Lost in Translation: A Feeling of "Saudade"

There are some words that just don't have a good English translation. I recently ran across one that perfectly describes our recent trip to Portugal, and remarkably, it is a Portuguese word, with no direct translation to any other language.

The word is saudade, a beautiful word that means the feeling of longing for something or someone that you love and which is (almost) lost. It evokes a melancholic longing or nostalgia for something or someone that is far away from you. It brings sad and happy feelings altogether: sadness for missing and happiness for having experienced the feeling.

I'm overwhelmed by a feeling of saudade when I look back on our recent trip to Portugal (and then on to Morocco -- but more on that later). I think it's because we almost didn't make the trip. Four days before we were supposed to leave, Ed developed a great pain in his side. Not one to complain, I was astounded when he agreed to get checked out by a doctor. Next thing I knew, we were at Norton Brownsboro Hospital and the ER doctor was confirming that Ed was suffering from appendicitis. A few hours later he was appendix-less and in recovery and determined to board the plane. And so, with the doctor's guarded blessing, that's what we did on Monday morning.

For the whole trip, I was so grateful for his returned health that it made every day all the more poignant. It gave me this feeling of saudade, for something that (almost) wasn't.

We spent 11 days exploring Portugal, with three days each in Lisbon and Porto, both lovely cities filled with orange tiled roofs and flat decorative tile outside walls. We enjoyed the bluest skies for more days in a row than I thought possible. On one of our days in Lisbon, we took a train to nearby Sintra, which looks like it was built for a Disney princess-movie set.

From there, it was on to the Douro Valley, known for its vineyards that produce the grapes for Port. We drove past field after field of cultivated grapes, wild red poppies and yellow buttercups, silvery olive trees bordered by wisteria, lilacs, hollyhocks and mulberry trees. 

Our next stop two stops were Bellmonte, where we stayed in an old convent, and then Evora, a smallish town known for its Roman ruins and winding streets. Between the two towns we drove through old oak and cork-tree groves, most with sheep or cattle grazing underneath – a shepherd and his dog never far away. 

On our final day, we drove to the Lisbon airport, stopping first in the small fishing village of Setubal for a walk-around. Then it was on to Morocco (stay tuned)....

Recommendations from our time in Portugal

Portugal Trails: Tour operator specializing in organizing self-guided tours in Portugal. They booked our hotels and rental car and even provided a pre-programmed GPS, which was a brilliant addition.

Our hotels in both Lisbon and Porto were part of the Pousada de Portugal, small luxury hotels in government-owned historic buildings in ideal locations. We loved our stay at the Pousada de Lisboa in Lisbon and Pestana Porto Hotel in Porto.

1/2-day tours: We took 3 half-day tours – walking tours in Lisbon and Porto and then an arts/handicraft tour in Evora. All were great fun and a wonderful way to explore. It felt like we were just walking around the towns with a friend. On our Evora-area tour, we went to a cheese factory, a rug seller, a pottery village and a winery. Because we were interested in seeing a megalith site, our guide made a detour to the Vale de Maria do Meio for us to wander around the great dolmens.

Pasteis de Belem: While in Lisbon, we grabbed a taxi to take us to one of the oldest pastry shops in Lisbon to try the local specialty, a kind of custard tart. Similar tarts were sold at every pastry shop in Lisbon, but these were served warm with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Added bonus: our taxi driver was a fado singer (see below) and sang to us during the entire ride.

Mesa de Frades: Portugal Trails booked a dinner and fado show for us in the Alfama district of Lisbon, one of the oldest neighborhoods filled with a delightful maze of narrow streets. We balked. It sounded too touristy, but it wasn't! Dinner was excellent and after dessert, fado singers and guitarists showed up and sang to the 25 or so guests. It was in an intimate setting and was good enough that we stayed out to 1 a.m.!

Atria-te au Rio: The last night we spent in Lisbon we took a ferry over to Almada. We walked down a dark path behind a row of warehouses to a small restaurant on the river. It was worth the effort to get there as we were treated to vino verte (young wine with bubbles), chorizo with carrot jam and ink squid linguine.

Francesinha: A number of people in Lisbon insisted that we try a francesinha in Porto. When I would ask what it was, they would just kind of shrug and say it was too hard to explain, but that I really needed to try one. As it turns out, it is a kind of sandwich with a variety of meats, covered in cheese and then topped with a special tomato sauce. Think of it as a Porto Hot Brown. It was surprisingly good, especially when served with a pitcher of sangria!

Port-Tonic: We were served a glass of port at every opportunity. But it wasn't until a dry white Port was blended with tonic water that I really got on board. As soon as I can find a bottle of white port, I'm serving them at Farm Dover.

Marvao: On our drive from Bellmonte to Evora, we stopped to stretch our legs in Marvao, a small walled city with views of both Portugal and Spain. We wished we could have stayed in this enchanted town for a day or two.

The Portuguese: We were warmly greeted and treated by all the Portuguese people that we met. I found them to be a particular proud people: proud of their cities, their explorers, their castles and their specialty foods, especially their Port wines, black pork, and franczina (see above). Ed learned a handful of portuguese words which pleased them to no end. They were happy to switch over to English once he had exhausted his Portuguese vocabulary.

Poking around the farm

I know I promised to tell you about our trip to Portugal and Morocco, but first I wanted to tell you about how much fun we had poking about our farm – and then enjoying a skillet of poke for our dinner.

The farm looks great. Everything has greened up and is growing like crazy (including the weeds in our garden). Yesterday we headed across the dam to our path through the woods. Its entrance is marked by two walnut trees, growing just close enough together to forbid using the mower to cut the path. In the three weeks that we were gone, the path almost disappeared with new growth of wild hemlock, tall grasses, purple wildflowers and pokeweed.

Before weed whipping the path, we harvested the leaves from the very tops of a handful of poke plants. I knew it was an edible spring green, but had never tried it before.

Once back, I did my research and determined that if I didn't boil the greens three times for 20 minutes each, I may, in fact, cause us to overdose on Vitamin A, with dire consequences. So triple boil it I did. Like spinach, the final product was much shrunk from the initial potful. Unlike spinach, it retained its bright green color. After draining it the final time, I added a bit of bacon grease, a grating of black pepper and a sprinkling of salt and served a mess of it up with our dinner.

It was tasty (bacon grease helps). It also took over an hour to prepare. If we were starving, I would certainly serve it again. Otherwise, there are lots of greens coming up in my garden that take only a minute or two to saute´.

In addition to the poke, we rounded out our dinner with our very own home-grown asparagus roasted with Parmesan and a bowl of strawberries straight from the garden for dessert.

I leave you with the lyrics from "Polk Salad Annie," a 1968 song written and performed by Tony Joe White.

If some of ya'll never been down south too much

I'm gonna tell you a little bit about this 

So that you'll understand what I'm talkin' about

Down there we have a plant that grows out in the woods

And in the fields looks somethin' like a turnip green

And everybody calls it polk salad, polk salad

Used to know a girl lived down there 

And she'd go out in the evenings and pick her a mess of it

Carry it home and cook it for supper

'Cause that's about all they had to eat, but they did all right

Down in Louisiana, where the alligators grow so mean

There lived a girl, that I swear to the world

Made the alligators look tame

Polk salad Annie, polk salad Annie

Everybody said it was a shame

Cause her momma was a workin' on the chain gang

(A mean vicious woman)

Everyday for supper time, she'd go down by the truck patch

And pick her a mess of polk salad, and carry it home in a tow sack

Polk salad Annie, the gators got your granny

Everybody says it was a shame

Cause her momma was a workin' on the chain gang

(A wretched, spiteful, straight-razor totin' woman

Lord have Mercy, pick a mess of it)

Her daddy was lazy and no count, claimed he had a bad back

All her brothers were fit for was stealin' watermelons 

Out of my truck patch

Polk salad Annie, the gators got your granny

Everybody said it was a shame

Cause her momma was a workin' on the chain gang

(Sock a little polk salad to me, you know I need me a mess of it)

Re-entry

A mind that is stretched by new experiences can never go back to its old dimensions.

– Oliver Wendell Holmes

Our plane touched down last night at dusk. We were home (well, 40 minutes from home) from 22 days of exploring the sights and sounds of Portugal and Morocco.

It was a grand adventure, made all the more grand when we pulled in our drive, swung open the red cattle gate, and made our way slowly up the gravel road – grateful for our time away; grateful for our return home. (And especially grateful that Philip, married to niece Amy, had mowed just two days prior to our return.)

I've so much to tell you, but as usual upon return from travels, first I need to tend to re-entry chores. Give me a day or two and I'll recount the highlights of our trip.

Nose to the Grindstone

Ed and I have had our noses to the grindstone all week. On Monday, we had 13 cubic yards of mulch delivered to Farm Dover. (Our pickup truck bed holds 1 cubic yard, so just imagine that times 13.) We are creating a bee garden, planted with native flowers that our honey bees and other native bees and butterflies will surely love. But before the plants can go in, we had to kill the fescue grass, put down layers of newspaper, and then top it with 2 inches of natural hardwood mulch. Believe me, it is much harder than it sounds.

On top of that, there was grass to cut, weeds to whip, potatoes to plant, strawberries to uncover, asparagus and radishes to harvest, beds to mulch, planters of Lilly of the Nile to divide and replant, ferns to haircut, roses to fertilize, and, of course, honeysuckle to battle.

In the middle of all this work, I managed to look up and around and noticed the solid yellow field just across the way on the adjacent farm. Like a siren of mythology, I heard it calling me to come explore. So, just as the sun was headed down and my work was mostly done, I climbed the barbed wire fence between our and our neighbor's property, closed my eyes and jumped, landing in another world. In honor of Earth Day this week, I invite you to come along and see what I saw....

Acres upon acres of canola flowers. Their subtly sweet fragrance engulfed me. Like Dorothy in Oz, I wanted to lay down in the field, and just nap for a bit. Obviously, I wasn't on Farm Dover anymore.



My lesson for the week: yes, there is work to be done and it must be done. But I mustn't forget to look up and look out, and go where I'm called.

I thought the day's weather would improve...

I'm trying to talk myself into going out to set up two new bee hives back behind the big garden. We are picking up two new 5-frame nucs (small honey bee colonies) with Italian marked queen bees tomorrow morning in Clarkson, Ky. Maggie is in L.A. working and so isn't available to guide us in how to install the bees into their Farm Dover hives. Fortunately, she sent us a YouTube video that shows in detail how to complete the transfer. Wish us luck.

In the meantime, I'm sitting in my study, sipping hot tea, watching the cold drizzling rain ping against the window and hoping it will quit before dark comes. I should have set up the new hives while I had the chance this morning, but SNOW was spitting from the grey sky and I thought the day would improve. Wrong.

I did take a walk around the farm this morning, mostly to pick the drooping daffodils before the temperature drops tonight to 27 degrees and freezes the tender blooms. While crossing the farm to get to the daffodils near the sink hole, I couldn't help but stop and snap a couple of pictures of the young maples unfurling their tiny red leaves and showcasing their helicopter seeds.

I'm trusting that the fruit trees will make it through the cold night. May drape a beach towel over the barrel of radishes – just to be on the safe side. You can find me sitting by the fire tonight, happy to be in for the evening.

Headed out for dinner

While Ed watched the news, I headed out for dinner. You are probably thinking that I was on my way to one of my favorite in-town restaurants. But instead, I pulled on my overalls and grabbed a metal bucket and took off for the creek that runs through Farm Dover. I was headed out to collect dinner by foraging along the creek bank. There was plenty to choose from.

I was inspired – and perhaps emboldened – by Samuel Thayer's guide to identifying, harvesting and preparing edible wild plants titled: Nature's Garden. In his book, he covers a small number of plant species in detail, replete with thorough preparation instructions and photos.

He cautions his readers to never eat a plant unless you are 100 percent positive of its identity. Oh how I love a good challenge!

He goes on to outline the five steps to positively identifying a plant. His steps include making a tentative identification, backing it up with a trusted reference comparison, cross-referencing with at least two more field guides to double and triple-check your identification and then go on a specimen search to ensure that you can find and identify the plant in diverse stages of growth and growing conditions. His last step involves being absolutely confident that you have identified the plant correctly, being sure enough to bet your life on it. Yikes!

Here's what I gathered in my bucket.

Chickweed. We have been eating it all week and have not died from it yet.
 I've served it raw and sauteed. 

Wild garlic. It has a hollow stem and strong oniony smell.

Mustard Garlic. Highly invasive, so I pulled these up roots and all. Stems are particularly good. 

Ramps. From our original creekside patch that Maggie planted five years ago.
Just this year, Ed and I planted 3 dozen ramp sprouts and about 50 ramp seeds.
The sprouts are sprouting! Not sure about the seeds. 

The bees love our dandelions and so do we. Be sure you harvest chemical-free plants.

A trio of purple: Purple Deadnettle, Violets, and Ground-Ivy

In Thayer's book, he writes about the time he and his wife went on a 30-day wild food diet. He says they didn't do it to prove that it can be done, since for most of human history, everybody was on a life-long wild diet. They didn't do it to prove that they could do it, as they had done it before. He says they did it because they wanted to focus on eating really good, healthy food and to feel the satisfaction of being self-sufficient. He says eating wild makes each meal an adventure, and so they did it for the excitement. 

So tonight's meal will be focused on really good, healthy (and super fresh) food. I'm thinking of making a big salad and a ramp omelette – with special thanks to friend Jackie for the farm fresh eggs. It will certainly be an adventure. Let's just hope I've identified all the fixings 100 percent correctly!

Namaste

In my life before Farm Dover, I occasionally did hot yoga. You know, the kind where you and a couple of dozen other people pay an insane amount of money to sweat like crazy in a 105-degree room while bending and stretching and contorting. I was terrible at it. My body is just not put together exactly right. I could never even get my arms stretched overhead as far back as my ears. I never did a back bend, handstand, or even a very strong tree pose. But I stuck it out because in some perverse way, I did enjoy it -- and it did make my achy muscles and joints feel better.

Fast forward five years. I've not touched my toes or worked my way into a downward dog pose since we moved out here. In many ways I'm stronger than ever. I can walk for miles, haul nearly full five-gallon buckets to thirsty trees, weed-whip all afternoon. But by the end of the day, I'm stiff and sore. My balance is not good. My lower back often hurts. My joints ache at night.

But over the last couple of weeks I've rediscovered yoga. And the best part is I don't have to leave Farm Dover. I also don't have to pay for individual classes. And the teacher doesn't scold me for my poor form. Thanks to sisters Sherry and Julie, I'm on to 30 Days of Yoga with Adriene. Yep, every morning, I head upstairs to the little kids' bedroom. Turn on my ipad. And begin my 20-30 minute practice. (I actually downloaded the series so I don't need to use up my valuable and restricted internet service -- but for those of you with unlimited internet, you can just click on YouTube to follow along.)

Adriene is this young, very sweet, slightly goofy instructor. She makes yoga fun and always gives variations for different levels of ability. I look forward to it each morning and am grateful for the way it makes me feel afterwards.

A quick search reveals dozens of yoga videos on YouTube. I encourage you to check them out and find one that you like. And if you are not convinced, then read this article that covers 38 health benefits of yoga including:

• improves your flexibility and balance
• builds muscle strength
• perfects your posture
• prevents cartilage and joint breakdown
• and makes you happier.

Let me know how that cat/cow thing works out for you and whether you agree that yoga is a great way to start your morning. Namaste.

Time of Enchantment

Today marks the vernal equinox, when night meets day as equals, marking the beginning of spring. Around Farm Dover, winds are softening. The grass is greening. Ramps and radishes are sprouting. Peonies are unfurling. Maple trees and magnolias are budding. Orchard pears are in full bloom. And watch out! The honey bees are crazy to get out of their winter hives and find sweet nectar and pollen.

Nature awakens. It is a time of enchantment....

Waging a Campaign of My Own

Topping the list of things I am thankful for these days is the fact that I'm a life-long Democrat (much to the chagrin of most of my family and many of my dearest friends). The ugly rhetoric, the name calling, the bullying, the incredibly poor manners on display by the Republican Presidential candidates make me ill. I can't believe that these guys are running for the highest office of our nation. It's embarrassing. No, make that appalling. I also find it more than a bit scary.

Come November, I'll vote with great enthusiasm for either of the Democratic candidates: Hillary or Bernie – I like them both. A lot. In the meantime, I'm turning off the TV and turning my attention to waging a campaign of my own. It's a campaign to bring nature home to Farm Dover by sustaining wildlife with native plants.

I'm starting with a grassroots effort to increase the number and kinds of caterpillars that call Farm Dover home. I'm debating about how best to increase insect diversity and create a balanced community.

I recently read Doug Tallamy's book: Bringing Nature Home and then Ed and I had the good fortune of hearing him speak a couple of weeks ago, courtesy of the Glenview Garden Club.

We learned that most insects are specialists and eat from only one or two plants. And those plants must be native to the area. For example, the caterpillar of the monarch butterfly eats only members of the milkweed family. No milkweeds – no monarchs. In the last 20 years, the monarch population has dropped by 90%, corresponding to a loss of milkweed due to roadside management practices, intensive agriculture and the the extensive use of herbicides. Imagine a whole generation of kids growing up without Monarch butterflies to chase. Breaks my heart.

The birds that Ed and I love so much rely on caterpillars and other soft insects – not seeds or berries – to feed their babies. No caterpillars – no bluebirds, bobwhites, meadowlarks, sparrows or any of the other 59 species we have identified on our farm walks. I'm even rethinking my dislike of tent caterpillars. I've come to understand that while they might gobble up a few leaves on a wild cherry, they also make a tasty lunch for a nest full of bluebird fledglings.

So, our campaign to increase the beneficial bugs involves planting native woody and herbaceous plants that support the species we are trying to encourage. For example, oak trees support 543 species of butterflies/moths. You read that right: 543. Black cherry trees are in second place with 456, followed by native willows at 455. We have tons of oaks in our forests, but last week, we planted another 90 white oak seedlings. A few years back, we planted some wild cherry trees that are now taller than Ed. Around our pond, dozens of willow trees have sprouted.

Bush (Japanese) Honeysuckle, on the other hand, is a non-native species that is highly invasive and supports zero, yes that's right, zero butterflies/moth species.

We are working with Margaret Shea, owner of Dropseed Native Plant Nursery to extend our front meadow by featuring a multitude of wildflowers, including: St. John's Wort, Boneset, Coneflower, Mountain Mint, Rattlesnake Master, Bee Balm, Eastern Bluestar, Culver's root, Ashy Sunflower, Showy Goldenrod, False Blue Indigo, Gray Goldenrod, Joe Pye Weed, Compass Plant, Devil's Walking Stick, Foxglove Beardtongue, Maryland Golden-aster, Wild Quinine, and Trumpet Honeysuckle.

Each of these native plants were selected to encourage specific wildlife. The goldenrods, for example, support 115 species of butterflies and moths; the asters support 112.

Last month, the girls and I visited the Audubon Butterfly Garden and Insectarium in New Orleans.
I promise not to kill and stick a pin through any butterflies that make their home here. 

I can hardly wait for summer around here. You might find me someday up in an oak tree, trying to find 500+ species of caterpillars. Or chasing down a butterfly with my camera.

Sure beats worrying about who will be elected our next President...

Slow down, you move too fast

As Paul Simon reminds us: You got to make the morning last.

I left off my latest travel story with Ed and me dropping our girls at the New Orleans airport, after a fun weekend in the Big Easy. From there, we drove north to Natchez, MS, our beginning point for taking the Natchez Trace Parkway home.

We opted to take the two-lane parkway, with a speed limit of 50, that follows the historic trace from Natchez north to Nashville. Commercial traffic is prohibited. There are no billboards, no McDonald's or Starbucks. Just 444 miles of scenic highway that closely follows the original foot passage used by Native Americans, "Kaintucks," and settlers – and even before that, the bison and other game that moved between grazing the pastures of central and western Mississippi and the salt and other mineral surface deposits of the Cumberland Plateau.

The route generally traverses the tops of low hills and ridges of the watershed divide. We figured it would take us an extra three hours of so of driving time. We didn't figure in the time we spent stopping and exploring along the way.

We spent the night in Natchez and toured the historic town on the Mississippi River the next morning, before finding the entrance ramp to the Natchez Trace Parkway. The trees were not yet leafed out and a soft rain fell for most of the day. That didn't stop us from enjoying the drive. For the first two hours, we did not pass a single car coming from the north. And we saw only a handful of cars the entire day. We had a map that noted places of interest and so every few miles we'd find ourselves pulling off to explore.

Sunken Trace, part of the original trace.

Cypress Swamp

Bynum (ceremonial) Mounds, built between 2050 and 1800 years ago.

We made a stop in Tupelo, MS and headed to the Tupelo Hardware Store
where Elvis' mom bought him his first guitar.

No guitar for me – a whisk broom and twine instead. 

As dark came on we realized that we needed to get off the parkway and find some dinner and a place to sleep. Not much to chose from. We ended up getting off just south of Nashville and headed east to Columbia. Part of the Trace was closed for repair, so we didn't get to do the final few miles. We did however drive almost 400 miles of it.

It was perfect. We were happy to slow down and not move too fast. After all, we were looking for fun and feeling groovy. 

Listening to the cosmos

I know I promised that I'd write about our trip home along the Natchez Trace Parkway – and I will, soon – but I wanted instead to write today about a project that I started early last month – one that has been percolating along on my kitchen countertop. And now I can't wait any longer to experiment with it and share it with you.

I made spiced preserved lemons. And I'm hooked.

I had run across mentions of preserved lemons in a number of recipes, but never paid that much attention to them. Then Ed and I started planning a trip to Morocco and I got interested in all-things-Moroccan, including preserved lemons, which often appear in Moroccan dishes. Then, I read this blog about them. Then Sister Kathy casually mentioned that she wanted to make some, but had not gotten around to it. Then it was her birthday and I was trying to come up with a creative gift. And the cosmos just seemed to be telling me that it was time to bring some preserved lemons into my life. So, I made a couple of jars for myself and packed a birthday basket of Myer lemons, coarse sea salt and Weck glass jars to give to Kathy. 

Then came the hard part. I had to leave them alone for one month. (Well, actually, I had to shake them up every few days to distribute the salt.) When one month was almost up, I couldn't wait any longer. I opened one of the jars, took out one lemon, rinsed the salt off, cut away the pulp, and used the preserved rind in this recipe for Moroccan Chicken with Lemon and Olives. The very next day, I used some on a batch of smashed potatoes. And the day after that, I made some risotto with preserved lemon. See what I mean: I'm hooked. 

My plan is to use them whenever a savory dish needs a bit of pop. I'm imagining them on fish, mixed with cooked grains, as an aioli ingredient, as a relish, with braised lamb, in a cocktail, the list goes on and on....

There are lots of recipes out there for preserving lemons. I used this one on the Local Milk blog, but left out the juniper berries, only because I did not have them in my spice drawer. I think Kathy made some plain ones, without any of the spices. 

They are easy to make and take only a few minutes. Now would be a good time to make some for yourself (and perhaps a second jar to give as a gift) as Meyer lemons are in season. I think you could make them with regular organic lemons, but I love the way they work with the soft-skinned Meyers. 

Go ahead. Make some. You will be glad you did. Then tell me how you use them.