It’s cherry season and there’s a cherry tree in the home village that we did not make it to this year because of timing. The tree is huge and bears a truckload of fruit, most of which ends up on the ground because the older generation doesn’t feel nimble enough to climb the tree and the youngsters in the family don’t go to the home village anymore (at this time of year, anyway). Which leaves the cherry-picking to us, the middle-agers, and we’d left it too late. But lo and behold, when we returned from our trip we were met with branches of cherries that my in-laws had snipped off the tree. (The tree desperately needs pruning, anyway, it’s out of control.) Voilà, cherries!
Ta-da! Cherry cobbler!
If this seems too pedestrian to merit a post, you’ve grossly overestimated my kitchen prowess. It has moved up the skill scale but I still have a long ways to go before I can say the word ‘prowess’ with a straight face.
For the record, cobbler — of any stripe — is not something yet found in a restaurant, bakery, or supermarket in Portugal. If I want it, I have to make it myself. That’s one of the themes of expat life: miss something? Learn how to make it. There’s no better way to find out how much you really want something than to live in a place where you can’t buy it.
In the expat’s home, the kitchen turns into a lab. And thankfully, the experiments work sometimes!
June 24, 2016
Album: Portugal [Summer 2016]