Tag Archives: Provance

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strawberries memories

Today was cold.
It’s winter in northern Europe, of course it’s cold.
The steely rain outdoors brings home that Sunday naughty lazy inertia.
Short days bring early nights to our lives.
Yes, of course it does, it’s a winter Sunday afternoon in the Netherlands.

_Bea, do want some tea? ..I ask my daughter.
_Yes yes, can I choose which one?  (She says) ..Mum, I want this one!
It was an infusion of organic roses I got from a friend, with the promise to make me go to sleep earlier.
Yes, I do have friends romantic like this.
That roses tea was completely new to me, but the memories that came out to my mouth were not.
Had I never had rose tea? ..really, didn’t I?
well.. What’s so familiar about it ..?

(Glupt!) One sip wakes up my taste with memories from much-more-than-back-far-away. Strawberries from my childhood!
A smile comes to my face.
That happy memory gladdens my soul.
I realized in a blink that this roses tea tasted as the strawberries from my childhood.  The same one I had found in some wines.
I run to look in my little black book tasting notes of Rosé Wine from Provence.
That’s it!
There it was, described with a childish enthusiasm: strawberries from my childhood, with a long finish and smooth mouth, velvet, elegant.

I go back to the tea and the conversation with my daughter.
I poured some more from the teapot.
Yes, I’m the kind of girl that uses teapot and a proper tea cup and saucer.
Aromas crush up from the cup, and once again takes my mind over.
(Glupt!) In my mouth, the strawberries, the afternoon tea with my grandmother, the breezes in a warm Summer evening in the terras.

There I was, with my daughter having a lovely talk with tea to bound foolish topics up. Reminding me those afternoon tea with grandma, listening to her stories, her outage memories .. and those late night cup of tea with my mother, telling her about my day, my fears and doubts in life.
(Glupt!) one more sip
.. one more smile
.. one more memory sparks to my palate.
I realize that it was my time to share a cup of tea, and talk about our day with my daughter.
I found myself telling her from my deepest memories, lovely afternoon tea with Grandma.
The time seemed had froze, I was proud of me.
After a little while, I was proud of my daughter sitting at that table, having tea with her mother.
What a lovely afternoon tea chat with my little girl, from the top of her six years old.
(Glupt!) a bit more of those strawberries from my childhood, which felt like happiness flowing from the tea pot, came gentile to my mouth.

_Mum, roses tea smells like roses and not strawberries. Don’t you think?
(ClickClack!!) A rational glimpse somehow light on in my mind.
When I was a little girl, in northeastern Brazil, there was no  strawberries.
Or at least, not easily available enough to populate my childhood memories like that.
The pragmatic side of me began to assemble a puzzle of the memories much-more-than-very-old.
I rush upstairs to look for the old tablecloth, which my grandma used to set the table with. Was white linen embroidered with little red strawberries, with a delicacy that no longer exists in the market.
I put it on the table, arranged the tea cups, little tea spoons, cake plates ..
when I heard from my daughter:
_ Mum, now I get it! ..what you said before..
roses tea really taste like summer wild strawberries!

Later at night, when all is quiet and silence, I’ll open a Rose Wine from Provence.
Just to praise the summer strawberries, my childish memories.

You don’t need a PhD to know that memory changes when time past. What is less known is that as the memory fades it becomes more vulnerable.

“We store ours experiences as fragments and when you recollect those experiences what you try to do is to reconstruct a history around the fragments.” Every time you think twice you risk altering the memory even further. “When you remember something you change the biochemistry of the memory that you originally had. And, because of that, it becomes vulnerable to alterations.” Ultimately, after a few rewired pathways in our brains, we believe the alterations to be true and what details are you sure to be real.

(Dr Elizabeth Loftus studied human ability of memory distorsion)

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os morangos da minha infancia

Hoje faz frio.
É inverno no norte da Europa, claro que faz frio.
A chuva deu o ar de preguiça que nos deixou em casa.
O dia vira noite cedo.
Sim, claro, é inverno.

_ Filha quer um chá..??
_ Sim quero, posso escolher..?? Quero este aqui ó..

Era uma infusão de rosas orgânicas que ganhei de uma amiga, com a promessa de me fazer dormir mais cedo.
Sim, tenho amigas romanticas a esse ponto.

Aquele chá de rosas era novo para mim, mas as memórias que me vieram a boca não.
Eu nunca havia tomado chá de rosas..?? ..pouco provável.
O que há de tao familiar nele..??
Mais um gole acorda meu paladar, memorias lá-de-muito-mais-que-muito-longe.
Morangos da minha infância!
Um soriso vem ao meu rosto.
Que memoria feliz essa, que alegra minha alma.
Noto com espanto que aquele chá tinha o gosto dos morangos da minha infância.
Coisa que eu já havia encontrado em alguns vinhos.

Fui buscar um caderninho meu de alguma degustação de Roses da Provance.
Batata!
Lá estava, descrito com alegria: morangos da minha infância, com um longo final quase doce e bem suave, elegante.

Voltei ao chá e à conversa com minha filha.
Sirvo mais um pouco do bule.
Sim, eu sou do tipo que usa bule de chá e xícara com pires.
Um aroma bem fraquinho sobe da xícara e, mais uma vez toma minha alma.
Na boca as lembranças dos moranguinhos, dos chás com minha avó, a brisa da sombra de um mais fim de tarde de verão.

Alí estava eu e minha filha conversando a mesa.
Eu contando dos finais de tarde tomando chà com minha avó, escutando as histórias de sua meninice.. dos chás que tomei com minha mãe, lhe contando meu dia, minha dúvidas.

Mais um gole do chá.. mais um sorriso.. mais memória vindo pelo paladar.
Me dei conta que, agora, alí estava eu ouvindo o dia de minha filha.
Sim, era eu que lhe falava de minha meninice.
Fiquei orgulhosa de mim por um minuto.
Dali a pouco, estava eu orgulhosa de minha filha estar sentada a mesa tomando chá, no fim de tarde com sua mãe, conversando como uma mocinha do alto de seus seis anos.
Mais um pouco daqueles morangos da minha infância, que mais pareciam felicidade caindo de um pote de chá, vieram a minha boca.

_Mãe.. chá de rosas tem cheiro de rosas e não de morangos.
Clack ..Caiu a ficha.
Quando eu era menina, no nordeste do Brasil, não havia morangos.
Ou pelo menos não assim, tão facilmente, para povoar minha memoria de infância.
Meu lado pragmático comecou a montar um quebra-cabeças de lembranças muito-mais-que-muito-antigas.
Fui buscar no fundo de uma gaveta a toalha que minha avó forava a mesa pro chá. Um linho branco com moranguinhos bordados, de uma delicadeza que não existe mais.
Forrei a mesa, arrumei o bule as xícaras..
Foi quando escutei de minha filha:
_ Mãe, agora eu sei do quê falou antes..
.. o chá tem mesmo gosto de moranguinhos.

Mais tarde, a noite, abrirei um Rose de Provance.
L.