To Market, To Market

Every Saturday morning, I go to the market behind our flat. 

Maria sells fruit and vegetables, and eggs, that she mostly produces herself, no chemicals, of course - she thought the question was ridiculous - the Alentejanos really care about the flavour of their food, why would they use chemicals? So, the tomatoes might be misshapen or cracked, because it was too hot that week, and if oranges aren't in season, then there aren't any. If I don't know how to cook something, she'll give me a recipe, like today, she gave me a wedge of pumpkin, and explained how to make sweet fritters with it. She writes the prices of my purchases with a pen in a notebook, and then adds it up aloud. Because she grew up in France and I first met her with my French friend, it took her a while to realize that I don't actually speak very good French.

No computers, hardly any food miles, no chemicals, Portuguese lessons and recipes, free samples, a dignified profession, and a growing relationship - beat that, Walmart!