e não só (lemon poppy seed muffins)
a mesa de luz
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Friday, March 7, 2014
Thursday, March 6, 2014
(pelo Portugal Restaurant Week)
uma excelente oportunidade de ir ao Arola na exclusívíssima Penha Longa a um preço suave. tinha lido malas cosas sobre o serviço e no entanto foi rápido, atencioso e muito simpático. a comida impecavelmente confeccionada com uma apresentação a condizer. o espaço é muito bonito, de noite, imagino que seja mais bonito de dia com a envolvente da serra, da floresta e do campo de golfe. gostámos tanto que o incluímos na nossa lista de favoritos, lugar para voltar talvez de dia com escolha de menu livre. (é preciso dizer que um miúdo de 9 anos pode e deve apreciar o Arola: todos os pratos receberam nota positiva do avaliador mais novo.) ideias para repetir em casa: as asas desossadas, a combinação lascas/parmesão/maçã verde, o maravilhoso creme de couve-flor, a batata com aioli e picante (terceira na foto, um clássico do chefe) a copa espumada catalana com um fundo crocante e penso que de lemoncurd. aprendemos também que salsify é muito agradável, embora não me lembre de ver à venda. resta dizer que o prato de peixe estava absolutamente perfeito.
as fotos abaixo não são minhas.
o menu Portugal Restaurant Week (20 euros por pessoa) foi:
Lascas de presa ibérica com parmesão e seu óleo, maçã verde e malagueta verde
Batatas bravas arola servidas com “aioli” e molho tomate picante
Pescada de anzol com salada tépida de espinafres, caril e piquillos
Asas de frango assadas com creme couve flor, jus de sésamo
Crema catalana (com mousse de chocolate)
houve ainda uma entrada/tapa (primeira foto) que não está em nenhum menú: um quadradinho de abóbora polvilhado com tomate em pó, um pistachio caramelizado sobre tatziki. muuuuuito bom.
parte do menu normal.
mais sobre o Arola.
e mais sobre o Arola.
o site. menu de almoço e de jantar.
"Even if my writings do not show anything, they at least reveal the grief-stricken and broken Crimean Tatar, who has moved away and scattered wide, who may die today or tomorrow and disappear from the face of the earth, and his faults, shortcomings, feelings and his sorrow. If history turns its attention to Crimea someday, and if one Crimean Tatar searches for another, my writings may surface. It is quite all right, if this does not happen. Crimean Tatars lost their flag, their glory, and their land. What if I were to lose a few nights without sleep and days in grief and haze. The pleasure and happiness derived from writing these lines would be sufficient for me. Even if no one spoke it, to me the Tatar language is still rich, delightful and good because it embodies my people's centuries-long sorrow, their anxious and yet brave voice."
Bekir Sidki Çobanzade.
"Bekir Sidki Çobanzade (1893-1937) is a familiar name in the Turkic world, especially among Crimean Tatars. Many remember him as a poet who wrote nostalgically about his native Crimea and as an authority on Turkic languages and literature who taught at the University of Baku, Azerbaijan. In the midst of a successful academic career, at the age of 44, Çobanzade (pronounced cho-ban-za-de) was arrested by Communist authorities for alleged subversive activities against the state, sentenced to death and executed. Of course, his writings have outlived him. His poetry, in articular, has continued to enjoy popularity among Crimean Tatars in diaspora. While there is considerable literature on Çobanzade, it remains scattered in newspapers and journals published mostly in Uzbekistan, Azerbaijan and Turkey."
na História da Ucrânia.
e ainda The Young Tatar movement in the Crimea.
(ou sobre os usos políticos indecentes da língua, não somos originais. somos português-suave)
também não sei como é que se pode alguma vez apoiar um regime que se chame comunista. eu que sou pacifista e que gosto de pão de espelta completo tenho alguma memória para ver.
referendo na Crimeia. ("Meanwhile the Crimean MPs have unanimously voted for the region to become a part of Russia."), a Hill a perder uma boa ocasião para estar calada. um bom artigo da National Geographic, um mau da new yorker, jornalismo criativo que está para as palavras como os retratos photoshopados estão para o retrato. o que é a notícia? e onde está a realidade?
"Eu o visorei digo a ti honrado Meliqueaz, capitão de Diu, e te faço saber que vou com meus cavaleiros a essa tua cidade, lançar a gente que se aí acolheram, depois que em Chaul pelejaram com minha gente, e mataram um homem que se chamava meu filho; e venho com esperança em Deus do Céu tomar deles vingança e de quem os ajudar; e se a eles não achar não me fugirá essa tua cidade, que me tudo pagará, e tu, pela boa ajuda que foste fazer a Chaul; o que tudo te faço saber porque estejas bem apercebido para quando eu chegar, que vou de caminho, e fico nesta ilha de Bombaim, como te dirá este que te esta carta leva."
(infelizmente também não temos esta literatura)
empolgadíssima no meio da batalha de Austerlitz, o nevoeiro no vale, Napoleão no alto solar de uma colina, no aniversário da sua coroação, as forças russas e austríacas a correr cegamente para o vale enevoado, pensando que o inimigo está a grande distância; o café é invadido por uma força de bmw's e de mercedes, quase me bloqueiam, um momento de anti-exaltação, depois da corrida de Andrei com o estandarte russo. o nevoeiro e a descrição genial da batalha, páginas absolutamente inesquecíveis na história da literatura, fizeram-me pensar que tínhamos porventura direito a elas também, houvesse alguém pegado em Alcácer Quibir, ou batalha dos três reis (batalha dos três imperadores, Austerlitz), como Tolstoi pegou nesta derrota russa e a transformou, um pouco, em martírio de valor e coragem. D. Sebastião lutava contra o Sultão de Marrocos, que tinha o apoio otomano. pensava eu que os otomanos não tinham tido influência gigantesca no curso dos nossos eventos, claro que me enganava. a descrição de Tolstoi do grupo de jovens que rodeavam o Csar é traduzida em português para a expressão repetida de livro de história em livro de história, a 'nata da nobreza portuguesa'.
e um retrato, à Tolstoi, mestre da pintura:
It was nine o'clock in the morning. The fog lay unbroken like a sea down below, but higher up at the village of Schlappanitz where Napoleon stood with his marshals around him, it was quite light. Above him was a clear blue sky, and the sun's vast orb quivered like a huge hollow, crimson float on the surface of that milky sea of mist. The whole French army, and even Napoleon himself with his staff, were not on the far side of the streams and hollows of Sokolnitz and Schlappanitz beyond which we intended to take up our position and begin the action, but were on this side, so close to our own forces that Napoleon with the naked eye could distinguish a mounted man from one on foot. Napoleon, in the blue cloak which he had worn on his Italian campaign, sat on his small gray Arab horse a little in front of his marshals. He gazed silently at the hills which seemed to rise out of the sea of mist and on which the Russian troops were moving in the distance, and he listened to the sounds of firing in the valley. Not a single muscle of his face—which in those days was still thin—moved. His gleaming eyes were fixed intently on one spot. His predictions were being justified. Part of the Russian force had already descended into the valley toward the ponds and lakes and part were leaving these Pratzen Heights which he intended to attack and regarded as the key to the position. He saw over the mist that in a hollow between two hills near the village of Pratzen, the Russian columns, their bayonets glittering, were moving continuously in one direction toward the valley and disappearing one after another into the mist. From information he had received the evening before, from the sound of wheels and footsteps heard by the outposts during the night, by the disorderly movement of the Russian columns, and from all indications, he saw clearly that the allies believed him to be far away in front of them, and that the columns moving near Pratzen constituted the center of the Russian army, and that that center was already sufficiently weakened to be successfully attacked. But still he did not begin the engagement.
Today was a great day for him—the anniversary of his coronation. Before dawn he had slept for a few hours, and refreshed, vigorous, and in good spirits, he mounted his horse and rode out into the field in that happy mood in which everything seems possible and everything succeeds. He sat motionless, looking at the heights visible above the mist, and his cold face wore that special look of confident, self-complacent happiness that one sees on the face of a boy happily in love.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
"He really was in love with the Tsar and the glory of the Russian arms and the hope of future triumph. And he was not the only man to experience that feeling during those memorable days preceding the battle of Austerlitz: nine tenths of the men in the Russian army were then in love, though less ecstatically, with their Tsar and the glory of the Russian arms."
Tolstoi em Guerra e Paz
no livro I de War and Peace.
From early morning the smart clean troops were on the move, forming up on the field before the fortress. Now thousands of feet and bayonets moved and halted at the officers' command, turned with banners flying, formed up at intervals, and wheeled round other similar masses of infantry in different uniforms; now was heard the rhythmic beat of hoofs and the jingling of showy cavalry in blue, red, and green braided uniforms, with smartly dressed bandsmen in front mounted on black, roan, or gray horses; then again, spreading out with the brazen clatter of the polished shining cannon that quivered on the gun carriages and with the smell of linstocks, came the artillery which crawled between the infantry and cavalry and took up its appointed position. Not only the generals in full parade uniforms, with their thin or thick waists drawn in to the utmost, their red necks squeezed into their stiff collars, and wearing scarves and all their decorations, not only the elegant, pomaded officers, but every soldier with his freshly washed and shaven face and his weapons clean and polished to the utmost, and every horse groomed till its coat shone like satin and every hair of its wetted mane lay smooth—felt that no small matter was happening, but an important and solemn affair. Every general and every soldier was conscious of his own insignificance, aware of being but a drop in that ocean of men, and yet at the same time was conscious of his strength as a part of that enormous whole.
From early morning strenuous activities and efforts had begun and by ten o'clock all had been brought into due order. The ranks were drawn up on the vast field. The whole army was extended in three lines: the cavalry in front, behind it the artillery, and behind that again the infantry.
A space like a street was left between each two lines of troops. The three parts of that army were sharply distinguished: Kutuzov's fighting army (with the Pavlograds on the right flank of the front); those recently arrived from Russia, both Guards and regiments of the line; and the Austrian troops. But they all stood in the same lines, under one command, and in a like order.
Like wind over leaves ran an excited whisper: "They're coming! They're coming!" Alarmed voices were heard, and a stir of final preparation swept over all the troops.
From the direction of Olmutz in front of them, a group was seen approaching. And at that moment, though the day was still, a light gust of wind blowing over the army slightly stirred the streamers on the lances and the unfolded standards fluttered against their staffs. It looked as if by that slight motion the army itself was expressing its joy at the approach of the Emperors. One voice was heard shouting: "Eyes front!" Then, like the crowing of cocks at sunrise, this was repeated by others from various sides and all became silent.
In the deathlike stillness only the tramp of horses was heard. This was the Emperors' suites. The Emperors rode up to the flank, and the trumpets of the first cavalry regiment played the general march. It seemed as though not the trumpeters were playing, but as if the army itself, rejoicing at the Emperors' approach, had naturally burst into music. Amid these sounds, only the youthful kindly voice of the Emperor Alexander was clearly heard. He gave the words of greeting, and the first regiment roared "Hurrah!" so deafeningly, continuously, and joyfully that the men themselves were awed by their multitude and the immensity of the power they constituted.
Rostov, standing in the front lines of Kutuzov's army which the Tsar approached first, experienced the same feeling as every other man in that army: a feeling of self-forgetfulness, a proud consciousness of might, and a passionate attraction to him who was the cause of this triumph.
He felt that at a single word from that man all this vast mass (and he himself an insignificant atom in it) would go through fire and water, commit crime, die, or perform deeds of highest heroism, and so he could not but tremble and his heart stand still at the imminence of that word.
"Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!" thundered from all sides, one regiment after another greeting the Tsar with the strains of the march, and then "Hurrah!"... Then the general march, and again "Hurrah! Hurrah!" growing ever stronger and fuller and merging into a deafening roar.
Till the Tsar reached it, each regiment in its silence and immobility seemed like a lifeless body, but as soon as he came up it became alive, its thunder joining the roar of the whole line along which he had already passed. Through the terrible and deafening roar of those voices, amid the square masses of troops standing motionless as if turned to stone, hundreds of riders composing the suites moved carelessly but symmetrically and above all freely, and in front of them two men—the Emperors. Upon them the undivided, tensely passionate attention of that whole mass of men was concentrated.
The handsome young Emperor Alexander, in the uniform of the Horse Guards, wearing a cocked hat with its peaks front and back, with his pleasant face and resonant though not loud voice, attracted everyone's attention.
Rostov was not far from the trumpeters, and with his keen sight had recognized the Tsar and watched his approach. When he was within twenty paces, and Nicholas could clearly distinguish every detail of his handsome, happy young face, he experienced a feeling of tenderness and ecstasy such as he had never before known. Every trait and every movement of the Tsar's seemed to him enchanting.
Stopping in front of the Pavlograds, the Tsar said something in French to the Austrian Emperor and smiled.
Seeing that smile, Rostov involuntarily smiled himself and felt a still stronger flow of love for his sovereign. He longed to show that love in some way and knowing that this was impossible was ready to cry. The Tsar called the colonel of the regiment and said a few words to him.
"Oh God, what would happen to me if the Emperor spoke to me?" thought Rostov. "I should die of happiness!"
The Tsar addressed the officers also: "I thank you all, gentlemen, I thank you with my whole heart." To Rostov every word sounded like a voice from heaven. How gladly would he have died at once for his Tsar!
"You have earned the St. George's standards and will be worthy of them."
"Oh, to die, to die for him," thought Rostov.
The Tsar said something more which Rostov did not hear, and the soldiers, straining their lungs, shouted "Hurrah!"
Rostov too, bending over his saddle, shouted "Hurrah!" with all his might, feeling that he would like to injure himself by that shout, if only to express his rapture fully.
The Tsar stopped a few minutes in front of the hussars as if undecided.
"How can the Emperor be undecided?" thought Rostov, but then even this indecision appeared to him majestic and enchanting, like everything else the Tsar did.
That hesitation lasted only an instant. The Tsar's foot, in the narrow pointed boot then fashionable, touched the groin of the bobtailed bay mare he rode, his hand in a white glove gathered up the reins, and he moved off accompanied by an irregularly swaying sea of aides-de-camp. Farther and farther he rode away, stopping at other regiments, till at last only his white plumes were visible to Rostov from amid the suites that surrounded the Emperors.
Among the gentlemen of the suite, Rostov noticed Bolkonski, sitting his horse indolently and carelessly. Rostov recalled their quarrel of yesterday and the question presented itself whether he ought or ought not to challenge Bolkonski. "Of course not!" he now thought. "Is it worth thinking or speaking of it at such a moment? At a time of such love, such rapture, and such self-sacrifice, what do any of our quarrels and affronts matter? I love and forgive everybody now."
When the Emperor had passed nearly all the regiments, the troops began a ceremonial march past him, and Rostov on Bedouin, recently purchased from Denisov, rode past too, at the rear of his squadron—that is, alone and in full view of the Emperor.
Before he reached him, Rostov, who was a splendid horseman, spurred Bedouin twice and successfully put him to the showy trot in which the animal went when excited. Bending his foaming muzzle to his chest, his tail extended, Bedouin, as if also conscious of the Emperor's eye upon him, passed splendidly, lifting his feet with a high and graceful action, as if flying through the air without touching the ground.
Rostov himself, his legs well back and his stomach drawn in and feeling himself one with his horse, rode past the Emperor with a frowning but blissful face "like a vewy devil," as Denisov expressed it.
"Fine fellows, the Pavlograds!" remarked the Emperor.
"My God, how happy I should be if he ordered me to leap into the fire this instant!" thought Rostov.
When the review was over, the newly arrived officers, and also Kutuzov's, collected in groups and began to talk about the awards, about the Austrians and their uniforms, about their lines, about Bonaparte, and how badly the latter would fare now, especially if the Essen corps arrived and Prussia took our side.
But the talk in every group was chiefly about the Emperor Alexander. His every word and movement was described with ecstasy.
They all had but one wish: to advance as soon as possible against the enemy under the Emperor's command. Commanded by the Emperor himself they could not fail to vanquish anyone, be it whom it might: so thought Rostov and most of the officers after the review.
All were then more confident of victory than the winning of two battles would have made them.
- - -
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
porque me fez lembrar a ponte sobre o Drina, um livro para ler. fui tomar o peso da colecção tolstoi em português. é grande, comparada com a minha versão completa em paperback de 1400 páginas. será que tem bonecos? não vi. os bonecos desenho-os eu, no entanto.
no Japão, uma designer de artigos de tricô, Mariko Mikuni, criou um modelo (são já mais, agora) e uma lã para esse modelo e estabeleceu-se em Kesennuma com a Kesennuma Knitting, que emprega mulheres daquela localidade, afectada pelo tsunami. as camisolas, que têm um preço de alta costura, 75000 iénes, 500 euros, são totalmente feitas à mão e no site de venda está identificada a mulher que a fez. a ideia, para além de ajudar as vítimas do tsunami e de contrariar a desertificação das zonas afectadas, é fazer uma camisola que dure o resto da vida.
Mariko Mikuni, essa bonita mulher japonesa, viu a sua vida mudada para sempre em Portugal.
procurar um livro, ter mais de quarenta anos, não ter pressa, ler linha a linha: é preciso ler Guerra e Paz.
esta ponte é em Mostar, na Boznia Herzegovina.
a propósito de uma camisola que dure o resto da vida.