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Ir As Compras*

Ir As Compras*

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A week ago we were just returning from Portugal. Since then I’ve been to three local grocery stores, an unusually high number — but necessary given there will be a crowd here on Sunday.

With every shop I visit there is one tugging at my memory. It’s Pingo Doce, the Portuguese supermercado chain that was so much fun to visit, it was almost not like grocery shopping at all. 

The first one we found was less than 10 minutes walk from our apartment in Funchal. There we bought milk, eggs, bread and vegetables. Another one, just slightly farther away, had delicious tangerines as well as prepared foods. 

On our second-to-last day in Madeira, we found the largest Pingo of all, in downtown Funchal. It was not unlike a Wegman’s in size and scope. I picked up Portuguese Easter treats for the kiddos there.

And finally, we discovered that the chain extended to (probably began in) Lisbon. We never visited the flagship store there, but did dip into a smaller market in Cais do Sodre. As with the others there were self-assured locals doing their weekly shop, confused tourists searching for toothpaste, and harried clerks trying to deal with it all. Life itself, in other words. 

(*”To go shopping” in Portuguese. Above, a Pingo shopper in Funchal, just back from a hike.)

Pastry of Champions

Pastry of Champions

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The bags are unpacked, the laundry is done, and the souvenirs are stowed away, waiting for their recipients. All except one: the final pastel de nata, the custard tart Portugal is famous for and which I bought a six-pack of in the airport. That one is for breakfast. 

Pastéis de nata weren’t the only pastries I purchased at Humberto Delgado Airport. I also sprang for a travesseiro, which was labeled “traditional Portuguese pastry” but which I learn means pillow and is the signature dessert of Sintra, the fairytale town outside Lisbon. 

Maybe I had just had my fill of pasteis de nata by the time I bit into this delicacy the day before yesterday, but in many ways I enjoyed it more: the flakiness of the crusty sweet, its delicate flavor. As you can see in the photo, I couldn’t wait to sample it. And now… I can’t wait to taste one again.

Recipe Hunter

Recipe Hunter

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Like my address book, my recipe box is in need of some serious pruning. I pull out both this time of year: the first to address cards, the second to find my standard go-to Christmas cookie recipes. 

But this year I’m in search of something a little different: instructions for spritz cookies, for instance, for which I’ve drawn a complete blank, even when I delve into Mom’s old recipe box. Ideas for savory snacks, also nada.

Which means I turn to that great recipe box of cyberspace. Online recipes, anyone?

The Day After

The Day After

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The day after the feast: Leftovers fill the fridge. Two turkeys vie for space and baggies of extras are jammed into every other nook and cranny. The coolers still house sodas and beer, and bottles of unopened wine line up like soldiers in a drill.

There’s a load of laundry churning away — placemats and tea towels mainly, having forgone cloth napkins for paper this year — but the china and silver are washed and stored for the next big occasion.

Outside, the wind is blowing, the pumpkins are still intact. But inside, all is calm. The dust is no longer flying. Twenty-nine people have come and gone … and we survived. 

Give a Little Whistle

Give a Little Whistle

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At home it announces itself with a steady crescendo of gurgles and hisses and a click when the water has boiled. Almost foolproof.

At Fort Worden, I heated water the old-fashioned way. I filled the pot, flipped the top down and waited for the whistle. Ingenious … but not foolproof. For instance, you could (and I did) forget to close the contraption. I quickly learned — no top, no whistle.

You could also (theoretically) leave the kettle on until the water vaporized and the pot was singed. But for that you would have to ignore the whistle, which is mighty difficult to do. 

I’m glad to be back with my electric teakettle. But the whistling version is fun, too … maybe the original smart appliance? 

The Full Fridge

The Full Fridge

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Long ago, when I was writing a magazine article about what parents could do to promote family happiness, I remember being surprised at the additional point my editor suggested adding. It’s good to keep the refrigerator stocked with good food, she said.

I’d been interviewing experts about family self-esteem and other heady topics, forgetting that all the good feelings in the world aren’t much help unless there’s a healthy body to receive them. 

Our refrigerator serves only two people now, so there’s a limit to how stocked it can be. But a couple of recent holidays plus entertaining out-of-town family last weekend means it’s been fuller than it usually is. And yes, that is happy-making … but only because it means I won’t have to cook this week. 

(No open-fridge photos this morning, but here’s one of a salad that came out of it.)

Last Meal

Last Meal

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On Sunday the Octave of Easter ended, though the season of Easter will last until Pentecost. But for me the celebration truly came to an end when I ate the last turkey sandwich made from Easter dinner leftovers. 

Sometimes I forgo the turkey on Easter, serving only ham along with the deviled eggs, asparagus, ambrosia salad and potatoes au gratin. But this year’s crowd required reinforcements. I was happy to oblige with a 23-pound bird. That’s a lot of turkey sandwiches — and I have relished every one.

You have to understand that if I were offered a last meal, I wouldn’t hesitate. It would be a turkey sandwich made from all white meat, thinly sliced, on white bread (which I usually avoid) and mayonnaise (ditto). If I’m feeling virtuous I garnish with lettuce … but I usually don’t feel virtuous. 

I would illustrate this post with a picture of a turkey sandwich, but alas, the turkey sandwiches are gone. A glass of iced tea will have to do. It, of course, would be the last beverage. 

Short Order

Short Order

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I’m thinking about Asheville again, especially Sunday morning when we ate at Five Points Diner. It was rainy and cold and a little early to show ourselves at the Biltmore. We needed a place to be for an hour or so, and our Airbnb host said Five Points was where the locals ate.

She was right. There were so many locals that we had to wait half an hour to be seated. And once we were, it was at the counter. 

It had been a while since I sat at a counter, tucked into the buzz and clatter of food preparation. The short-order cook never stopped moving. He manipulated the spatula like a symphony orchestra conductor wields a baton, cracking eggs one-handed with a firm stroke followed by a forceful toss of the shells into the trash bin. 

“Cooked in Sight. Must be Right” read the sign on the wall. I’d have to agree. 

Farewell, Leftovers

Farewell, Leftovers

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For some, today might be TGIF. For others, only 22 more shopping days till Christmas. For me, it’s the last day to eat Thanksgiving leftovers. Yesterday I eked one final turkey sandwich out of the bird, the day before that I ate the last cup of stuffing and final piece of pumpkin pie. 

Today it’s down to the molded cranberry salad, which has been whittled from a large serving bowl to one a fraction of its size.

Before I’m drummed out of town on reckless eating charges, let me say that I’ve written a few food safety articles and know the drill. I keep hot foods hot and cold foods cold. I avoid cross-contamination at all costs, treating raw chicken prep areas as if they were hazmat zones. 

But I also like to get as much mileage as I can from any big meal I cook — and last Thursday’s was a doozy.  

(Apparently, I don’t take many food pictures, either.)

Hardly Nothing

Hardly Nothing

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When a day is filled with as much cooking as yesterday was, the next day must be filled with, uh, pretty much nothing.

So how does one go about nothing, anyway? I’ve never been good at it. 

Walking, reading, more eating — hardly nothing, but sometimes they can feel like it when they’re going well.