Day Eleven: Meeting the Locals

Daily Word Count: 3,087
Cumulative Words Written: 23,888
Total Words Discarded: 4,500
Total Chapters Drafted: 9
Time Spent Writing Today: 4.5 hours

I’ve been fretting about meeting the Messejana locals. Individually, they’re lovely and warm, but attending a party with a house full of them?

I wasn’t sure about that much meeting the locals.

Last night, we ran into Monica’s (a Buinho coordinator) husband Vasco on our walk back from dinner, and he invited us to their house today.

“I’m cooking a pig!” He said in perfect English.

(Note to self: Learn another damn language. Everybody on earth knows another language but you.)

This afternoon, we walked down the hill to Monica’s house in the scorching heat. Seriously, the Portuguese high desert is no joke. I was sweating by the time we turned onto her street, but I forgot my discomfort when she flung the door wide and ushered us into her lovely home.

The house smelled like mouth-watering meat.

In the kitchen, a knot of women gathered around the stove stirring two big pots. Monica pointed to one. “Blood pudding,” she said. “The literal blood of the pig?” I squeaked. She nodded. “Along with some pepper and cumin for flavor.” I swallowed. “And the other pot?” Monica’s eyes sparkled. “The pig liver.”

I backed away from the stove and headed outside to find the men. They were scattered around a table spearing every morsel of food with their flick knives and chatting. Salad and bread and bread and glistening grilled pig. Vasco manned the grill, but he broke away to show us the freezer.

“I slaughtered the pig at 5am today,” he said and poked its face with a finger. “It’s still soft.”

I didn’t have a flick knife, but that didn’t stop me from grabbing squares of pork with my fingers. Seasoned with salt, pepper, and lemon juice, it was wood-smoked perfection in my mouth.

Finally, I asked Sebastao, “What’s with the flick knives? Everybody has them. Is it a Portuguese thing?”

The knives are a Portuguese FARMER thing.

Every rural man apparently carries one. They use a honed edge of the handle to pop beer caps with precision. As they move it around a table, the edges come back speared with everything, like a mini kabob.

I eased into the afternoon, ate my fill, and even connected with one lady enough to find out where she gets her manicures. Through Monica, we talked back and forth, and she popped up, whipped out her phone, and said in Portuguese, “I’ll make you an appointment for Thursday!”

So belly full-to-bursting and coiffure set, I came back to the residency to write. I’m glad I didn’t stay home because I can’t speak the language.

Magic happens when we put ourselves out there.

To follow my residency at Buinho Creative Hub from the beginning, CLICK HERE and read forward.