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Published: June 25th 2011
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Can´t read won´t cook
I don´t think there is any excuse for living on your own for four years and not being able to cook at least five meals. If there is, please enlighten me. I like to think I can cook reasonably well and am even prone to enjoying it. However if given the choice between cooking and eating well and doing nothing and eating well...well there is just no contest, I don´t enjoy it
that much. Fortunately, my host Brazilian family has a maid, which is the case for most middle class families in countries like Brazil. By that I mean countries where the class divide is so great that the upper classes can afford to hire full-time staff without it being a financial burden.
Globally speaking, we in Western Europe are probably one of the few regions where this is no longer the norm. No research whatsoever has gone into this statement, it is based purely on personal observations made during my travels outside of Europe. Namely, the United states, southern Africa and the Middle East. Incidentally, I would be interested to know what anyone familiar with other worldly regions would have to say about
this declaration.
Our maid´s name is pronounced Juicy. This doesn´t have the same connotations in Portuguese hence my family´s confusion when I failed to suppress a grin after being told her name. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, she doesn´t live up to what I would describe as a ´juicy maid´. I suppose this is ideal for my host mother. A trustworthy maid who would not have jeopardised her sons´ virginity, á la Gay Focker.
Nevertheless, she cooks very well and interestingly, or perhaps sadly, she is illiterate. It is obviously more sad than interesting but I do find it grimly fascinating that in 2011 a woman in her thirties of sound mind can barely write her own name. The closest comparison I can make to my own life is during my first month or so in Egypt (where I spent a year studying Arabic in Cairo). At that time, my knowledge of Arabic script was weak to say the least. Being unable to understand everyday signs and symbols led to me feeling cut off from society and even handicapped.
In short, everything in this woman´s life is a struggle. Getting the right bus, filling in medical forms, using
a mobile phone. When she doesn´t have anyone to explain a recipe to her she has to look at the cookbook´s pictures and guess the sequence of events which led to the final product in the photo. Her situation is thankfully not common in Salvador although 90% of my students have serious problems with writing and I would class 5% as barely literate. Most of the younger pupils at the community centre, where I give my class, only get the hang of reading decently at about 12 and others a long time after, if at all. In England this level would be achieved at about 6 or 7.
It is almost unbelievable how something that comes so easily to us would be such a grind in this community. Being exposed to it for the better part of ten months has led me to develop various theories. One is that the parents of the children are poorly literate and so fail to instill in their offspring a desire to read, nor can they teach them, sometimes even buying books is not a viable option. Salvador is one of the cities with the highest alcohol consumption rates in the whole of Brazil. If you walk through a favela, mothers balancing a child on their lap while they get drunk is as common as the mud used to pave the streets. Why buy books when you can buy brandy?
Furthermore, nobody wants to take responsibility for the kids´education. The parents blame the school, the school blames the parents and I blame everyone. Even myself as I have been unable to impart upon my students the importance of literacy. When an adolescent leaves school unable to write in a manner that isn´t even close to being correct, their future is a T-junction. I can summarise their options as the following:
- football
- music
- drug trafficking
- servant/maid
Which brings me back to Juicy whose life will be spent serving others at minimum wage until retirement. I suppose you only realise the importance of a reasonable education when you observe the lives of those who did not receive one. Sunday is her day off which means she normally works twice as hard Saturday preparing enough food for the following day. This led me to offer to cook for everyone one Sunday, a traditional British dish of roast chicken.
It was a rather offhand decision so I was alarmed to hear on the Saturday that aside from the four family members, the grandparents, two cousins and an uncle were coming to sample this typical dish of mine. On Sunday morning one of the family members went to the
abatedor to get the chickens while I prepared the vegetables and kitchen. I wasn´t entirely sure what an abatedor was but I soon found out when the poultry was delivered to me.
When I discovered the bag was warm, I felt mild trepidation as I wondered about the length of time that had elapsed since they were last refrigerated. Upon opening, I saw with a slight feeling of dread two pairs of dead eyes looking reaproachfully at me while lolling on their freshly cut necks. It turns out that they had never been close to the inside of the fridge as the abatedor is the place where live birds are killed, plucked and immediately sold with everything still attached.
I cannot deny the freshness of the meat but the prospect of removing heads, feet and guts made me baulk slightly I have to admit. I´m accostumed to my chicken coming in a tightly sealed bag, neatly tied with string and all of the bits which remind you that it was once a living being safely removed.
I was at a bit of a loss for a bit but I had chosen to be a meat eater, plus I had nine people waiting for a British culinary masterpiece and was determined not to give up. Luckily, my mum had taught me how to take a chicken apart; breaking the various joints and then slicing through them. I lied to myself that this wasn´t much different from that experience so I grabbed the sharpest knife and the butchery began. However, the chicken I had learned on was from Waitrose so there were no anguished eyes observing my knife sharpening. The heads were the first bits to be sawn off. Who knew that neck cartiledge was so sturdy?
Their size was also rather alarming, I´m certain that the mother had been playing away from the coop and cheating on the cockerel with the turkey down the road. This lunch was going to take far longer than I had planned, I had not reckoned on factoring in the disembowelment of two enormous birds into my estimated cooking time and was conscious of the guests growing ever hungrier in the next room.
Soon after I started lopping bits off I discovered joyfully that it started to look like a real chicken. You know, a real chicken, with its gizzards in a plastic bag and talon-free. The bloody affair took bloody ages but lunch did eventually get served and surprisingly all of it got eaten. I wont´deny that this could just be because it was two hours late and my guests were hungry enough to eat anything. Hacking two chickens to bits takes longer than one would think.
Either way, my traditional Sunday lunch seemed to be well received but I was neverthless overjoyed to see Juicy the next day. Needless to say, I haven´t offered my services as a cook since.
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Dad
non-member comment
Chicken etc
Hi Son. Loved the story of lunch. Maybe you could have a go at a BBQ next weekend? Just remember to bash the rump steak if you do! Did Ahanna enjoy his stay with you? I am still doing my horse riding; although Mum is recuperating and so hasn't been joining me... Look forward to catching up with Ahanna and realise it's now four weeks until we arrive in Salvador. xx Dad