Things I miss about Brazil
yearning, in list format
the warmth of the rain, the sound it makes at its most furious. Sometimes it falls so thickly that you look out the window and cannot see anything beyond it, as if the world out there no longer exists
fresh, green coconut, which is everywhere. We buy them from vendors carting around styrofoam ice carts. With machetes, they slice off the top and stick a straw through the soft, white pulp for you to drain. If you ask nicely, the vendors will crack open the coconut for you to scrape out the flesh. Some of them even have plastic spoons available.
the way my aunt laughs - a loud ‘aHA!’, as though she’s surprised herself, followed by high pitched giggles. You always end up laughing with her.
the beaches, and how expansive they are. Once, we walked along one for an entire hour, and never saw where it ended. The sky is so blue against them, and the water is so warm. Beaches are how nature expresses desire : the way the water clings to the sand, the way the ocean creeps forward in the early hours, only to be yanked cruelly back.
people who look like me. That is to say, family.
cocada. Instructions for when you have hours to spare: 300g freshly grated coconut (important - dried will not work), 200g sugar (I have always preferred brown, and I often cut it to 100g), 100g sweet condensed milk. Combine all of this in a thick-bottomed saucepan and stir and stir until the mixture starts to detach from the sides and bottom. Recipes say it takes about ten minutes, but this is a lie. Often it takes twenty, or even longer. You must not stop stirring, you must not let the mixture burn. My aunt always reminds me to use a wooden spoon, she’s reminding you here too, especially becuase she went to all the effort to pick the coconuts from her own back yard. Don’t ruin it with synthetics. Once the mixture is ready, use a spoon to lay out dollops onto baking trays, and let it air dry. Some people prefer to eat it wet, some like it dry, I like it both ways. Some recipes call for ‘black sugar’, which simply means caramelising the sugar before you mix it with the coconut and milk. Cocada grows stale after about a week, but not to worry, it will not be around for that long.
street parties, in which musicians play music and everyone dances without it being a problem, an invitation, a spectacle. This country does not understand repression, and that is why everyone feels safe enough to dance. And knows how to.
creamy avocados the size of my head. my fucking HEAD.
fried cassava, and pamonha, and feijoada, and feijão, and pão de quiejo, and coxhina, and guava, and abacaxi, and farofa. I’m typing this and tears are rolling down my face, because no matter how hard Brazilians recreate these things over here, it is never the same as over there. My grandma used to make these things. The last time I got to eat any of her food, I was eighteen and stupid, because I did not take time to savour it. If I had known, I would have slowed down. I would have thanked her properly.
little cups of coffee, sugary, strong, black. I always drink three or four cups and everyone looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. But still, I sleep just fine!
The slap of chinelos against the ground, oh my goodness, what visceral memories of 1) the rubbery scrape across gravel, 2) the dull smack as it hits the heel 3) the languidity of the walk. You can’t run with chinelos, no no, they’ll trip you up and rip the skin right off your big toe. You have to saunter, you have to grin, you have to enjoy the process. People say Brazilians cannot be rushed, I say, walk a mile in their chinelos.
my hair, and my skin, and my smile, when in the right climate
Farm Rio, which is not just cheaper (because! of! the! conversion! rate!) but so much better than what its European counterpart has to offer, both in style and in fit.
The birds. Have you ever looked a blue macaw in the eye? If you ever get the chance, you should.
when it rains in hilly Uberlandia, the gutters burst and the streets become waterfalls for a hour or two. No one bats an eye. And then suddenly the sun has shoved its way into the sky and all that water disappears so fast, like a joke. I don’t understand how ankle deep water vanishes like that. Where does it go?
