Bacalhau

The regular readers of my blog know that I make no claim to being a gourmet chef. I do however cook occasionally, especially when there is a party at our house, and there are a few things that I can make that turn out well. (Heck, why not say it? Not just well. In fact, quite delicious.)

One such dish is bacalhau guisado, which is salt cod stewed in a tomato sauce with onions, garlic, and exotic spices. Over the years I have made this dish specially for large parties, and each time it seems to turn out a little different, and (may I be so daring as to say it) even more delicious.

As I write this, the aroma of the dish cooking pervades our house, bringing back comforting memories of childhood and a time of uneasy peace just before the Second World War.

Strange, isn't it, how certain smells can induce a touch of nostalgia?

Ah, January

January has been a busy month for us, filled as it was with travel and birthdays and anniversaries and more than the usual number of social activities. Besides all that, the weather has been pretty wet in California the past couple of weeks.

Today though the sun emerged to dry things out some, giving a brief respite to the crews working to restore power or remove downed trees. There have been some landslides and floods in our part of the state. The bright side is that our reservoirs are steadily being filled. Some years, the threat of a drought can be a serious one.

BBC - Languages - Cool Spanish

Want to learn Spanish? BBC will help.

Cool Spanish

Anniversary

My wife and I celebrate our Golden Wedding Anniversary today. Seems like only a short while ago that we went on our first date, back in the mid-Fifties. I remember that occasion quite well. We went to see The Long, Long Trailer, starring Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, at the Majestic Cinema. There we held hands for the first time .

And also for the first time in years, I wrote her a love letter that she received today.

Our thanks to all our family members and friends for their good wishes via cards and calls and emails.

It may be raining outside, but inside we are warm and happy.

View through the treetops

This was taken yesterday with my old 4 megapixel Nikon with an add-on 2x tele-attachment. Because unsteady hands at that magnification, even on a bright day, might produce some camera shake and consequent blurriness, I used a tripod. The resulting image is worthy of one taken with my newer camera which has many more millions of pixels. The lesson for today is that more megapixels do not necessarily make a better photograph. I'm quite happy with this little Nikon.

Acid Test

You could do your level best to avoid them like the plague, and they will go against your grain for the most part. Absolutely. Without trying to lay it on too thick, you might say that they may very well turn out to be an albatross around your neck, even if you have the sixth sense to keep them at arm's length, twenty-four-seven.

It has been called a long shot, but often the best course of action is to play it as it lays, according to Hoyle, and in the final analysis to make a clean breast of it, across the board. Once in a great while you may find you have to choose the inside track and bite the bullet; that is, unless there is a smoking gun to think about.

Nevertheless, you can avoid being called a wet blanket, or being caught on the horns of a dilemma, by keeping your nose to the grindstone, never mind that you may be hoping against hope that nothing goes beyond the pale to ride roughshod over your hitherto clean bill of health.

The bottom line is, basically, don't try to push the envelope and find that you have to undergo a baptism of fire in the process.

Because, all things being equal, those damn clichés can do an about-face to play havoc with your best-laid plans, and then add insult to injury.

It's the Season (I guess)

The Senator's comb-over is carefully arranged but there is a wind blowing and the hair flops over the side of his head opposite to the place where the comb-over is supposed to cover and he keeps patting the errant strands back into place going so far as to clamp his pudgy palm over the top of his head when there is a strong gust, while his voice crackles over the public address system, losing some of its usual resonant quality, the studied earnestness and bonhomie that had worked for him on previous occasions now fail him on this most unfriendly of January days as the wind tears holes in his speech.

The crowd has come here as much to admire his trophy wife, who is almost young enough to be his daughter, as to hear him speak, for the same words had been spoken many times before, and some of the reporters feel they can without too much effort repeat verbatim the main portions of his speech, it's the same old stuff they have been hearing at all the whistle stops these past weeks.

The Senator's wife is beaming and flashing her perfectly photogenic smile at the crowd as the photographers point the long snouts of their telephoto lenses at her flawless features, but there is a touch of restlessness there as the wind whips her blond hair across her baby blue eyes, and the tilt of her head hints that she would much rather be inside in the warmth of the restaurant than out here in the biting cold, never mind the fur collar and long leather coat, why on earth did Joe have to be out here this early anyway, and she didn't even have enough time to put on her make-up properly and God knows she could use a nice espresso doppio maybe even an Irish coffee it is so cotton-pickin' freezing out here.

Oh, yes, and the polls. One day Joe is up, the next day he is down. It's always the polls everyone is concerned about. But don't the experts the so-called pundits know that the people lie when the poll-takers come around with their stupid questions. You can't trust anybody nowadays.

And so what if Joe changes his stand on some of the issues. Everybody has a right to change their mind from time to time, it's only human after all, and what's such a big deal about what Joe said six weeks ago that he denies he ever said, because he was misquoted, it was taken out of context, it's the opponent's camp that is saying all those terrible things about him. They just don't play by the rules, those people. There's this conspiracy that's trying to damage his credibility. They don't know Joe for what he really is – a good man, a fine man, a wonderful husband, all he thinks about every day is what's good for his constituents.

You'd think his constituents would be grateful for all Joe has done for them all these years, in the State capitol and in Washington, working so hard, putting in all those hours, traveling to far-off places like the Virgin Islands and Aruba and Bahamas to try and improve trade relations with those poor people in those developing countries. You'd think they would acknowledge the fine job he has done. But no, not a word of thank you. Not an email, not a letter, not a phone call -- except to complain.

It's enough to make you want to cry.

Alcobaça

In the abbey of Alcobaça lie the ornate sepulchers of Dom Pedro and Inês de Castro. They are set in such a way that at the Last Judgment, at the instant when the lovers arise, they will be facing each other.

The tomb of Dom Pedro

The Tomb of Inês

Camões, Os Lusíadas, Canto III

As filhas do Mondego a morte escura

Longo tempo chorando memoraram,

E, por memória eterna, em fonte pura

As lágrimas choradas transformaram.

O nome lhe puseram, que inda dura,

Dos amores de Inês, que ali passaram.

Vede que fresca fonte rega as flores,

Que lágrimas são a água e o nome Amores.

Camões, Os Lusíadas, Canto III

This act of horror, and black night obscure,

Mondego's daughter long resented deep;

And, for a lasting tomb, into a pure

Fountain transformed the tears which they did weep.

The name they gave it (which doth still indure)

Was Ynes's loves, whom Pedro did keep.

No wonder, such sweet streams water those flowers:

Tears, are the substance; and the name Amours.

Translated by Sir Richard Fanshawe

Inês de Castro

Here is the link to Google's Digitized Books for the story of Inês de Castro.

Coimbra II

View of the River Mondego, from the University grounds.

The university's bell tower and the Faculty of Law building.

The old university library.

View looking northward over Coimbra from the main quadrangle.

The facade of the main building of the Hotel Quinta das Lágrimas.

Coimbra I

In Coimbra, where the fair Inês de Castro cried for the last time as she met her end at the hands of her father-in-law's assassins, there is place called the Quinta das Lagrimas (The Estate of Tears). Today there is on the grounds a luxury hotel of the same name, set amid gardens and fountains where the late Queen shared her last happy months with her husband, Dom Pedro I and their children.

We spent a night at this hotel, in the same room in which the poet Ezra Pound had also slept. Here is a photo of the door, beside which the proprietors have taken the trouble to paint the poet's name. Pound was quite a character, having been a propagandist for the fascist powers during World War II.

Amarante

The town of Amarante in northern Portugal lies astride the River Tâmega. The two sides of this very picturesque community of about ten thousand are joined by an old stone bridge of great charm, though its narrow width can at times be disconcerting when shared by cars and pedestrians.

We had a fine lunch at a restaurant that was nestled against a rock wall that might once have been part of some fortification. Portuguese meals are hearty and healthy, but on the other side of the coin are the great variety of sweets and cakes that can give you cavities just from admiring them in the windows of the confeitarias, of which every street seems to have one.

We stopped in at one sweet shop called Doçaria Mário, run by twin sisters. In back of their shop is a small café and a terrace with a grape arbor. Sitting there as the sun began to set over the distant hills, looking out over the river with tendrils of evening mist forming over it, while trying many different cakes and pastries to the accompaniment of classical music and excellent coffee, was an experience for the memory book.

And then off to bed at the Casa da Calçada, where rose petals had been strewn over the sheets.

Braga

Braga is another important city of great age in northern Portugal. It was originally a Roman encampment called Bracara Augusta, named for Augustus Caesar. One of its principal attractions is the church of Bom Jesus do Monte, just outside the city, whose magnificent staircase is equalled by that of another church in the town of Lamego, in the Douro valley, which we shall show you later.

The young lady gazing so raptly at the church from the bottom of the staircase (actually a series of symmetrical staircases) is our granddaughter.

This is a view of Braga from the top of the steps, and just in front of the church, seen below.

A gateway to the main shopping street in Braga.

The cathedral (Se) of Braga, with a pedestrian sign in the foreground
whose message is not exactly clear.

A side street and a solitary chair, with a variety of cobblestones leading the eye into the distance.

Interior of the Cathedral

A rather ornate door that has seen better days, yet has a kitty door built into it. (I think.)

Guimarães

Guimarães is known as the birthplace of the nation of Portugal. It is where its first king, Afonso Henriques, was born. A pleasant city in the Minho district, it contains many sites important in the history of the country, including the castle below, which commands some great views of the surrounding landscape.

This is a statue of King Afonso Henriques

It's just down the street from the municipal building shown here, while downtown on a Sunday morning, the menfolk chat and smoke in the city's main square, which is where they gather,

while the women are at Mass.

And the younger crowd enjoy a nice bica at a sidewalk cafe.