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Brigadeiro




Uma panela velhinha, o fundo equilibra-se instável na boca do fogo baixo. As alças foram repostas há vinte, trinta anos... A panela tem mais idade. As alças pretas combinam hoje com as diversas manchas negras de tempo e de uso. Hoje em meio ao isolamento social que ultrapassa os cem dias, eu fiz brigadeiro nessa panela.  A mesma receita que era dela: Uma lata de leite condensado, quatro colheres de chocolate, bem cheias, e duas colheres de manteiga ,tão cheias quanto as outras. Cada volta da colher me levou de novo à ela, a seu sorriso, a seu cantarolar e sua voz me sussurrou, mais uma vez, que o ponto é quando a gente vira a panela e a massa brilhante do doce movimenta-se una e uniforme, deixando aparecer a  que ficou no fundo. “Não raspe a panela! Deixe cair em um prato fundo apenas o que se solta dela.” O que fica, com seus furinhos aerados, é a raspa. É, talvez, como o passado do brigadeiro. A gente pode até degusta-la um pouquinho, voltar a ela, mas ela não segue para a festa. A raspa endurece e estraga o doce. 

As orientações continuaram comigo em sua voz. Não untei o prato fundo com manteiga, também não enrolarei os docinhos nas mãos meladas de margarina, nem rolarei as bolinhas em chocolate granulado para depositá-las em forminhas de papel rosa, azul e branco. Não haverá festa. Estamos todos em casa, sempre. Por vezes, cansamos uns dos outros. Só temos a nós mesmos e o mundo insiste em criar novas pressões e inseguranças. “Não, ninguém volta à escola se não for seguro!”

Hoje fiz o primeiro brigadeiro da quarentena, o primeiro em muito tempo. Para agradar as filhas que enfrentam esse fim de mundo melhor que eu, recorro à minha mãe e sua panelinha mágica de brigadeiro. Ela tem me aparecido em sonhos nessa quarentena. Mônica me falou que alguns diriam ser mais que sonhos. Há tanto não a via. Há tanto não sonhava. Ela me visita também no fazer do doce, em sua serenidade, voz tranquila e força. O que ela acharia dessa pandemia? O quanto sofreria com esse nosso Brasil que engatou a marcha ré? O que diria dessa quarentena? “Minha comadre, cada qual como pode, cada qual como pode, cada qual...” Entre uma noite de lágrimas e um dia de músicas e sorrisos, talvez ela cantaria.

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