep their habits white and had all the yolks left over. They fashioned the sweets to sell to raise money for their convents. 

Yesterday's sandwich was a regional combination of the local cured ham and locally-produced cheese. 

I am going to close this missal on the virtues of home-grown fruit. "Home grown" means that the fruit were picked from the trees right on the property. I took two oranges from the tray on the table in the kitchen. Peeled them in rings like an apple . . . thick rinds. They virtually burst with juice and a flavor that was simpler, calmer, cleaner than you get from the grocery store back home. I can't describe how it tasted differently; it just did. You can take my word, or you can come over here and try one or three. There are orange trees and lemon trees everywhere in people's "jardims" This juice didn't "bite." That's the best way I can express it.

Life is good in Portugal, y'all.

04/24/19  photos to follow