tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15313833813581805962024-03-05T16:46:37.134+00:00My Own Private PortugalLife and love, food and old rocks at the end of the journeyKevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-67192489349087628752020-12-27T05:19:00.011+00:002020-12-27T05:34:50.044+00:00I dream of pesto (a failed poem)<p>The morning after</p><p>the day after</p><p>the day after</p><p>the night before Xmas</p><p>The killer awoke</p><p>put his boots on</p><p>and he walked on down the Hall</p><p>and he came 2a door</p><p>looked inside</p><p>and spake thus:</p><p>doc</p><p>ima gunna STONE YOU</p><p>--- I dream of making pesto with acorns by, uh... NUN E. MUSS</p><p><br /></p><p>The Alchemist, Geoff, was in a purple haze. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.seeds66.com/media/image/product/3259/md/purple-haze-from-seeds66.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" src="https://www.seeds66.com/media/image/product/3259/md/purple-haze-from-seeds66.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-73438538273490606972020-12-21T23:35:00.000+00:002020-12-21T23:35:06.500+00:00for #WhiteAmerica<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhriTDBwvO3rqJmI5hzlHNuIegiFWaW2PCgwK4uc4vQuKFeE5VRkiZmnK4Z1xiA53Y1EJ3f0Kq7-ukfq6XnOx-5VN0JMpjfvFZDvCx2hJqsvb7DaP6evox79gbFNv4hJUzd92fyCy_16-g/s903/BJ-tattoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="903" data-original-width="757" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhriTDBwvO3rqJmI5hzlHNuIegiFWaW2PCgwK4uc4vQuKFeE5VRkiZmnK4Z1xiA53Y1EJ3f0Kq7-ukfq6XnOx-5VN0JMpjfvFZDvCx2hJqsvb7DaP6evox79gbFNv4hJUzd92fyCy_16-g/s320/BJ-tattoo.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38444d; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></div><span style="background-color: white;"><div style="color: #38444d; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">The bread of continents,</div><span style="color: #38444d; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">the Blood of Africa
</span><div style="color: #38444d; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">for <a class="link-complex" href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23WhiteAmerica" rel="hashtag" style="color: #1da1f2; outline: none; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span class="hash">#</span><span class="link-complex-target" style="text-decoration-line: underline;">WhiteAmerica</span></a>.</div><span style="color: #38444d; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">was broken
was shed
</span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38444d; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span><div style="background-color: white; color: #1da1f2; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; outline: none; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="link-complex" href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23HerStory" rel="hashtag" style="color: #1da1f2; outline: none; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span class="hash">#</span><span class="link-complex-target" style="text-decoration-line: underline;">HerStory</span></a></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #1da1f2; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; outline: none; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="link-complex" href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23HisStory" rel="hashtag" style="color: #1da1f2; outline: none; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span class="hash">#</span><span class="link-complex-target" style="text-decoration-line: underline;">HisStory</span></a></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #1da1f2; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; outline: none; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="link-complex" href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23TheirStory" rel="hashtag" style="color: #1da1f2; outline: none; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span class="hash">#</span><span class="link-complex-target" style="text-decoration-line: underline;">TheirStory</span></a></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #1da1f2; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; outline: none; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="link-complex" href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23OurStory" rel="hashtag" style="color: #1da1f2; outline: none; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span class="hash">#</span><span class="link-complex-target" style="text-decoration-line: underline;">OurStory</span></a></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #1da1f2; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; outline: none; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="link-complex" href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23MyStory" rel="hashtag" style="color: #1da1f2; outline: none; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span class="hash">#</span><span class="link-complex-target" style="text-decoration-line: underline;">MyStory</span></a></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #1da1f2; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; outline: none; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="link-complex" href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23AllTogether" rel="hashtag" style="color: #1da1f2; outline: none; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span class="hash" style="outline: none;">#</span><span class="link-complex-target" style="outline: none; text-decoration-line: underline;">AllTogether</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #38444d; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div style="text-align: center;">#erasure</div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #38444d; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div style="text-align: center;">#inclusive</div></span><span style="background-color: white;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38444d; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span><div style="background-color: white; color: #1da1f2; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; outline: none; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="link-complex" href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23MaryamInPortugal" rel="hashtag" style="color: #1da1f2; outline: none; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span class="hash">#</span><span class="link-complex-target" style="text-decoration-line: underline;">MaryamInPortugal</span></a></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #1da1f2; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; outline: none; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="link-complex" href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23InHerName" rel="hashtag" style="color: #1da1f2; outline: none; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span class="hash">#</span><span class="link-complex-target" style="text-decoration-line: underline;">InHerName</span></a><span style="color: #38444d;"> </span></div><span style="background-color: white;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38444d; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #38444d; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div style="text-align: center;">#BlackLivesMatter</div></span></span><p style="text-align: center;"><a class="link-complex" href="https://twitter.com/search?q=%23Amen" rel="hashtag" style="background-color: white; color: #1da1f2; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", Arial, "ヒラギノ角ゴ Pro W3", "Hiragino Kaku Gothic Pro", メイリオ, Meiryo, "MS Pゴシック", "MS PGothic"; font-size: 14px; outline: none; text-decoration-line: none; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank"><span class="hash">#</span><span class="link-complex-target" style="text-decoration-line: underline;">Amen</span></a> </p>Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-48778101555106081522020-12-21T23:02:00.001+00:002020-12-21T23:02:34.871+00:00The Mother<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVrIxZeUrnIk9weXaQplJR6Apn4GL9W8yYlg8STqULQRzOcZtWMyDo9kFpSflN81DMvOMN15V2aWDdYObr0uYAbD5mA-sXWJ2kSUPqS86003ofgU86XnOLv4uS9M0sixQ2tqQRWi2rEPI/s500/Maryam.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVrIxZeUrnIk9weXaQplJR6Apn4GL9W8yYlg8STqULQRzOcZtWMyDo9kFpSflN81DMvOMN15V2aWDdYObr0uYAbD5mA-sXWJ2kSUPqS86003ofgU86XnOLv4uS9M0sixQ2tqQRWi2rEPI/s320/Maryam.png" /></a></div><p> "Thus spake the Prophet," Maryam to the gathered children, dryad youth assembled under bearing branches of Her Sacred Oak in the Grove of Plenty. Rapt faces receive the light of wisdom, Herstory of Herwakening, arising on the wings of Phoenix from the ashes, Petroleum Aged.<br /><br />Awakening to the Return of the Mother.</p><p>God is Love.</p><p>Mother love.</p><p>Goddess is the Mother.</p><p>Amen.</p>Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-52622675968931952722020-12-20T06:54:00.001+00:002020-12-20T06:56:01.656+00:00Woman, you are Noise.<p> Woman, you are Noise</p><p>in my life.</p><p><br /></p><p>When She created the world,</p><p>the Earth so perfectly formed,</p><p>did she rejoice? No.</p><p>It was <i>not</i> good.</p><p><br /></p><p>Some thing was missing.</p><p>St. Thomas tells the tale:</p><p>Long She considered</p><p>what the element could be</p><p>which rendered this perfect picture of creation</p><p><br /></p><p>sterile.</p><p>Void</p><p>and without form.</p><p><br /></p><p>Then Her other half, </p><p>the Trickster, </p><p>with Coyote cunning spoke.</p><p><br /></p><p>Spake he thus: "Add noise."</p><p><br /></p><p>And it was good. It was. Glorious!</p>Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-51861827320349536032020-12-19T13:51:00.005+00:002020-12-19T14:03:07.662+00:00The Offering<p style="text-align: center;">I returned to the smell</p><p style="text-align: center;">of incense in the air</p><p style="text-align: center;">Her favorite from monks</p><p style="text-align: center;">in Italy</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">Did you throw incense in my fire,</p><p style="text-align: center;">I asked,</p><p style="text-align: center;">perturbed and wondering its effect</p><p style="text-align: center;">on the Seed to be roasted.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">No, She said and I saw</p><p style="text-align: center;">by the bed</p><p style="text-align: center;">the small censer</p><p style="text-align: center;">with their offering</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">So I returned</p><p style="text-align: center;">to the fields</p><p style="text-align: center;">gathered <i>murta</i> and <i>louro</i></p><p style="text-align: center;">and two times seven Seed</p><p style="text-align: center;">sprouted and not</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">And took in my hands </p><p style="text-align: center;">the iron submitted to Her Will</p><p style="text-align: center;">Opened and placed the offering</p><p style="text-align: center;">of myrtle</p><p style="text-align: center;">laurel</p><p style="text-align: center;">and acorns within,</p><p style="text-align: center;">covered,</p><p style="text-align: center;">and placed on the ashes</p><p style="text-align: center;">of Her desire.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPPLpfNKqcDpIToLlnslJkSWgUAPNyU9POxx_XBeZrNwAbWULKnbuxLRG6k3TnG7pFhcbOB9-GlYVeqYmCz3Hl1XzpK0TQvsZ1IXDqLHiI2_xYpvRLgQ4pGCb3pF0d5sxwEVaGr2zhYI/s808/On+the+Ashes+of+Her+Desire.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="808" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPPLpfNKqcDpIToLlnslJkSWgUAPNyU9POxx_XBeZrNwAbWULKnbuxLRG6k3TnG7pFhcbOB9-GlYVeqYmCz3Hl1XzpK0TQvsZ1IXDqLHiI2_xYpvRLgQ4pGCb3pF0d5sxwEVaGr2zhYI/s320/On+the+Ashes+of+Her+Desire.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">And in the fullness of Time,</p><p style="text-align: center;">O Patience! of Time,</p><p style="text-align: center;">they opened, the Fruits offered,</p><p style="text-align: center;">spreading wide their riven shells</p><p style="text-align: center;">to expose</p><p style="text-align: center;">the naked essence,</p><p style="text-align: center;">perfumed in Glory.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjkRpRWwhr7KCnr5ReO-cZdTDOr3tfW6ubKmipdvAQLC-RlcVd5tU94kngE6nrPMwopM0yOsafWOazbr-8cU3GpNUp7jfU7AXOicrJF7ERRVTtuZAFsTrUbZoW6F2pCsnba7l-jBcj66g/s810/The+Offering.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="810" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjkRpRWwhr7KCnr5ReO-cZdTDOr3tfW6ubKmipdvAQLC-RlcVd5tU94kngE6nrPMwopM0yOsafWOazbr-8cU3GpNUp7jfU7AXOicrJF7ERRVTtuZAFsTrUbZoW6F2pCsnba7l-jBcj66g/w640-h456/The+Offering.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-32512873029397185772020-12-18T12:47:00.004+00:002020-12-18T15:55:20.922+00:00The Vth Chapter<p>He left his car in Ardrossan and took the ferry, crossed
over.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Climbing slowly, stopping to enjoy the pleasant day, take
photos with his Master’s eye. He listened to the bird song, smiling as he imagined
their innocence, their free flight in the groves, their beauty, and the crunch of
their little bones between his teeth.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The trail was quiet as he climbed, the day reserved for him,
the Quiet One, to observe and measure, as was the Talent granted by his Master.
That One waited as he climbed, pleased with the work in progress, with himself,
looking forward to the festival afterward. So pleased indeed that he did not
note at first, nor care when he did, the fog that rose with his ascent. It came
slowly, inexorably, surrounding and caressing him, the faithful one, with the
tenderness of a gourmand.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Quiet One stopped, puzzled, <i>a sound? A chuckle?<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The mist cleared beneath him on the trail, and he turned,
saw, the master, his Master, standing, a smile on his red, bloody lips.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Master</i>, he said with some alarm, <i>You startled me</i>.
<i>Were you behind me?<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I am with you always, </i>the apparition replied. <i>Well
done, my good and faithful servant, </i>he spoke with a warmth that penetrated
the chill of the morning fog.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Quiet One felt it then. The ground beneath his feet.
Opened. And he fell.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Contract fulfilled</i>, the Assistant smiled.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVfdUJK7o-nQuKoDhdaoQYyMxXXYgMuNrBCMgh43WGgBXlY7W3cDYkd-5o1iJgEv55D8aSOgHRpoencIPUni7eV3t2hL_FhKq-DmqP8AuPirC1ol35J0YaPyFzOzEZXjhMR238PqUZsKw/s909/800px-Fall_of_Icarus_Blondel_decoration_Louvre_INV2624.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="909" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVfdUJK7o-nQuKoDhdaoQYyMxXXYgMuNrBCMgh43WGgBXlY7W3cDYkd-5o1iJgEv55D8aSOgHRpoencIPUni7eV3t2hL_FhKq-DmqP8AuPirC1ol35J0YaPyFzOzEZXjhMR238PqUZsKw/w564-h640/800px-Fall_of_Icarus_Blondel_decoration_Louvre_INV2624.jpg" width="564" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts. </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back. </i></span></p><div><br /></div>Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-69494001272313520012020-12-18T10:44:00.006+00:002020-12-18T15:55:05.525+00:00The Assistant's Outrage<p><b><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><i>Madness!</i></span></b> the Assistant shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. The Editor looked up, blinking. <i>I warned you</i>, he continued, <i>the man cannot write a cookbook to save his life!</i> <i>He is utterly insane!</i> And slapped a printout down before Him. <i>Cancel his Contract!</i></p><p>A pause.</p><p><i>Not yet</i>, the Editor replied softly.<span> </span></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuKJlUIDdiNEfpFiyGjiSDyEUZ6sxPtw9xZiPYAUOKpBuz5heL5wtqthnHvgU5m2swYaEWv6IW6GROi971HlTsZMcTJQbIvsBVAQpsTzn6V3_RCcboUOOBznvYzF9qFmAsB9IXQTf7rqU/s831/The_Devil_%25281921%2529_-_1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="831" data-original-width="665" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuKJlUIDdiNEfpFiyGjiSDyEUZ6sxPtw9xZiPYAUOKpBuz5heL5wtqthnHvgU5m2swYaEWv6IW6GROi971HlTsZMcTJQbIvsBVAQpsTzn6V3_RCcboUOOBznvYzF9qFmAsB9IXQTf7rqU/w160-h200/The_Devil_%25281921%2529_-_1.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span><p></p><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://myownprivateportugal.blogspot.com/2020/12/the-vth-chapter.html">What's this? Who is behind this Work??? </a></b></span></i></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://myownprivateportugal.blogspot.com/2020/12/the-vth-chapter.html">Enquiring minds want to know.... ---></a></b></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back. </span></p><div><br style="font-style: normal; text-align: left;" /></div></div></i></div>Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-49430042945554403852020-12-18T10:27:00.010+00:002020-12-18T15:54:44.337+00:00She Lay in Repose<p>He woke, not at first light or before as had been the custom of weeks, but after mid morning, the light of day blocked by curtains heavy and hanging. Reached to the bench, gathered things, unsure by feel of what they were with his fingers now numbing again, apart from the warmth of Her Fire. Passed through the door, to the kitchen, took the loaf of Seed and cut, twice, looked for the butter. And found naught. </p><p>So he anointed with oil, placed the slices both, face to face, raising the couple with his two hands high, above his head and invoked </p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Of this, Her body, i do gratefully partake.</i> </p><p>Then he walked farther, out the door, into the fog filtered morning, through the fields, down the path worn by Others, foxes and boars and goats, and to the waters, Her holy Waters, and across, to Her Grove, where She lay in repose, the incarnation Quercus.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVauGJQjJsFWboNvrnypY5CR1Ic6dIWFrs-AX4KpWlbu2YGJuco05jl50RSrmxFFC66f7MQfEIx-rMaYpBuibCe0VQmZHQxA3HM_b5iD-jOvGdBWMarO2QBK0IJW_96VFQ1LLTqzwFfFM/s206/She+Lay+in+Repose.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="She Lay in Repose, the Incarnation Quercus" border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVauGJQjJsFWboNvrnypY5CR1Ic6dIWFrs-AX4KpWlbu2YGJuco05jl50RSrmxFFC66f7MQfEIx-rMaYpBuibCe0VQmZHQxA3HM_b5iD-jOvGdBWMarO2QBK0IJW_96VFQ1LLTqzwFfFM/w482-h640/She+Lay+in+Repose.jpg" width="482" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://myownprivateportugal.blogspot.com/2020/12/the-assistants-outrage.html">All very nice, but... this shit has to stop.<br /><br />Where's the fucking recipe??? ---></a></span></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts. </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back. </i></span></p><div><br /></div>Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-90723963558157129972020-12-18T10:15:00.002+00:002020-12-18T15:54:28.603+00:00To bake a bread...<p></p><blockquote><p>Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow
of thee turn not thou away.</p></blockquote><blockquote><p> – <span style="text-indent: -24px;">Matthew 5:42 (KJV)</span></p><p> </p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal">She entered Senhor João’s garden and dropped the bucket full
of acorns on the ground behind him, causing him to jump at the unexpected
noise. He turned and said <i>boa tarde</i>, good afternoon.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Will you teach me to make acorn bread?” she asked eagerly.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No!” he replied sharply.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Shock. But… why? “Please!” she pleased, eyes filling wet.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He looked long at her, and it came, the rain, let it fall as
it did from her and on her, on him, as it falls on us all. He saw the gentle
rain, washing him, stripping slowly the mask of his reluctance, leaving the
naked skin of his nakedly apprehensive face.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well… I don’t know, he came again, the waters washing him
with pure intent. I’m not supposed to.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What? said she, surprised. But you said, you told me, all
the things, delicious to make from these…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">… seeds of life he whispered quietly…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and you refuse but why not fair the cupboards bare and my
mother oh so fears<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">… as do we all in these times, softly…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">won’t you show me the way, I need the truth, light the fire
and let us bake the bread and break the bread, oh please old father my father
she screamed in flash and bang and blood in the night and flight so far away
away away in a land far far from home<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">… and the rain fell, down on him, a torrent, crushing and
carrying him in the flood across the dry lands of death, the waters deep in
death the depth of suffering and silence of lambs where there should be
laughter, be play in the free meadows of light…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and says who forbids your mother that’s rich the cakes the
cookies the braided breads of holidays high on the altar of Light now dark and
fading, despairing<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">… he watched her silently.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After a while, she sneezed. Not a pleasant thing in a mask,
really. Softly, sobbing: “I’m sorry. I thought… well… my mother has no work,
and…”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">… still he said nothing. She picked up her bucket to leave.
As she turned, he said, “Wait. There’s a way.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What? a little spark, hope, struck her heart and rose,
singing her throat a little as she struggled to form the words in her still
rudimentary Portuguese. <i>Como?<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well,” he said quietly. “I could induct you into the
guild.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Guild? What’s that?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It can be a lot of things, he told her, depending on the
context. In my garden, it is a community of complementary plants around a
principal tree. That’s part of permaculture’s teaching. But in this case, the
society.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Society? Of what? her small voice a puzzle of crystalline
fracture.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The secret society. Of alchemists.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjpn4Eg4PfNzlUIw4cTnt-KW5xsX8G5H3RO_cS_OdtEx7YCiCS0P8AMYuNd5MV9MpFWpsByKM79jcmgmvyk2p6d5MxDl0ptDo940kTZIl_9BGsZ859x4T0e-ASa8miBsSi2Oo8eT_l_vc/s1189/Bronze+Axe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="1189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjpn4Eg4PfNzlUIw4cTnt-KW5xsX8G5H3RO_cS_OdtEx7YCiCS0P8AMYuNd5MV9MpFWpsByKM79jcmgmvyk2p6d5MxDl0ptDo940kTZIl_9BGsZ859x4T0e-ASa8miBsSi2Oo8eT_l_vc/s320/Bronze+Axe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #04ff00; font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><i><a href="https://myownprivateportugal.blogspot.com/2020/12/she-lay-in-repose.html">An interlude, the author wakes after a night of trampling mares <br />and a dawn, gentle and loving ---></a></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #04ff00; font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts. </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back. </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #04ff00; font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div><br /></div>Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-21413565485108864602020-12-16T18:34:00.006+00:002020-12-18T15:53:45.821+00:00A Pandemic Christmas Table<p>How can the world put its arms all around me? I feel lost in
the city.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>– </span></span></span>Yes, <i>Heart of the Sunrise<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one
of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 9.33333px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 9.33333px;"></span><span style="font-size: 9.33333px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 9.33333px;"></span><span style="font-size: 9.33333px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 9.33333px;">– </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Matthew 25:45 (KJV)</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The old neighbor cleared his throat, and began, in his
English patched with Portuguese and sometimes French words, to tell her a story
from behind the mask covering his face. Maryam, also masked, sat respectfully,
a few meters away in his garden, listening. It was early December, the time when
the churches, closed now to protect the public health, told the stories of that
birth long ago and all that followed. The old man spoke of the flight of Joseph
and Mary to Egypt, to escape the murderous intentions of a mad king.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She could relate to that story. It had been quiet in their
village until that night. Then the knocking, more persistent, the
crash of a broken door, raised voices, and shots. Her father and brothers
still, a red stain spreading beneath them in the quiet restored.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They left that night. Boats and borders a blur, fear and
hunger gnawing at her gut as they crossed dark waters into the unknown. At
last, though, some normalcy, a place of refuge and humble, much needed work for
her mother, gratefully cleaning the houses of their merciful hosts. Until the
sickness. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The people were afraid. Soon, her mother was at home, without
work, as people feared carried contagion among them. School, too, was different
now: no games at recess in the yard, no whispered secrets with friends behind
the gymnasium. Before the pandemic, she had begged for more screen time. Now,
all she wanted was the open sky and grass beneath her feet. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her mother, pleading, on the phone in her broken Portuguese,
begging help, so little left until the end of the month, a Christmas perhaps
without even <i>pão</i> on the table. No bread? Was it really <i>that bad</i>?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She remembered the old man telling other stories, of a life
in poverty, daily wages of a loaf of bread or half a sausage. So it’s come to
that now, thought Maryam, except there are no wages now, just the kindness of
strangers with little to share themselves, and some small relief from their
host government.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She remembered hearing how he got his first shoes at the age
of 12, and how in some hard times before that they had survived in his
fatherless house, by eating acorns stolen from the fields. Stolen by children,
because the lords of the <i>herdades</i> would shoot trespassing adults. A
beating was a small price to pay for survival.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Acorns?!</i> What about them? she thought. Ah, but the
big trees were far out in the countryside, too far for her without
transportation. But… hadn’t she seen something like that in the bushes behind
the school?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That night, when she asked her mother for another portion of
noodles, there was quiet, and in a small, choked voice: there are no more. So
it was.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Early the next morning, she woke first, dressed quickly and
then walked the half kilometer to the slope behind the shuttered school. It
would be another two hours before her class was to meet online in the dreaded <i>Zoom</i>
chatroom.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There they were: small points of brown in the bushes. These
looked nothing like the great cork oaks which had fed the old man as a hungry
young boy. But the leaves, a bit like others she had seen on some big trees,
but <i>different</i>. She gathered pockets full quickly, scratching her hands
and arms on the prickly leaves, then hurried back home. She was wondering what the
acorns would be like, surely substantial and delicious to have saved so many
hungry children long ago. The anticipation was too much: she had to know.
Stopping, she scanned the ground and found some rocks, took one in her hand and
placed an acorn on another and <i>smashed</i>. The creamy whitish meat of the
acorn was revealed in a mess of broken shell; she picked out a fat bit, stuck
it in her mouth and chewed. Mmmmm. Not bad, kind of nutty, like hazelnuts maybe
or cashews, but <i>different</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then the bitterness came, turning that initial pleasant
taste to an astringent awfulness quickly spat onto the ground. <i>Bah!<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As she approached her home, she saw the old man in his
garden, burning some trash and old sticks. She approached him and said, <i>bom
dia</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Bom dia, Maryam, como estas?</i> he replied.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not so good, she said, my mouth feels nasty. I don’t see how
you could live on acorns!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You ate some? he asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just one. That was enough. It’s so awful and bitter!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The old man began to laugh. You didn’t cook it, I assume.
You have to do that for some of them. It depends on the kind you have.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She reached into her pocket, grabbed a few and held them out
to the man. These! Yuck!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Again, a chuckle. <i>Quercus coccifera</i>, Kermes oak, he
said. He had been a teacher and knew a lot of strange words. You’re right, they
are bitter. But better if you cook them, or soak them for a while in water to
take out the tannins.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What are tannins?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The things that make the acorns bitter. Other fruits have
them too. Like persimmons.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well how do I get rid of them?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are a couple of ways, the old man said slowly, looking
around the garden. He spied an old can, walked over and picked it up, then
returned to Maryam and held out his hand. She gave him the acorns, which he
dropped into the can and placed it onto the coals of the fire in the garden.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Heat can destroy the tannins, he said. But sometimes that’s
not enough. Sometimes you have to soak them in water after you roast them.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For how long, she asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It depends. Maybe just an hour. Maybe a day. Maybe a week or
longer. Every tree is a little different from others like it, and the
environment of the tree can affect the taste and the bitterness a lot.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her eyes strayed to the can on the coals. She could see that
some of the acorn shells had split, revealing the insides, without the need to
smash them. Wow, that’s easy, she thought.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Can I try them now? she asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, said the man, taking the hot can carefully at the upper
rim and dumping its contents on the wet garden grass, give them a minute to
cool, then go ahead.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The long minute passed, and she reached out, took a split
acorn in her fingers and pulled at the edges of the split a little. A golden
nut dropped out, giving off an interesting, caramely odor. Smells good, she
thought. Popped it in her mouth and chewed. The same interesting taste she had
at first before was there, but richer, and it was a bit like the filling of a
special chocolate bar her mother bought for her at times. She chewed,
swallowed, took another, then another and ate them all. Then she realized: no
bitterness.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She reached into her pocket, grabbed another handful, threw
it in the can, which she put back on the coals. <i>Just wait</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The old man told her many different things that could be
made from acorns: bread, <i>paterniscas</i>, meatballs without meat, more. But
people have forgotten these things, he said quietly. They say acorns are food
for pigs. Do I look like a pig?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She laughed, bade him adieu, and as she walked through the door of her house
to share the breakfast bounty with her mother, visions of… so many delicious
things danced in her head, visions of that Christmas table, full of unexpected
blessings.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX1fz8bUWjPWkRvU3Cuc8LVmKklivpTq8Zi2OiKbkKJ8OceptyuRkEGegzyDsfAVsOeEJC_lkqyGlrXzmk6nE8BsPB1Gu5q2ub708D70d_XNwBrjSgGySQmLpQIeHLgb4onxW4MuWp5R0/s275/roasted-acorns-in-can.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="275" height="479" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX1fz8bUWjPWkRvU3Cuc8LVmKklivpTq8Zi2OiKbkKJ8OceptyuRkEGegzyDsfAVsOeEJC_lkqyGlrXzmk6nE8BsPB1Gu5q2ub708D70d_XNwBrjSgGySQmLpQIeHLgb4onxW4MuWp5R0/w640-h479/roasted-acorns-in-can.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #04ff00; font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://myownprivateportugal.blogspot.com/2020/12/to-bake-bread.html">Maryam is ready now to bake the bread. Will you join her? ---></a></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts. </i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back. </i></span></p><div><br /></div>Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-80326562096138409222020-12-08T06:53:00.004+00:002020-12-08T06:57:12.002+00:00Acorn preparation the easy way<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6AtI7XGmgPrrzmQRWTbPqxZ3kDcztZH1Xi2bLuM9bZS1cdUEeqh5WUoXNi8ShtY8L_ozA5KqJykmLMpsuwKvFnxqF8ejZ-nOKt4BbxSFGSBeZRE52JD45r3ISs6dmarLlqYzXhMV-ENo/s960/roasted+acorns.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="fireplace-roasted acorns" border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6AtI7XGmgPrrzmQRWTbPqxZ3kDcztZH1Xi2bLuM9bZS1cdUEeqh5WUoXNi8ShtY8L_ozA5KqJykmLMpsuwKvFnxqF8ejZ-nOKt4BbxSFGSBeZRE52JD45r3ISs6dmarLlqYzXhMV-ENo/w480-h640/roasted+acorns.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p>In a recent Facebook <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/Homesteads.and.Sustainability/permalink/1580563712136394" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">post asking about tips for achieving more self-sufficiency</a>, I responded that my recent return to an interest in acorns had led to discoveries which theoretically make us <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/Homesteads.and.Sustainability/permalink/1580563712136394/?comment_id=1581637672028998" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">100% self-sufficient for food</a> if we care to be. Then I was asked </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-4uP9sGVAaHQgrXSnXeulBOoFH0rAqzhpGYVUEZbL9j-Bc5hAv7eJEk2siqmltqXaIBWelK1Et3EO-TkdfzcTs7FygQObPtKrUwrXRuuPrDpyiNZTfQJWWA01lNqVN0JrDJxhLhB7Do/s523/Flour+question.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="90" data-original-width="523" height="69" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-4uP9sGVAaHQgrXSnXeulBOoFH0rAqzhpGYVUEZbL9j-Bc5hAv7eJEk2siqmltqXaIBWelK1Et3EO-TkdfzcTs7FygQObPtKrUwrXRuuPrDpyiNZTfQJWWA01lNqVN0JrDJxhLhB7Do/w400-h69/Flour+question.png" width="400" /></a></div>to which I responded:<br /><p></p><blockquote><p><i><span style="color: #38761d;">"Our acorns are quite low in tannins as I mentioned, so depending on what you're working with changes may be needed. I am having trouble sourcing bitter acorns here, so there it's more theory than verified practice.</span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #38761d;">"Completely forget all those stupid hot water (boiling methods). Forget the streams and toilet tank BS for the cold extraction methods.</span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #38761d;">"1. Shell acorns. The fastest method for this is roasting, but if you want to avoid that </span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #38761d;">"(a1) dry for a while or in a desiccator and</span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #38761d;">"(b1) Cut lengthwise (wear butcher's gloves and use a narrow, long knife, employing the tip end as a fulcrum) and pry out the nut - a grapefruit spoon is the best aid I've found for difficult cases, and its serrations can be useful for scraping off bad bits</span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #38761d;">"OR, for roasting</span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #38761d;">"(a2) cut a lengthwise slit in the acorns, drop into water to soak for some hours (I sometimes use a modified olive slitting tube with two cutting vanes removed) and</span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #38761d;">"(b2) roast in a cast-iron pan over a campfire or in a fireplace for that nice smoked tang or roast for maybe 15-30 minutes in the oven at 230 degrees C or so; the roast is done when the slits open wide, some so much so that the nuts just fall out. Don't worry if the acorns become very dark, even black - they are carmelized, not burned usually - yum!</span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #38761d;">"2. Then taste the acorns, and if bitter, drop into water in a 1 gallon plastic water bottle or other container; soak and change water every half day or day, tasting each time until you feel that the debittering is completed to your satisfaction.</span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #38761d;">"3. Take the nuts, dry them briefly and grind them in blender, using a sieve/screen to sift the fine flour from the grits, the latter being a good form to roast as an ersatz coffee. Use fresh/moist within a week or so, dry it for longer storage at ambient temperature or freeze it for use months or years later (depending on your freezer conditions)...."</span></i></p></blockquote>For the roasting method, that 1a2 step is very important! Acorns with a lot of moisture inside can burst explosively if there is nothing - like a cut in the nut - to allow steam to escape. And the uncut ones that don't burst often have their texture and taste ruined by excessive steaming inside the intact shell. With a cut, the shells will split wider and dry, so that acorn meats often simply fall out intact.<p></p><div>The first time I tried to roast acorns without cutting the shells was quite dramatic. Gaia, our <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Miguel_Cattle_Dog" target="_blank">Fila de São Miguel</a> (like a Portuguese pit bull) is a terrifying dog who longs to hear the words <i><span style="color: red;">Mate todos!</span></i> ("kill them all") when I let her outside, but she was the terrified one with the shells bursting loudly inside our flimsy toaster oven. The trembling beast had to be sent outside to go hide in a kennel, and she did not ask to come back in that night. Harmat, my Wire-haired Viszla from <a href="https://www.facebook.com/drotosvizsla">a great breeder</a> in hunting Hungary, just wanted to know where she could <a href="https://youtu.be/jD3xzapD0U8" target="_blank">retrieve the shot birds</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the meantime, I can get a couple kilograms of flour from acorns swept off the ground and processed fresh in about an hour, to make roasted nuts, crackers, dark breads of every kind, rich nut cheeses, meatless balls, delicious ersatz coffees and tea and more. A journalist friend recently <a href="https://southernyankeewriter.blogspot.com/2020/12/imagining-john-lennon.html" target="_blank">blogged about John Lennon</a>, who has been dead now about as long as he walked the earth, and I responded:</div><div><i><span style="color: #38761d;"></span><blockquote><span style="color: #38761d;">"... woke at 5 am, put on my robe and gathered acorns from the terrace as it rained, and as I washed and slit the fresh nuts to prepare for roasting in the fireplace, to open them up, make them easy to shell and convert to acorn flour, the main part of our breads and other dishes for a few weeks now, I found myself singing "<a href="https://youtu.be/YkgkThdzX-8" target="_blank">Imagine</a>" quietly as I pictured industrialized monoculture fields of wheat gone from our landscapes, replaced by groves of oaks in guild permacultures, once again giving renewable wood for fuel, crafts and construction, cork bark to keep us warm in insulated walls and to hold our fruit harvest wines in their flasks, and producing their regular crops of acorn grains above, squashes and hops (for acorn beer) climbing those trees and the understories of lesser trees, fruit bushes, herbs and fiber plants spread below and between them, asparagus close in and peeking through shrub twigs, truffles below the earth, and the sounds of a thousand birds at every level of branches and across the ground. Imagine that. It's easy if you try."</span></blockquote></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-34806117616790119512017-01-15T05:12:00.001+00:002017-01-15T05:19:45.259+00:00Time MachineI dropped Susan and Will at the Lisbon airport, then headed to Benfica to find the apartment before dinner to discuss translation courses at <i>Universidade Nova</i> next summer. After an hour of circling and waiting, I swooped down on a parking spot right in front of the building. The old elevator was a bit of a puzzle, but I finally figured out to close the gate and rose and rose to the seventh floor, out, right and fumbled the huge key in the lock, opened to the dark, groped for and found the master switch on the electrical panel, lights on, and entered the time machine.<br />
<br />
The pipe on the shelf, likely lit last some decades before, had a fresh warm scent of tobacco. The furniture, neat and new in appearance, reminded me a little of my last visit to a safe house in the GDR. I felt her presence, saw the books and thought of the soft, strong hands that had held them and turned the pages. Through the hall, around the corner, around another and left, the little room, small bed and there I found her, that young doctor that I love, holding her infant son, the boy's face familiar with that knowing look.<br />
<br />
Black and white the image, another near, color, the boy a little older, me thinking of his birthday the summer past, forty, little changed.<br />
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Books and books, closets, all clean, another room, a bed, neat and waiting to receive me after a long evening of plans and friendly talk of best practice and the students and the challenges of so much to teach, to learn, and so little time.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to stay but tired, with a drive of hours home, so up I went again into that time machine and she was there, the air welcoming and warm, the bed and blankets covering the dreams and I heard her, pen scratching at the desk, studying for some qualification. And in the night her arm slipped softly around me in my sleep, my fingers brushed hers like the strings of a healing harp and I breathed deep in a reality familiar and distant in my dream.<br />
<br />
Woke, felt her just departed, so I rose, dressed, ate a bit of chocolate, found the master switch of the time machine again and rode down and down, out and to the car in the dark through the streets, the bridge, tolls and long miles, hurtling through the dark in the Renault Tardis to home, where all those good dogs greeted as I passed by into the house where I felt her near, slipped quietly beside the sleeping form in the bed where her arm slipped softly around me, the tight curls of her hair in my nose as I breathed the air of content and drifted back in that time with the young doctor that I love.Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-31078691820269258282016-12-18T00:10:00.001+00:002016-12-18T00:17:01.114+00:00Tosta de tomateOne of the conveniences of living in a Portuguese border town is that what we can't find here is probably to be had with a ten-minute drive across the border to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Badajoz" target="_blank">Badajoz</a>, Spain.<br />
<br />
One of those things is apparently tomato toast. One morning the <i>doutora</i> announced that we were going for a drive and would have breakfast in Spain. I was quietly horrified at the idea, because Portuguese friends have often told me how terrible Spanish food is, and my few experiences up to that point had done little to contradict their opinions.<br />
<br />
And when we took the freeway exit to what I would probably call a truck stop, I was dubiously curious about what was to come. Just <i>tosta</i>, she said as we approached the cafeteria counter, <i>and café</i>.<br />
<br />
<i>Hmm.</i> I thought as I watched the help slop olive oil over a bit of white bread toast. <i>Very dubious. </i>We were given a plastic squeeze bottle with some orange crap in it, which turned out to be pureed tomato. At the table, I was instructed to spread the goop onto the olive oil-soaked toast and then add just a sprinle of salt. Given that we almost never cook with salt, I was really skeptical now.<br />
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It was love at first bite. My God.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOUy3V0IP4qAeO91dYZjCRESg8YLvqGRcNAAJt4LQKl0s1rnO3IfrO9qnvwtd2dROlTT5FNm5kaghD5gOZxo2sQe-GjL-d4aA0EoM2ldotRcFSwX1KtOZJKGyK9WTXXURWOyfRnxoUZo/s1600/tomato-toast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOUy3V0IP4qAeO91dYZjCRESg8YLvqGRcNAAJt4LQKl0s1rnO3IfrO9qnvwtd2dROlTT5FNm5kaghD5gOZxo2sQe-GjL-d4aA0EoM2ldotRcFSwX1KtOZJKGyK9WTXXURWOyfRnxoUZo/s320/tomato-toast.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Since then we've improved on that first delicious experience; now the tomatoes come fresh from the garden sometimes, and the bread for toasting is usually some sort of a spelt-and-rye sourdough or some other whole grain mix. And we use a better salt, collected from evaporation beds by the seaside. The olive oil too is a few classes better - Portugal has the best in the world, after all. Heaven can get better.<br />
<br />
But that's usually the Portuguese way: go out and find something great somewhere in the world, maybe just a little way across the border. <i>And make it better.</i><br />
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<br />Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-57725855985092343142016-12-17T22:50:00.003+00:002016-12-17T22:50:56.708+00:00Salazar<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ant%C3%B3nio_de_Oliveira_Salazar" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHnLhWL-23NU8cjcTIAZVds79K_wMWHqrDB8ApFfTuHiSiN4xjTVqOV3u4xJoDZsBjHbfH2gAb0PNV3C0bSaerHnMGCFPIUoIGeoeyxl4XXZfNftiqb9TjXkCNMyI0_2UTTeVpAUxoflc/s1600/Salazar.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><b>António de Oliveira Salazar</b></span>,<br />100th prime minister of Portugal</i></td></tr>
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I'm a little hard of hearing, so when the <i>doutora </i>asked me if I wanted a "Salazar" when transferring my evening meal from a small pot to the soup plate, I thought I heard her wrong. <i>A what?</i> I asked. <i>Do you want a Salazar? </i>she repeated.<br />
<br />
The beautiful thing about languages is that they are not about words, but about culture, context and communication. And here I was definitely lost in the translation of her Porglish.<br />
<br />
We went through this repetition a few more times until she finally reached over to the bamboo utensil holder and pulled out a spatula. <i>A spatula?</i> I asked. <i>What the hell did you just call it?</i><br />
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<i>Salazar</i>, she responded patiently.<br />
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<a href="http://en.pons.com/translate?q=spatula&l=enpt&in=en&lf=en" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvm2PM6PEID3uuU1v_SyGfZKfa779HgJB4IKy4g0acT42FYnRKI8Qc_huJHh4MP56SDM-U2Iw7L8tTLyHtkVayirI3aRWSvTEZNUQYtmAvZSMgheV807jCBu4OjwQDnhYraXNw-I4Bp6Y/s320/Salazar-Spatula.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>You've got to be kidding. Isn't there some other word for it?</i></div>
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<i>Não.</i></div>
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<i>Really? None at all?</i> She muttered some other Portuguese expression.</div>
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<i>So is that what you would say if you were talking to a Brazilian?</i></div>
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<i>No</i>, she responded, <i>I would say it is a Salazar and explain it to them.</i></div>
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So she patiently explained to this dumb American that because the dictator Salazar had taken all the money for the state and kept the people poor, essentially <i>cleaned out the the consumer economy like a spatula cleans a soup bowl</i>, the kitchen tool now bears his name in remembrance.</div>
<br />Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-6579310510258694052016-12-01T20:36:00.000+00:002016-12-01T23:39:19.086+00:00Cabbage tourism in Trás-os-MontesOn the first morning after our arrival in <a href="https://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Negr%C3%B5es" target="_blank">Negrões</a>, the <i>doutora</i> returned from a quick shopping run to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montalegre" target="_blank">Montalegre</a> and exclaimed that she was <i>very frustrated</i>. Not, alas, the kind of frustration that promised a mutually satisfying resolution of the difficulty. <i>The horror, the horror</i>, she exclaimed as she described all the beautiful cabbages she had seen on the trip and her great disgust at discovering that none of these tasty varieties were to be had at the market she found.<br />
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<i>You would not believe how magnificent they were!</i> <i>And everywhere!</i> she exclaimed as she confessed to felonious thoughts of first-degree cabbage theft, thwarted by the watchful eye of an old man with a particularly delicious patch of <i>galegas </i>and <i>pencas</i>. I knew she meant what she said, thinking back on our week in Minho and the likelihood that the local <i>correio</i> still had wanted posters up after her binge making <i>caldo verde</i> there.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPK1Ccq3aXXPK-tIN-Nuh0CaAKNx6B205ysMEErn0RBFbFwBKSWww9UT4tK9carrahKenbvhPCoz5sEvo0I9kzXzV3827BcNFFXXUiG9awQDM-DPZUk_d2Vr3cwfkk2Y0hZEX7lBPSn-E/s1600/15304091_10211046825945017_7159953328623941051_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPK1Ccq3aXXPK-tIN-Nuh0CaAKNx6B205ysMEErn0RBFbFwBKSWww9UT4tK9carrahKenbvhPCoz5sEvo0I9kzXzV3827BcNFFXXUiG9awQDM-DPZUk_d2Vr3cwfkk2Y0hZEX7lBPSn-E/s640/15304091_10211046825945017_7159953328623941051_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: red;">Couves galegas</span> to tempt passersby</i></td></tr>
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There is an amazing variety of cabbages in Portugal, used in many varied and specific ways, all very confusing for the newcomer. <a href="http://acquiredflavor.blogspot.pt/" target="_blank">Rochelle Ramos</a>, a native of the US Pacific Northwest now living in Portugal's Ribatejo region, wrote <a href="http://catavino.net/portugal-vegetarian-food/" target="_blank">a nice introduction to Portuguese cabbage and greens cookery</a> which is a good place to start getting a grip on these delicious greens. But the grelos, couve-galega, couve-lombarda &alia she discusses are just a quick flash of light reflected from this jeweled trove of national culinary treasure.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha3nQzJ-7xfAQe5f-NVLkXEUzPjO4eqhGz2PdSSpvmQ19AmkkmcYBv5VDQ46W6ElG8NwGzx-pULxCWfkI22_n6V8Ig12fPDPQvZV8vbYzyMg5UrD6hNmKlywTLnrkEe7IFQAImOFeVzM8/s1600/15252601_10211046797984318_7450957927075680859_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha3nQzJ-7xfAQe5f-NVLkXEUzPjO4eqhGz2PdSSpvmQ19AmkkmcYBv5VDQ46W6ElG8NwGzx-pULxCWfkI22_n6V8Ig12fPDPQvZV8vbYzyMg5UrD6hNmKlywTLnrkEe7IFQAImOFeVzM8/s640/15252601_10211046797984318_7450957927075680859_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The jewels in the crown: Couve Penca de Chaves</i></td></tr>
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Walk into a local hardware store in Montalegre or Chaves, and you'll find packets of seed for at least eight or nine varieties, many of them local vegetables that I have not seen offered in Alentejo. And when you think you've seen them all, the next shop will have another kind you haven't seen before.<br />
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There will be a few newcomers in next year's garden.<br />
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Ramos describes cabbage and other greens as the epitome of peasant fare in Portugal, but for those with a taste for rich, healthy flavors and no pretense, they are a good main course on any plate.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A big plate of turnip greens dressed in olive oil and vinager with a mixed rice featuring alheira de Montalegre, <br />feijão frade, tomato and spices of Spain and India, all accompanied by a good local white wine.</i></td></tr>
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Good, simple food, solid as the granite from which most of the regional houses and barns are built. Gourmet fare for Everyman.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Home between the cabbage patches in Negrões, with the ancient reservoir behind</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A cabbage patch with a view in Negrões</i></td></tr>
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<br />Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-44038549979812153462016-12-01T00:29:00.000+00:002018-11-24T19:06:44.928+00:00Olives for allMy first visit to Évora was also my first encounter with fresh, locally produced pickled olives. Although I would occasionally buy Kalamata olives or various stuffed ones from Turkish merchants in Germany, I was never particularly fond of the fruit, and I found most of the lye-processed olives served in restaurants or sold in shops to be inedible. So the crisp, herb accents of fresh olives of various sizes and colors served to me in a small Eborenese restaurant were a revelation.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAnEqNj7IcMY9JDOqdqdNL9uJzGiMbaO-PPoO9TP3HLATPOAFA0j5FJhIOp98tKZCpHg-1aPJ3BuQpyZV2v9v2PHGjoWi-Keev89DO1nMGz4MpDlIvrw0uKUuplBCm5iY4jCLvu3KGfkU/s1600/12828273_10208651194455727_8250356578210850857_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAnEqNj7IcMY9JDOqdqdNL9uJzGiMbaO-PPoO9TP3HLATPOAFA0j5FJhIOp98tKZCpHg-1aPJ3BuQpyZV2v9v2PHGjoWi-Keev89DO1nMGz4MpDlIvrw0uKUuplBCm5iY4jCLvu3KGfkU/s400/12828273_10208651194455727_8250356578210850857_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>An old olive tree in Tavira</i></td></tr>
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In my second year of residence in Portugal, I moved to a small <i>quinta</i> in Louredo, about 7 kilometers from the walls of Évora. There were about a dozen old olive trees on the property, and I got it into my head to see if I could use the fruit in some way. Making oil was out of the question; the nearest <i>lagar</i> for processing was about 40 kilometers away, and the complexities of re-registering cars from other EU countries in Portugal had left me without transportation. So pickling olives was the only choice remaining I thought.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Romans enjoyed the fruits of harvest from this 2000-year old tree!</i></td></tr>
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A bit of online research turned up a lot of advice on how to preserve olives at home; <a href="https://anrcatalog.ucanr.edu/pdf/8267.pdf" target="_blank">the best I found was from the University of California Extension in Davis</a>. Their 26-page guide offered advice on how to handle olives of various kinds in every stage of ripeness and drew on interesting traditions from across the Mediterranean and beyond. I skipped the methods using lye, because I had enough of ruined shirts from that in my laboratory days, and I've tried quite a number of water- and brine-curing methods. My latest variation is olives preserved by packing and drying them in salt, a <a href="http://foodpreservation.about.com/od/Salting/r/Dry-Salt-Cured-Olives.htm" target="_blank">method</a> favored in Greece.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxEiX_COhOLLskRgyt0oBodQ2iSvL0VA26bBShme-q0UXcv4FAAKJm5vW_Ye7tsAqlIgbkuqpjnloGKeFSEY8oMzc_6Y8OX_v8rEX-6W_i3PhNkPw-h_vKhznRn8WDqmcZbONPyfjFfAo/s1600/15122921_10211000533787742_2281502388667629867_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxEiX_COhOLLskRgyt0oBodQ2iSvL0VA26bBShme-q0UXcv4FAAKJm5vW_Ye7tsAqlIgbkuqpjnloGKeFSEY8oMzc_6Y8OX_v8rEX-6W_i3PhNkPw-h_vKhznRn8WDqmcZbONPyfjFfAo/s320/15122921_10211000533787742_2281502388667629867_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Greek-style, dry salt-cured olives in progress</i></td></tr>
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My first batches of olives extracted in water for a few weeks, then preserved in brine with spices, were delicious and generally well received by Portuguese friends, except for a few odd batches where I got too creative and tried out "Christmas spicing". Those were a little strange. But the process on the whole is quite simple, particularly after I ignored all the nonsense in the guide about buckets of water and weighting down the olives with plates and simply recycled one- to two-liter beverage bottles as my water extraction vessels. Change the water daily - quite simple in the kitchen sink - and then just cut the tops off of the bottles when the olives are debittered to the point you want them.<br />
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Another simplification of processing for me was a the discovery of a special tool for cutting olives. Many water-extraction methods require a few cuts to be made in the olives to facilitate the extraction of <b>oleuropein</b>, the bitter agent in the fruit.<br />
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But years of using keyboards and vibrating power tools have caused considerable nerve damage to my hands, so that a few minutes of cutting fruit with a knife lead to excruciating pain. But the end justified the pain I thought. Then, as I was preparing my third annual lot of olives in the kitchen, the <i>doutora </i>asked why I didn't just use an olive cutter, because that would be easier on my hands.<i> A what?</i> I asked.<br />
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Indeed. This sped up processing enormously, reduced the mess and almost eliminated the pain. And all the time I could have had one from a local <i>drogeria</i> for a few euros.<br />
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This year I started so many pickled olives that I had to take some liters of them along on holiday and finish them off to take home afterward.<br />
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The <i>doutora</i> is less fond of traditional olives than I am, and when she saw recently that I had raided a few more kilos from an abandoned orchard near my office, she wrinkled her nose and asked why I didn't make sweet olives instead. <i>What are those?</i> I responded. Some years ago in Greece she had bought a jar of sweet olives and rather liked them, but she had been unable to find anything like that since then, because there is no such thing in traditional Portuguese food culture.<br />
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Nor in any other culture with a description of the process in a language I can read. A few recipes using brined olives to make unusual bar treats in California, but nothing for making a sweet preserve from raw olives. So I turned to a Greek colleague, who supplied me with a Greek description off the Internet of <a href="http://www.tovima.gr/vimagourmet/recipes/article/?aid=656897" target="_blank">how to make sweet olives and sweet olive jam</a>.<br />
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I published my initial adaptation of the process on <i><a href="http://www.translationtribulations.com/2016/11/sweet-greek-olives-come-to-portugal.html" target="_blank">Translation Tribulations</a></i>, but since then I have discovered that the days of water extraction for the olives can be skipped. Sweet olives made with fresh, black-ripe olives had only a slight trace of bitterness; looking at the chemical structure of oleuropein, it seems not unlikely that a total of forty minutes boiling time oxidizes that substance, reducing or eliminating the bitterness of the fruit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFaCUlkF4mEZPb-2TXJbCz273hOfQ_JZN9dMmbVuftSje3F79ooR6jwo7Bu0hQDyJYWEVJWoM0H_tt_M1OpnsmN2fFFrP8Y3_xT9BMpVDzqvCfDwqyETcP4VCJRAAK7S2CR_F7gcpKOU/s1600/15138428_10211005702196949_6611106700295444815_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFaCUlkF4mEZPb-2TXJbCz273hOfQ_JZN9dMmbVuftSje3F79ooR6jwo7Bu0hQDyJYWEVJWoM0H_tt_M1OpnsmN2fFFrP8Y3_xT9BMpVDzqvCfDwqyETcP4VCJRAAK7S2CR_F7gcpKOU/s400/15138428_10211005702196949_6611106700295444815_o.jpg" width="390" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sweet olives on fresh sheep cheese for breakfast</i></td></tr>
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Reactions to the sweet olives here in Portugal are mixed - some love the taste and the novelty, others hate the break with local tradition. But given the country's history of bringing back the treasures of the world and making them uniquely local, I suspect that there may be a future for <i>azeitonas doces</i> here in Portugal. In my private Portugal at least.Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1531383381358180596.post-65226099252929482192016-11-30T00:20:00.001+00:002016-11-30T00:42:45.763+00:00Life reimagined.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:1584_Portugal_Waghenaer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmCmDB12iJUFKqQtO60ydk3au-HQcFPON8CEyKWBv6vZCetvc4P-XIeNh9rWHsopu2i_twuWuX_yzq48MtLTyj7kNqaKPvsxI4LUB7GvbU33b7oUq_odm9eXc6v4Z1L7-OU5OL52gAffo/s640/1200px-1584_Portugal_Waghenaer.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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When I used to see Portugal on maps, I thought that it was a shame I would never find the time to go to that faraway place, at the end of the civilized European continent. So much to do, so many places to go, and what would I find there anyway? Salt cod and churches and shadows cast by the dictator Salazar on <i>praças </i>where the Inquisition established to appease the wicked Spanish crown had so merrily sent the incense of burning heretic flesh heavenward for the glory of some gilt god. <i>A worthless agricultural country</i>, as one German savant described it, <i>producing nothing of value</i>, unlike his land, where the machines needed to run the world are made in virtuous small villages.<br />
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But life in the Teutonic Paradise of autobahns and <i>Arbeit macht frei</i> had gone on nearly fourteen years without much of a holiday, and as 2012 came to a close, a colleague suggested that I wind down for a week in Alentejo, because with a third of the Portugal's area and about ten percent of its population, a rich historical landscape strewn with Roman ruins and hilltop fortresses, megaliths and monasteries, art and aqueducts across a wide countryside of fields and forests, it would suit my temperament rather well she thought. Évora was her suggestion for a start, so I booked it.<br />
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My first impression of the country on arrival in Lisbon on January 9, 2013 was good. A different energy and a good mix of new and old. Early the next day I was off to Évora in the rented car, driving across roads through scenery that brought back memories of the better parts of Southern California, where I grew up.<br />
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For most of the week I drove the roads around the city, seeking and never finding those megaliths, but seeing some kind of a home in the oak groves and open fields. In the city I was fascinated by the maze of narrow streets, the diversity of locks and doorknobs, the different food, but most of all by the people, who were simply <i>normal</i>.<br />
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Early in the week I knew I would return. After a few days I thought I should start learning the language, maybe come back a few times a year or even split my time between Portugal and Germany. And then a long phone call with a German friend reminded me why I needed that holiday in the first place, and the die was cast: I had found my home.<br />
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Two more visits in two months, and then I struck off most of my material shackles in Germany, packed the car with dictionaries, two dogs, some clothes and computers and drove 2800 km from Berlin to Évora in two days.<br />
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It's been quite an adventure, with many surprises. A few times a year I hear from certain friends or clients in the <i>Vaterland </i>who ask me <i>So, have you found that Portugal isn't quite what you expected?</i><br />
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Indeed. It isn't. I could not have imagined the full-bodied spirit of the place and people, nor my special inspiration and companion, the <i>doutora</i>, who has made it her mission to show me the country's unappreciated best aspects and the Portuguese genius for bringing home the finest of the wide world and blending it to create something better.<br />
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So here is the chronicle of my new life in large and small. A bit different from the blogs of breathless Brits who can't get over how much cheaper everything is than in London and all the sun and sand and alcohol, of course. My private Portugal is a different place, in a space real and virtual and perceivable perhaps only in my own head, with my own senses. There are, as one can easily discover, many problems in the country, some recent, some ancient. The place and the people are not perfect. Simply perfect for me.Kevin Lossnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14727800526216764023noreply@blogger.com0