Brigadier Chronicle

Brigadier Chronicle

Brenda opened the can of condensed milk with an opener that was already worn and rusted by time. He poured the cream, which fell with a certain charm, into the pot. He placed a generous spoon of unsalted butter and finally added as much as he wanted of powdered chocolate. He took a wooden spoon, but he would have used any other that was within his reach, and began to stir the triple over a low fire.
She worked with patience, practiced repetitive movements. He danced his spoon as much as he could and when he got tired he moved only in a circular way. The first blisters full of body began to bounce, releasing all their aroma from the pot. Brenda, with a certain uproar, immediately put the fire down and tried to move it more effectively. Finally, he turned the pot over and confirmed the sweet spot. The brigadier was ready, shiny, full-bodied and smelling like that.
He poured the homogenized triple and reduced by the heat of the fire into a glass bowl. He scraped the pan and licked the spoon. It burned the roof of his mouth and at that hour he was already wondering if the pain wouldn’t ruin the party. He convinced himself that it was silly and calmed down to be able to wait for the brigadier to cool down. She fell asleep and woke up frightened checking the hours. It had only been a little over 15 minutes. He gave up on sleep and went to see some family photo albums. Hours later the brigadeiro seemed to him at a reasonable temperature to be rolled up.
He rubbed butter on his hand without shame and started making the balls. She did not have much practice and the first ten brigadeiros did not come out in uniform size. But each person who rolled up discovered, in an empirical way, an even better technique to continue rolling, or, at least, concluded how he shouldn’t do them. There were many, but he did not count to know how much. But when he saw everyone ready he found enough. He kept it in a box that he wrote “brigadeiro” in handwriting.
He dressed, tied his hair and put on a comfortable shoe. He took the bag, the car key and the brigadeiros. He confirmed that the box of candy was firmly in the car so that it would not fidget too much on the way. He left the garage of his apartment and took the same route he did three months ago. Finally arrived at the hospital. Towards the pediatric floor he took the box of brigadeiros as a trophy. He tied some balloons in the box and sang happy birthday to his six-year-old son, who had been dreaming of eating his mother’s brigadeiro for months. The recovery was good and the brigadier celebrated the mother’s persistence and the son’s improvement.
chronicle of brigadeiro jessica giovanini ickfdphoto: Half Baked Harvest

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