What pie?

     Her father questions her mom, "Did you eat my pie?"

     "No, I didn't", comes the reply.

     He quizzes her little brother, "Kyle, did you eat my last piece of pie?".

     "What pie?!"   Her brother’s dark eyebrows furrow question marks on his six-year-old forehead.  Her dad confronts the maids Angelinha and Bettinha, "What do you think happened to that last piece of pie, ladies?"   They murmur, "

Não sabemos".   They shake their heads, their brown eyes wide.  Their faces wrinkle up at the kitchen ceiling which is the floor to Phoebe’s bedroom.

His blue eyes pierce hers when he finds her on the veranda looking out at the sea.  He growls, "Phoebe, do you know who ate the last piece of lemon meringue pie?" 

Anticipating the Interrogation

     For a split-second, Phoebe is satisfied, full, and happy.   Just then a wave of disgust and fear makes her feel as sorry as a favela rat.  This humid terror grows worse at noon when she hears her father’s booming call, "Where’s my lemon meringue pie?!"  Soon afterward, he begins the search for his pie, and for the empty culprit who ate it.

     Phoebe knows that her father will be furious with her if he finds out what she did.  She imagines his rage, and hides in her room behind the bed.  She sends magic thoughts to him, asking him not to use the belt if he finds out.  It leaves bruises.  When he uses the belt on her brother, it makes her so angry that she bunches up her fists until her knuckles turn white.  Her anger surges like a tsunami tide.

     Then she hears laughter from outside.  The laughter gives rise to drum beats with a rhythm for dancing.  The Festa do São João offers a distraction, while the Forró drummers gather below her balcony window.  Music changes her mood, reducing her anger to tears of regret and fear.     

     Downstairs in the kitchen, the interrogation begins…

Macriacao - bad behavior

On the morning of the Festa do São João, filled with angry macriação, and burning, mindless loneliness, Phoebe eats that very last hidden piece of lemon meringue pie. She peers through the front yard fence at the pile of wood for the festa bonfire. Forgetting her sad feelings for a moment, she slurps, "Tonight’s bonfire is going to be white hot." After eating the forbidden treat, her mind dances along the street by the fire with a donkey, a furry lop-eared donkey. He runs alongside her, his tiny hooves keeping time with the music that she wishes would fill her heart.

In the heart, Lemon Meringue Pie Lie

     At the Commissary on Saturdays, her mom stockpiles Frosted Flakes, Raisin Bran, and powdered milk. Her Dad, an entomologist, says that the Brazilian cow’s milk is churning with dangerous microorganisms, so they use dried milk. It doesn’t taste like milk and it’s a chunky yellow color. Phoebe’s mom tries to make everyone feel better. She finds the in-gredients to make the favorite family dessert: lemon meringue pie. Her mom sifts patiently through the shelves of Brazilian foods and finds the magic ingredients for a really special pie. "Things are so different here," muses Phoebe.

      Still daydreaming, she whispers, "The tradition of the Bahíanos includes drums and dancing, more so than food. Even the tired donkeys seem to trot along to a rhythmic beat. The sound of zabumba drums is in the hearts of the Brazilians. I wish I had a heart like that."

      Once her mom makes the pie, Phoebe and her family eat the lemon meringue pie until there is one piece left. It is an unspoken rule that the last piece of pie belongs to her dad. He hides that one piece of leftover pie in the back of the fridge, just for him.

Lemon Meringue Pie Lie -- Week Two, Zabumbinha

     Phoebe and Kyle buy coconuts from the men in half-pants with the machetes and their lop-eared donkeys who walk on the Praia Itapoán all day. One man tells her that his donkey’s name is Zabumbinha, little drum. She wonders how the tiny donkey can carry so much weight. "He looks like an ant carrying a one-ton boulder," She says to no one in par-ticular. She pets the donkey wishing he were hers. Phoebe and her brother try not to act surprised as the men machete-chop the green coco-nuts open. Chop! Chop! Scritch! Rip! The swollen drink cups are made especially for them. The hole in the coconut is like the hole inside Phoebe. The sweetness of the milk empties onto her tongue, quenching her thirst, but not her internal pain.

Lemon Meringue Pie Lie Day 4

     While watching "American Idol" last night,I saw Jamie Foxx and Will I Am performing "I wanna Samba".  I couldn't help but think about posting today's entry.  Dancing the samba is amazing exercise and so fun...If you Samba, you can eat whatever you want.  I want to see Rio! 

excerpt from Lemon Meringue Pie Lie:

     "Our move from California to Brazil will be a wonderful experience," Her dad’s words echo hollowly in her head. She doesn’t think so. She daydreams about her friends who live miles across the sea. She misses McDonald’s Quarter Pounders, and Tastee Freez chocolate shakes. She misses her Mammah’s kind words and her Papa’s laughter. Inside her lives a strange, empty place. It is a place that pinches because it never fills. It hurts like a cut with pickle juice on it. Inside her head, she is free. There, she rides a cute little gray donkey on the beach all day. Summoned back to reality by her dog’s wet nose, she begins to feel deeply angry, but she doesn’t tell anyone. When the family’s maids, Angelinha and Bettinha, cook traditional Brazilian food like Feijoada, she savors the pork in the stew, and the rice. She hates the taste of farinha. It tastes like dust from a saw blade. At the beach, her mom buys deep-fried, golden acarajé from the Bahíanas sitting behind the sizzling pots, holding long-handled, slotted spoons. These women notice Phoebe’s sadness and tell her to ask São João to give her what she needs, but she doesn’t really listen. The acarajé com-forts her. It is soulful sustenance after hours of lonely frolic in the sun and waves. Food becomes love. Food is consistent. It can be counted on.