July 14, 2017

Garrone-os gyümölcssaláta // fruit salad with Garrone

Titkos kertem a szépség és nyugalom szigete, ahol mindig jó lenni, még akkor is, ha az idő nem tökéletes. A vízben úszva megszűnik a világ, csak az ég létezik alattam és felettem, valójában az égben úszom, a madarak úgy kapálóznak, akár az úszók, némelyik verdes a szárnyaival, mint egy gyorsúszó, mások méltóságteljesen, lassan lebegnek. És a felhők, a felhők mindig is arra emlékeztettek, mintha egy végeérhetetlen égi óceán hullámai és habjai lennének, örökké változók, akár az élet. Habfehérek, aranycirmos szegély fut rajtuk csipkeként, szürke szárnyukat puhán terjesztik a hegy fölé, mintha át akarnák ölelni. A naplemente ajtó egy másik világba, mindig máshol, mindig másként, de mindig ugyanabba a másik világba vezet. Olyan tökéletes és gyönyörű ez a világ.
Bárcsak tudnék repülni. Az úszás egy egész kicsit arra emlékeztet... 
Most csak angolul lesz mese. Öt éve írtam, erre pontosan emlékszem. Nem szeretném és nem is tudnám lefordítani. 

Na és ha már nyár, következzék egy igazán nyári finomság. Kedvenc gyümölcseim egyike a sárgadinnye, mérhetetlen mennyiséget meg tudok enni belőle. Csokiban is ki kell majd próbálnom természetesen, de ezúttal az egész családnak készült egy fincsi gyümölcssaláta ^^

1 érett sárgadinnye
2-3 kis méretű körte
2 dl Garrone

Félbevágom a dinnyét. Kikaparom a magokat mindkét feléből. Kiskanállal, vagy magszedővel kis gombócokat vájok ki belőlük úgy, hogy a gyümölcshús legalább fele megmaradjon. Feltöltöm őket félig Garrone-nal, majd visszahelyezem beléjük a dinnyedarabkákat. Ha marad még hely, ne sajnáljuk belőle az alkoholt. Végül két körtét vékony szeletekre vágok, és a szélükre helyezem dísznek. Mindkét dinnye-felet beteszem a hűtőbe legalább 3-4 órára, hogy jól lehűljön, és legyen ideje megszívni magát Garrone-nal. 
Tálaláskor tejszínhab, édesszájúaknak akár cukor is mehet bele, bár az igazán érett dinnye nem kívánja a plusz cukrot szerintem.

My  secret garden is the island of beauty and peace; it's always good to be there, even when the weather is not perfect. The world ceases to exist when  I'm swimming, only the sky exists below and above, I am swimming in the sky; the birds are flapping like swimmers, some are fluttering quickly like freestyle swimmers, others float gracefully, slowly. And the clouds, the clouds have always reminded me of the waves and foam of an endless celestial ocean; forever changing like life itself. They are foam-white, golden fringes frame them as laces, they softly spread their grey wings aove the mountain as if they wanted to embrace it. The sunset is a door opening to another world, always from another place and always differently, but always to the same world. This world is so perfect and wonderful.
I wish I could fly. Swimming reminds me a bit of that...
Now here is a tale that I wrote 5 years ago.

And so if it's summer, here is a real summer delight. One of my favourite fruits is melon, I could eat up endless portions of it. I'll have to try it in chocolate as well, but this time I prepared a yummy fruit salad for the entire family ^^

1 ripe melon
2-3 small pears
2 dl Garrone

I cut the melon into halves. I scrape out the seeds. With a small spoon I scoop little balls out of them, and I leave at least half of the fruit flesh. I fill the halves with Garrone, then I place back the melon pieces. If there is any space left, do not spare the alcohol. Finally I cut up two pears into thin pieces and I put them on the sides. I put the melons in the fridge at least for 3-4 hours until they get cold and absorb the Garrone.
Serve it with whipped cream or even a bit of sugar but a really ripe melon doesn't need additional sugar.

Learning to fly

From the edge of the cliff the landscape looked like a glass globe. Clear, green hills in the foreground; the river, oh the river like a silver ribbon flowing among the familiar forests where so many of childhood’s miracles had happened. Cottages hiding behind the trees; smoke rising to the sky like a white-grey snake. Turquoise mountains on the horizon, below the sky, that endless, vast blueness, the place out of reach, the other half of the world which remained unknown to the villagers, a secret without boundaries. Even those who knew the paths of the stars, who could translate the whisper of the wind and were able to read such signs as a red moon or a rainbow, would never dream of getting there: flying on the wings of the storm, touching the silk of that rainbow, treasure-hunting among the stars.
But little Ilmailu did.
He was desperately attracted to the sky, in love with the Moon, that mystical mother; his passion: staring at the wandering clouds. When wild winds roared, he was sure to be found outside the village on the small field in front of the forest, where the grass waved like a green sea. Every day he sat on the cliffs for hours and watched the setting sun – his family had to have dinner later then all the other villagers because of his habit. At first they tried to persuade him to stay at home, to miss at least one sunset but when they locked up the door, he escaped through the window. So they just gave it up. And thus little Ilmailu was the only one who knew that every sunset painted different colours on the sky and on the land.
However, when it came to real life, Ilmailu could hardly find his way. Living among the clouds, he stumbled in stones and fallen branches; his mates liked to tease him and killed little birds just to see the horror on his face. He was old enough to help out his father in work, but nobody expected him to do anything as they all knew that he would fail.
The shaman, a middle-aged man with white beard secretly appreciated the boy: when Ilmailu was younger (after he passed through the fourth or fifth cycle) he told him a tale about the Falcon, the forefather of their people. He said – and of that little Ilmailu remembered perfectly – that in every third generation the essence of the Falcon descended into a soul and that soul surpassed even the shaman in wisdom, abilities and in the longing for the sky.
That evening, while sitting on the cliff and excitedly waiting for the first stars to light up in the distance coated in mist, little Ilmailu contemplated the Falcon once more. He knew it for sure that somehow he was able to fly. At night his free spirit cleft the sky like a tiny owl – he saw the village and the hills so clearly and next morning when he woke up he remembered his dreams as real experiences.
Now, deep in thoughts, he caressed the brown feather held in his lap. The other feathers wiggled as if they desired to float impatiently. Three times three – the perfect form of the magical number: that might do it. Little Ilmailu sighed and collected all his will. He fastened the nine feathers to the sleeves of his tunic and to his rumpled, long, mahogany hair; then stood up and backed nine steps. His free spirit jumped into his throat, suspecting that it will break its chains soon. Running, then a quick leap into the air – the boy gasped for a second, and then his wings unfolded, spread, flapped and shed some purple feathers.
Little Ilmailu balanced and drifted on the borderline of daylight and night, wakefulness and dreaming, on the star-spotted carpet of the night sky, crying out in rapture. His eyes were watering in the biting wind; the unreal radiance of the setting sun blinded him. He didn’t look down but held his head up high to see the silver void and galaxies shining like golden ponds. His newly gotten, ambitious wings took him higher and higher, to the glowing line of dusk, where the world ceases to exist and consciousness burns out.

His body was found next day at the foot of the cliff, crushed but with a sweet smile on his face, a smile of one who had found the meaning of his life.

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