A quick excerpt from a typical day experience in the life of Igatu, Bahia:
After spending two hours in the community center (O Centro Cultural) sorting out books and organizing them into their respective genres (Romance, Idiomas, Modulos Pre-vestibular) I head home. Starving for some almoço (lunch).
I find my host dad Neu working on some home improvement project, pulling tiles off the roof from inside the restaurant --instead of positioning himself on top of the roof --shoveling dirt into large buckets and dispensing the piles of upturned earth somewhere along the exterior portion of the house.
I walk into the kitchen, greet my host mom Patricia with a “bom dia” e lavo meus maos (“Good morning,” and I wash my hands) to get ready for the second phase of the day. I watch Patricia for a couple of minutes. Notice her flow back and forth between the stove and the counter, cutting legumes effortlessly and frying peixe (fish) while having a deep conversation with her niece Denise, and finally, I decide to pop the question.
I find my host dad Neu working on some home improvement project, pulling tiles off the roof from inside the restaurant --instead of positioning himself on top of the roof --shoveling dirt into large buckets and dispensing the piles of upturned earth somewhere along the exterior portion of the house.
I walk into the kitchen, greet my host mom Patricia with a “bom dia” e lavo meus maos (“Good morning,” and I wash my hands) to get ready for the second phase of the day. I watch Patricia for a couple of minutes. Notice her flow back and forth between the stove and the counter, cutting legumes effortlessly and frying peixe (fish) while having a deep conversation with her niece Denise, and finally, I decide to pop the question.
Dropping minha mochilla (my pack) next to the table, I ponder to Patricia “quer ajudar” (would you like some help)? Responding to my inquiry with a rapid "sim, quero” (yes, I would), she hands me a container full of tomatoes that need to be washed. I rest my hand on the table next to the cutting board, following instruction intuitively.
Scrubbing them with sabão (soap) and putting them through a rinse, I watch Patricia make the first few cuts: dices the red fruit into perfect little cubes. She hands me the knife, reminds me to be careful of my hands and I repeat the process over, only this time the tomato suffers from awkward handling and the outcome results are sad misshapen chunks.
Scrubbing them with sabão (soap) and putting them through a rinse, I watch Patricia make the first few cuts: dices the red fruit into perfect little cubes. She hands me the knife, reminds me to be careful of my hands and I repeat the process over, only this time the tomato suffers from awkward handling and the outcome results are sad misshapen chunks.
Patricia looks at the cutting board and chuckling under her breath, she inspects the tomato.
And my hands,
Making sure eu tenho todo dez dedos (I have all ten fingers).
Occasionally she will repeat “cuidado Sarah, cuidado seus maos” (careful Sarah, your hands) as I grasp ahold of the knife, cutting cebolas e cenoras (onions and carrots) and peeling alface (lettuce) until finally I have made myself something that resembles uma salada (a salad). Patricia takes my work and shows it to Denise. “Olha” she says, “a salada de Sarah, que beleza” and turns the bowl over to me, giving me a wink.
After setting the bowl on the table, she continues her work of seemingly ten different tasks, resuming to her quick chopping speed. I pull a bowl off the top shelf and scoop up my freshly cut fruits and vegetables, watching my host mom be a modern-day Brasilian supercook.
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