Strawberry Tree Wine

How a bag of Polish cookies led to an intoxicating new experience in Portugal

After a day of turbulent feelings caused by watching too much storm news from Asheville, I set out for my evening walk with Kiitos, tucking the bags of cookies I’d brought back with me from last week’s trip to Polônia into an old Trader Joe’s carrier bag. My intention was to give them to a few of my neighbors in appreciation – not only for the produce they have recently given to me – but also to my housesitters from New Zealand while I was away!

I came across Jose Francisco and Maria Alice, the husband & wife who farm the land on the other side of my stone wall. They were working on one of their other plots of land in the village. Kiitos and I walked down the little dirt lane and across a fallow field to reach Maria Alice. I greeted her and gave her a bag of Polish cookies. She was so surprised for a moment I thought she might tear up. She thanked me, crossed herself on her chest, and stuffed the cookies into a pocket of the checkered apron she always covers her clothes with when farming.

Then she chattered away, asking me if I liked cenouras (carrots.) I nodded enthusiastically and she pulled up a half dozen by their leafy green tops and presented them to me. I put them into the Trader Joe’s bag, dirt and all. Maria Alice looked around, surveying her field. Pimentões verdes? She asked. Green peppers? Si, I nodded again. She picked two and put them into my bag, grabbing a few nearby ripe tomatoes while she was at it.

Then she looked at me and unleashed a stream of Portuguese while holding her thumb and index finger to her pursed lips in what I took to be the international sign for having a nip of something interesting. Could that really be what she was saying to me? Just in case, I responded Si! enthusiastically.

She asked which way we were walking. I pointed in the direction of the next village. She understood that meant I would be coming back by after we’d made our usual evening circuit.

Jose Francisco looked on from across the field laughing quietly at the two of us trying to communicate via app.

Another stream of Portuguese followed, in which I was able to pick out the words for ‘my house’ and ‘thirty minutes.’

Have I just been invited to have a drink at their house after my walk? I wondered. That had never happened before but just in case I once again said si and, waving to them both, set off back across the field to the dirt path and onto the main road that runs through the village. Kiitos and I zipped through the two other nearby villages, bypassing the yards of a few of his friends. I apologized to him, as I hustled him along, telling him I would make it up to him on our next walk.

Thirty-five minutes later we were back. Jose Francisco and Maria Alice were just finishing up and wiping the farm dirt from their hands. They met up with me on the main road and started walking back to their house, Jose Francisco pushing a wheelbarrow of greens and Maria Alice carrying a black bucket of produce. Still very uncertain as to what might happen next, I hesitated to go after them. Maria Alice turned around and waved at me a little impatiently to follow her, which I did.

When I hesitated again at their driveway, she turned around and waved at me to join her as Jose Francisco unlocked and opened up the large black solid gate that led to the inner courtyard and barns behind their house.I followed, still uncertain what might happen, scolding myself for not having a better handle on Portuguese yet. I would love to talk to them, love to understand them better – and do it without an app.

Inside the inner sanctum, I looked around. Jose Francisco proudly showed me his two barn stalls and the sheep inside them. Not being able to see them from the road, I hadn’t realized they had any animals. As he began forking some fresh greens into the stall, I turned and sat down on a green plastic chair against the wall, Kiitos at my side.

Maria Alice had disappeared into the house and, I presume, her kitchen. She reappeared quickly with the glass container I’d used to give her some of my homemade fig jam, washed and empty. I hadn’t expected to get it back, but my Portuguese neighbors are quite meticulous about that. I once got back a paper plate I’d used to give another neighbor some of my lemon chocolate chip cookies – washed and ready to used again.

Maria Alice produced a cloth she’d filled with tiny red tomatoes. Gosta? she said, do you like them? Si, I nodded and watched as she filled my fig jam jar to the brim with them.

As she bustled back off to her kitchen, I watched Jose Francisco sweeping the floor in front of the sheep stall with a broom fashioned from a long pole with leafy branches attached to the bottom in the place of the usual bristles. So many things in this village are handmade by my resourceful and practical neighbors.

When Maria Alice returned, she carried a small glass made of cut crystal and a bottle of what appeared to be blush wine. There was a mischievous look on her face.

Gosta? she said again, her eyes twinkling at me. I nodded and watched as she carefully poured a shot of the pink liquid into the little glass, then handed it to me.

Beba! she instructed. I did as I was told and brought it to my lips. To my surprise, it wasn’t wine at all. With its initial sweetness and the instant glow of warmth in my mouth, this was something altogether different.

She nodded, satisfied at my surprise, while Jose Francisco watched my reaction from the other side of the courtyard.

O que é isso? I asked. What is this?

Vinho de medronheiron, she said. Árvore de morangos. It’s not a strawberry, she said in Portuguese – it’s a strawberry tree!

Thinking something had been lost in translation, I consulted my iPhone. Sure enough, there is such as thing as a strawberry tree. And the little fruit it produces makes a very intriguing drink.

Maria Alice told me this was a bottle they’d made last year. They’d cooked the fruit in brandy, water and sugar for a number of hours. Or perhaps it was days. After just one shot of this delicacy, I can’t quite remember which.

Pleased with how much I liked it, she gave me the entire bottle, shoving it into my bag amongst the carrots, green peppers and tomatoes (after first scratching out the label of the origin wine with a ballpoint pen, so I wouldn’t get confused, I presume.)

After many thank yous, Kiitos and I wandered back home. I spread out what she’d given me across the glass topped wicker table on my kitchen balcony, admiring this new bounty and filled with appreciation for what had just happened.

I had hoped to somewhat catch up on the food exchanges between us with the bag of cookies da Polônia, but I now I’m beginning to think there may be no catching up with the generosity of my Portuguese neighbors.

For the recipe, please go to https://www.davidlebovitz.com/persimmon-bread/

[You may be tempted to follow David’s Substack, too!]