BBQ

Andre and I held our first dinner party last Thursday.  BBQ…. Portuguese style, with a little bit of American flare.  I have to admit… cooking for Andre’s friends is a little intimidating.  As past dinners here have indicated, we would need an appetizer, main course, desert, and plenty of wine.  I think of Rita’s seafood salad and remember how different our food is.

On a positive note… I’d been craving egg salad, so I knew that would be part of the menu, perhaps the appetizer with mini toast, mashed potatoes are always a crowed pleaser, and grilled zucchini is a must (thanks Miranda).  Andre and the boys would take care of the meat, as I still have no idea what anything they insist on eating is composed of, nor how to cook it. 

When everyone arrived, I was astonished to see the boys take to the kitchen… whipping up homemade mayonnaise in seconds and a marinade for the meat.  I giggled to myself, as I can’t recall a time when I had ever seen boys with such determination in the kitchen.

Andre and Rosinho fired up the grill, but not without moments of confusion and laughter.  I joked with Andre about how he wasn’t doing anything and it was suppose to be his dinner…. With a witty response he said, “I’m the manager of guests.” … “I invited Rosinho to grill the meat, my brother to bring the wine, you to cook, a friend to make the mayonnaise, and Naomi to bring the fun!”  What could I say… he did invite all the right people to make it transpire delightfully.

Everyone enjoyed the egg salad, much to my surprise, and the only thing left at the end of the night was a leg of chicken.  I think it’s safe to say we successfully made it through our first dinner!!! Minus a broken wine glass, but I’ve come to understand that is better than expected when attending a Portuguese dinner party! 

We have another dinner this Thursday.  The boys will be taking care of everything, and our guests will be up to 8 from the previous 4.  I’m sure Andre is already scheming whom to invite to make another wonderful dinner; I’m sure not to forget.

Home

 We live in a quaint house, atop a hill in Lagoa near Silves.  I awake in the morning to the warmth of the sun, while I take my espresso outside and read a book.  Nina and Andre play in the grass, rolling around and enjoying the freedom, which the morning brings.  I wish this could last forever, but alas it’s time to eat breakfast and head to the beach.  I know…. I shouldn’t be complaining, but I haven’t been able to bask in the sun for months, since Iowa winter is not as pleasant.

view from the kitchen window

New Years

Beaches are only a skip away in The Algarve, and what better place to spend New Years than watching fireworks over the ocean with your friends... after a nice dinner of course, as dinner is not taken lightly by the Portuguese people.  Dancing soon follows and the songs are a mix from around the world, I don’t understand much of anything that people are saying but the few songs that do play from America remind me of home.  We fell asleep in the caravan and awoke to the sunrise; my new year began with a ham and cheese omelet, bread, cheese, olives, an espresso, friends, and of course… more beer.

Lisboa/Lisbon

Narrow cobblestone streets flow between the endless buildings with old women hanging out their windows carrying on conversations with each other and those in the streets below.  Andre says they are too old to take the stairs down all the time, so people bring things to them and the women lift them up in baskets and continue conversing with the others.  

Most of the buildings are covered in white paint to keep the heat away in the summer, while some are covered in hand painted tiles from the sidewalks to the roofs.  These are from the past, and to some a collector’s item.  Planters hover under the open windows and fruit trees line the streets, while the sun casts its warmth over the town.  

Cars seem to act as people, finding an opening and resting wherever there is space.  I laugh as Andre pulls his small car between two others and leaves it on the sidewalk.  He needs a haircut, he says.  We walk under verandas and he soon knocks on a glass door.  An older man answers and speaks with him, inviting him into the shop, Andre takes a seat and a woman starts to cut his hair.  The shop is small, with barely room to get up and walk around, there is a bench along the wall where I take a seat.  In the corner I notice a spiral staircase leading down to somewhere else, where I can only imagine as a small boy climbs up and appears from the opening.