I spent a good deal of time this afternoon in the kitchen: baking, prepping, cleaning. I do enjoy that: I enjoy the sense of accomplishment that comes when everything turns out just right. And I love making bread for many reasons: I know exactly what goes into it, I get to use my hands, it doesn’t take long (I have a rhythm when I make it), and it tastes DAMN good. Seriously, it is really hard to buy bread for sandwiches at the store–none of it tastes much better than cardboard.
I also love to make cookies. I love to make cookies because I love to eat cookies. But I love to eat cookies so much, that pretty much any cookie will do. I am a cookie slut. I have thought long and hard about what makes the perfect cookie, and I have my methods and my secrets (most of them are not so secret). I always hope the cookies will turn out perfect, because I want to eat perfect cookies. I love to eat cookies.
Living in Brasil makes me sad about cookies sometimes. Their store cookies are different, but they are fine; that is not the problem. What makes me sad? I don’t have all of my cookie tools here, namely my kitchenaid mixer, and a suitable sifter. You would think the sifter would be easy enough to find or bring from the US, but somehow it has slipped through the cracks yet again, and I do not have one. I miss that. But even more, I miss my mixer. And it is ridiculously heavy, so bringing it here is kind of crazy. But I’m getting kind of crazy, so it just might happen next time. Why can’t I buy it here? Well, I could, I suppose, if I wanted to spend 1/3 of my monthy paycheck. “Oh, I’m sorry kids, we’re going kinda light on food these next few months, but hey, we do have that fancy mixer that Daddy’s been pining after!” Yeah, that quote is not going down in the annals of great parenting history.
Another thing that took forever today was getting home after my concert. Public transportation is pretty impossible on Sundays in Belo–life slows down, and the busses don’t come very often. Plus, there’s this HUGE fair every Sunday right in downtown (very close to where my concert was taking place), and it makes navigating that section of the city nearly impossible. And so here’s what my trek home looked like: about 15 minutes of hard walking with a cello on my back, waiting for about 15 minutes at the bus stop, a 20 minute bus ride (there was traffic, this ride should have taken only 7 minutes), and another 8 minute walk home. Interesting cultural observation at the bus stop: Brazilians (at least here in Minas) rarely speak up when someone is cutting in front of them. There were dozens of people waiting for taxis at the bus station, and when one would arrive, it didn’t matter how long you had waited; whoever got to the door first was the one who got in the taxi. But no one ever said “Hey! I was here before you!” Nope. That’s just the way things go. There has actually been a recent study about this phenomenon, and if you are interested you can look here.
That’s all I will say about that now, but I’m sure I will have more to say in the future. I’m never short on thoughts, or ideas. Just cookies. Always short on cookies. *sigh*