Broa de Milho.
I remember when I was still a little boy entering the rustic kitchen we had in the exterior of house and smelled the cornmeal already blanched in the masseira (wooden table mixer).
My mother, however, took care of the granite stone oven. She cleaned and lit the fire with the wood already stored for this feat. Then she came back to the dough.
To the corn, wheat, water and yeast were added, because the salt had already entered the blanched flour.
And my heart shone with the concerted gestures of arms, softness in the hands, which kneaded and transformed the flour into a soft and divine volume.
My hands, still small and greedy, would not rest until they touched, felt and plunged into that wooden mixer.
Then it was waiting. The broas rested between the wood and heated by the fire in the oven and the briquettes, where there was already a pot of soup on the stove.
Already leavened, the new magic step was taking place. Flake the bread. The dough in the bowl, bounced, rolled, floured and rounded, turned on the shovel to enter the oven.
Waiting again. And then... my mother started to introduce the broas. She opened the first one by hand and I with butter ready to spread that piece of bread smoking hot…
They are experiences, aromas, flavors that never pass into oblivion, because they are one of the truths that made me the human being that I am.
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