Thinking of Brasil ~ #MemoriesSunday

Brasil… 8,700 Km from where I am. I am missing my people. Not in a bad way; in a “memories we built” way. I’m out in The Writing Shed today, preparing/pre-planning  a new project (my very own #bulletjournal! Watch this space! 🙂 ). The weather is a bit changeable, and while I cut away labels and paper hearts (no, I’m not 16 years old, you guys, but just for the record: young girls, keep on journalling! 😉 ), some Brazilian music playing on YouTube, I think about Brasil.

So, today on this website, I launch  #MemoriesSunday.

Memories of my family, and my friends, and my pets, and schools/uni, and teachers… Well, you know… One string of memory brings another, which brings another, which brings another… and all of a sudden, I’m about 10 years old, at my great-auntie’s farm, playing with one of my sisters and loads of cousins. I’m up in the mango tree, eating mango like a “native”, pulling the soft peel with my teeth, in extase with the intoxicating sweet smell. I don’t even care about the yellow thick mango juice running down my hands and arms, though I wonder whether Mother’s going to give me ~ and my cousins ~ a bollocking. Will it be because I’m filthy, or because I’m up in the tree? Hummm… This mango is amazing!

[ctt template=”8″ link=”CfrT4″ via=”no” ]Memories of our lives, of our works and our deeds will continue in others. ~ Rosa Parks #MemoriesSunday[/ctt]

I remember that back then, the farm was so simple, that the toilet was outside the house! I was terrified of my parents telling us that we’d have to spend the night. What if I needed to use the toilet at night? I’m giggling now, and remember squatting over a hole no bigger than 10 cm of diameter, praying I wouldn’t fall into it. Children and their imagination…

When it was lunch time, we’d have chicken casserole, which either my great-auntie or one of her children would have killed that morning. She would make this awesome pasta with tomato sauce, and we’d have it with salad from her own vegetable patch and fresh juice. The pasta was a tick type of spaghetti, with a hole in the middle, which I much later in my life, when I lived in Napoli, found out was called Bucatini. We used to suck the spaghetti, just to hear the sound it would make.
I haven’t been back to the farm for over 25 years. My great-auntie is no longer with us, and to be honest, I have no idea if the farm is still in the family (question for dad! hehe). However, and I promise you it’s true: one of my aunties lives on a farm in Brasil, with one of my cousins. I absolutely love them, and whenever I go to Brasil, it’s a place I must go. My cousin shows us the cattle, the chickens and pigs. My auntie makes the most delicious food in her wood stove, and desert is always whatever fruit is in season when we visit.

Clockwise: dad and auntie peeling huge oranges; wood stove; Hubby and I meet cow! 🙂

Here’s my Brazilian music playlist:

Thanks for stopping by. See you next Sunday 🙂


The Writing Shed




Now it’s your turn: what’s your #MemoriesSunday today? Write it down in the comments. 🙂


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