Apparently, my aunt had a secret nickname as a child. "Queijeira".
It roughly means "she who loves cheese".
I won't reveal which of the sisters it was, in a family of 8 kids; I was surprised that only one held the title, and that it was not my mother. Nor will I reveal which of the brothers in the family hated cheese. Learning about his hatred for cheese scandalizes me, even as a grownup. (To be fair, he doesn't like milk either, so I suspect it is a dairy intolerance/hatred).
For those who don't know, cheese=Queijo=the national Portuguese comfort food & delicacy. It is pronounced like the American word "cage" (the final "o" is usually swallowed), and as a child, I imagined it was a way that grownups described the way the cheese naturally appeared. It was formed in a "cage" of wax, a protective coating. I knew it came in a wheel, it had its own crust on it, like a well baked loaf of bread. My mother would buy it a wedge at a time, and we would savor it from the thin pliable edge to the crumbly hard base.
American cheese did not have to be contained properly; it came in it's own naturally growing prepackaged containers. Plastic sheets of Kraft Singles or shredded bags for pizza, or weird foil wrapping like Velveeta, the "cheez" I had growing up in Massachusetts was another substance than what my Mom treasured. It could also NEVER be used to cross the cultural lines. I have NEVER seen a grilled cheese sandwich (or pizza) made with Queijo Sao Jorge, or served on Wonder Bread. It took me years before I was able to accept that they were even part of the same food group; I had always taken for granted that American food was processed, made by machines and not hands. Like red "cherry" flavoring, the frozen ice was its own fake imitation of a fruit that maybe was the same color.
There are more stories about cheese & the national obsession with it, than any other Portuguese food I can think of. Most breakfasts consist of a simple papsico (bun) and manteiga (butter) and Queijo (preferably Queijo Sao Jorge). And if you want to stop for a snack during the day, you can buy the same sandwich at a cafe. Your mother will send it to school with you in your lunchbag and none of the other kids will want to trade with you, because the cheese is so piquant. To this day, my mother still has Queijo Sao Jorge for breakfast and after every lunch & dinner as dessert.
Every time I go through customs in Boston after flying SATA, all the Customs Officers scratch their heads and ask why all the little old Portuguese ladies all have cheese in their purses. I shrugged and held my own cheese filled bag a little closer. You can buy Queijo Sao jorge in Cambridge. But it does not taste AS good. The ladies are all connoisseurs, Queijeiras all.
So when my mother began telling me about the Cheese Wars that her brother and sister had, I couldn't stop laughing. She admitted that her brother hated cheese so much that when they were kids in Faial, he would sniff the table knife to make sure it hadn't been recently tainted by cheese. When her sister would come home from buying cheese for Vovo, half of it would already be gone. That's how she got her nickname, Queijeira.
Once, while her Queijo-hating brother was asleep, she snuck a piece of cheese into his mouth. He chased her around the house. To this day, he can't stand it. Poor Tio!! He was no match for the family Queijeira!!
It roughly means "she who loves cheese".
I won't reveal which of the sisters it was, in a family of 8 kids; I was surprised that only one held the title, and that it was not my mother. Nor will I reveal which of the brothers in the family hated cheese. Learning about his hatred for cheese scandalizes me, even as a grownup. (To be fair, he doesn't like milk either, so I suspect it is a dairy intolerance/hatred).
For those who don't know, cheese=Queijo=the national Portuguese comfort food & delicacy. It is pronounced like the American word "cage" (the final "o" is usually swallowed), and as a child, I imagined it was a way that grownups described the way the cheese naturally appeared. It was formed in a "cage" of wax, a protective coating. I knew it came in a wheel, it had its own crust on it, like a well baked loaf of bread. My mother would buy it a wedge at a time, and we would savor it from the thin pliable edge to the crumbly hard base.
American cheese did not have to be contained properly; it came in it's own naturally growing prepackaged containers. Plastic sheets of Kraft Singles or shredded bags for pizza, or weird foil wrapping like Velveeta, the "cheez" I had growing up in Massachusetts was another substance than what my Mom treasured. It could also NEVER be used to cross the cultural lines. I have NEVER seen a grilled cheese sandwich (or pizza) made with Queijo Sao Jorge, or served on Wonder Bread. It took me years before I was able to accept that they were even part of the same food group; I had always taken for granted that American food was processed, made by machines and not hands. Like red "cherry" flavoring, the frozen ice was its own fake imitation of a fruit that maybe was the same color.
There are more stories about cheese & the national obsession with it, than any other Portuguese food I can think of. Most breakfasts consist of a simple papsico (bun) and manteiga (butter) and Queijo (preferably Queijo Sao Jorge). And if you want to stop for a snack during the day, you can buy the same sandwich at a cafe. Your mother will send it to school with you in your lunchbag and none of the other kids will want to trade with you, because the cheese is so piquant. To this day, my mother still has Queijo Sao Jorge for breakfast and after every lunch & dinner as dessert.
Every time I go through customs in Boston after flying SATA, all the Customs Officers scratch their heads and ask why all the little old Portuguese ladies all have cheese in their purses. I shrugged and held my own cheese filled bag a little closer. You can buy Queijo Sao jorge in Cambridge. But it does not taste AS good. The ladies are all connoisseurs, Queijeiras all.
So when my mother began telling me about the Cheese Wars that her brother and sister had, I couldn't stop laughing. She admitted that her brother hated cheese so much that when they were kids in Faial, he would sniff the table knife to make sure it hadn't been recently tainted by cheese. When her sister would come home from buying cheese for Vovo, half of it would already be gone. That's how she got her nickname, Queijeira.
Once, while her Queijo-hating brother was asleep, she snuck a piece of cheese into his mouth. He chased her around the house. To this day, he can't stand it. Poor Tio!! He was no match for the family Queijeira!!
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