Fruit, glorious fruit. We have it in abundance here. And please don’t hate me, but it’s either super cheap or free. It’s so bad, I mean it’s so good that the other day my husband was complaining that we had too many peaches, that people keep bringing us more and more delicious freshly picked peaches. I looked at him and told him that everyone should have such problems. I mean really. Eat them and shut up!

For the past couple of months we have had a friend of Sophia’s staying with us. She is more like family really. Her father is from our village and our families go as far back as anyone can remember. While she was here, she and Lana went with my niece to go picking blackberries. I have fond memories of picking blackberries with my friend Carlos and my cousin João Armando when I was a young girl, so I was thrilled that the girls were having the same experience.

Yesterday the kids and I drove to the edge of the village, yes, we’re lame, but there are no walking paths on the ‘outskirts’ of town so I thought it was best. We parked in our friend’s driveway and off we went.

This work isn’t for wimps. Within a few minutes my poor boy was in tears insisting that his wound would need ‘blood surgery.’ I told him to suck on his cut. No, I am not a doctor I just thought it might be a good distraction. That was not a good idea as it brought more tears. After a few hugs I chose to move on with picking. You might think that I am some cold-hearted mother because I chose to ignore his pain, but people, we are talking about fresh blackberries and it was only a flesh wound.

After a bit, he got right back into it. It wasn’t long before we felt we had enough.

For a child who does not like many fruits the smile on her face indicates how happy she is to feast on these berries.

The berries in this bowl did not last very long at all. If we want more we will be out again to pick the unripe ones we left on the vine. If you want some, you will have to come help us pick them on our next outing.

Telha artwork: Auntie Maria

For the second time since we have been here we have been invited to a matança. A matança is a killing of a pig. Not sure any of you would want to see the body of a dead pig hanging from the ceiling or the served head on a table. If not, you’re in luck because I won’t be posting any. We missed the actual killing of the pig both times, but my kids did see that above mentioned carcass and head. Our involvement in these matanças was more to enjoy some of the freshest meat you could ever consume. That and some great company.

Lana had the ‘opportunity’ to see some turkeys being killed the last time we were in Portugal and although this did not have a significant impact on her, she is no longer interested in seeing any animals being killed. That being said, she also has no problem knowing where her bacon comes from. I think that is very important. Many people would cringe at the sight of a dead animal. If they do, then it is probably because they have a hard time with the concept of eating meat. Funny, but even as a person who strives to eat a vegan diet this is something that has never bothered me. Well, not until this year. Funnily enough it is my son who is making me rethink the ethics of eating meat. Both he and I are on some journey. Where it will lead us, who knows.

Since we arrived in Portugal we have gotten three chickens and two cats. Nuno has also asked for a dog, goat, donkey, and that’s just to name a few. Problem is, if we get them, we are never allowed to kill them. Cute concept, but I can’t go back to New Zealand with a menagerie of animals so looks like my son is out of luck.

Tonight my friend Emilia, was just about to offer Nuno this rabbit, when I interrupted her and informed her that we could not take it. Even with his limited Portuguese, Nuno understood exactly what conversation we were having and begged for us to take it. I stood firm. Yes, it’s cute, but to me a rabbit has no business being a pet. No, rabbit was always this lady’s favorite food. But like I said if it comes to our house a pet it will become. So the answer is não.

As of yesterday besides a number of ducks, chickens, roosters, rabbits, and geese, there was also a pig living in that pen. Yesterday afternoon a man came by and shot it. They used to slit the pigs’ throats, but they believe this is more ethical. Then after draining it’s blood, which can be saved to make blood sausage, the same man butchers the meat. Most of the meat is frozen to be used until one’s next matança, but some is set aside to eat immediately with friends and family. In talking to people this is not the less expensive option. Pigs need a lot of water, and they eat quite a bit. The vegetables they consume are grown for the most part, but the grains must be purchased. Although economically it is not the cheapest route, there is no question which manner renders the most beautiful meat.

Besides our meal, we were also given a tour of their property.

my husband enviously admiring the fields 

white plums, not to rub it in, but they are amazing

watermelons

This last picture is of one of the five varieties of grapes they grow. They have kindly offered to have us come back in the fall and to pick our favorite so that we can grow some ourselves. I have also been offered their assistance with my garden. I have willingly taken all the fruit and vegetables given to us, but the thought of having a nice garden influenced by their green thumb is very exciting.

The kids had a great play with their friend and at one point Nuno said that their house was heaven. When asked why he said because of all the vegetables, fruits and animals. I know at least for him, he was referring to the live ones.

The past three days were a marathon on school work. We had so much catching up to do after 1) Kyle & Carly’s visit, 2) Diane and Jose’s visit and 3) the two weeks the kids spent at the Portuguese school they will be attending next year. All justifiable reasons to play hooky, but it meant trying to get 4 weeks worth of school work done in a week and a half. But somehow we did it.

Nuno had a project on getting to know ‘the orchestra’. It was a cute unit, but one that I really needed us to plow through if we were going to get any vacation. One section involved his being a conductor. Poor kid, he had me and his sister to pick from since his dad had to video the piece. Well, homemade maracas, a homemade trumpet and a keyboard were what we had to pick from. Oh yes, and a mother who can not really sing, but likes to play the part. Lana is still laughing at my first attempt, that one I will not post.

Even though I may regret putting this video out there, it was nice to have some fun amidst the madness of that ‘learning’ marathon.

click here for video

Our village will be ‘Em Festa’ in a little over a week’s time. Em festa translates into “In Party’ and that is exactly what it means. Starting on the Friday, our village will host a three day festival. There will be food, music and of course dancing. What more could you ask for? ‘Em preparação’, in preparation, for the party there is sausage to be made. Heaps. As our homemade sausage is a draw for crowds and a source of revenue for our village.

Although I do my best to avoid eating meat, anything having to do with my village, and therefore my culture, is something I want to be a part of. That is why I was the first person to show up with my chopping knife ready to help the other volunteers get through 1,500 kilos of pig meat.

It is no secret that I love my village. The primary reason is not its location or the look of it, but its people. They are fabulous. To begin with there is this woman, Nisa.

I give her, as many do, the credit for the life that pulses through our village, especially how that energy impacts our elderly population. They are individuals, who have weathered a lot and they are survivors. But it is in these years when life can become more difficult and more lonely that someone like Nisa makes all the difference. On days like this they walk or hobble across our village, some on crutches, to our salão because they are needed. Needed. Isn’t that a nice word at any age? Nisa, makes it very clear that there help is essential in making our festa a success, which it is. And their expertise be it in seasoning, stuffing, or curing the meat is critical. And it is.

So there we were, about 30 of us. Sitting, cutting but also talking and laughing. I heard stories about my mother. I asked questions about 25 de Abril. In perfect Portuguese form there were multiple conversations happening at once. And although I was a bit sore and quite tired by the end of the day, I will file this day in my memory bank as one of those days where I smiled the most.

Four years ago, if you had mentioned ANZAC Day I would have had to google it. But here we are, April 25th, 2012, in Portugal in the village of my birth making ANZAC biscuits to commemorate those Australian and New Zealand soldiers who lost their lives in war.

This ‘adventure’ we embarked on 3plus years ago has brought me back to where it all started. Literally and figuratively. As I sit here clicking away on my laptop I am meters away from the bedroom where I was born. Crazy, but true.

Today is not only ANZAC Day, but it is also 25 de Abril. The date commemorates Portugal’s Carnation Revolution. In 1974 through a peaceful military coup, which was supported through civil resistance, democracy was returned to Portugal. This day is not one my family celebrated in the States, but it always resounded with me as we emigrated to America 5 days before the revolution. As a very little girl, I would have been oblivious to any national events, but that decision my parents made to go to America is one that I will forever be grateful for. I am fully aware that my place in this world and my good fortune rests very much in that event. Our emigrating. Mom, dad, America….thank you.

You’ll find these all over the ferry across the Cook Strait.

We knew our time in Taupo was a stop through more than a visit. Living so close, we always feel like it’s more of a weekend destination spot. SOOOO, after a night in the caravan park we knew that we’d be on our way to Wellington.

The plan was to arrive after dinner and park up at our friend’s sister’s place. The plan. We have a lot of those in this family, but they often change, as they did that day. An hour into our drive my very clever husband suggested we call to see if there was availability on that evening’s ferry to Picton. I did. And there was. So, from that point on my husband was a maniac trying to make sure we made the last ferry. Maniac you ask, yes. Stop so your son can pee? Why would we do that, don’t we have a water bottle he can pee into? Yes, we do, but no we’re not going down that path!!!!! We pulled over.

Lunch? Do we really need to eat lunch? Can’t the kids wait until we’re on the ferry at 5:30? No, they can’t, but lordy did we run in and out to get their food.

Honey, I need to use the toilet! Can’t you wait? No I can’t? But, I did.

Funny, but we made it to the ferry 2 hours early. Yep. That’s how we roll. Manic craziness on the road to then sit around with only non-vegan friendly food around. Thanks babe. But, it was all good. We got on our ferry and made it into Picton by 9:30. Kids were good thanks to their devices and the views were spectacular. But more importantly no one vomited. That people is a big deal. I have heard so many nightmare stories of the Cook Straight Crossing that I feel as though New Zealand gave me a gift today.