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.
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.
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