The brain is so interesting. When I think of someone, I picture them first, then I might hear their voice in my head, but soon after, I find myself thinking of a food that binds us together.
With my grandpa Amélio, my dad’s father, I have so many memories. He had many grandchildren, and I was always happy for any time I could spend around him. Everything he did felt remarkable to me. He had an old Volkswagen Beetle, but it was always broken or waiting on a part. I don’t think I ever saw him drive it.
But I remember him cutting palm trees; lots and lots of them for my cousins and me to build huts and play under. When we visited on weekends, he would cut sugarcane and bring out a donkey or a horse to power the mill. We would drink the juice with freshly squeezed lemons to cut the sweetness. He made molasses from the juice, and even distilled rum using a copper alembic my parents gifted him many years later. The only picture I have of those moments is the one in my mind.
We visited my grandparents on the weekends, but seldom we spent the night at the farm because we lived about an hour away and it made for a nice day trip, and there were not that many extra beds at their house. One time, when we had planned to spend the night, we shared a bed where the mattress was filled with corn husks. That was in a time when adults were scraping by and my grandparents didn’t have much extra income. Over the years, the growing family was able to provide them with more comforts. But my grandparents didn’t want to move to the city.
That night, before going to bed, grandpa told us that he wouldn’t wake us up in the morning. If we wanted warm milk straight from the cows, we would have to find our way and meet him at the corral at 5am and bring a mug.
I don’t think I slept with so much excitement. After he was done milking for the day, he squirted the milk into our cups, creating a thick foam layer on top. It was warm and sweeThen we walked back to the house and it was time to make “coalhada” or clabber. He licked the spoon and stirred the milk. I didn’t want to eat it after that. That image stuck with me. Only recently I learned why he may have licked the spoon reading the essay “The Origins of Yoghurt Microbes” by Jessica Hendy, Matthäus Rest, and Christina Warinner.
“... in the United States yogurt cannot be called yogurt unless it contains these specific bacteria (FDA 21CFR131.200)... Streptococcus thermophilus originally evolved from a saliva microbe.”
I still have not tried to lick the spoon and stir the milk to make coalhada. Maybe one day soon.
Curds after the addition of rennet.