Spain, Day 17

Andres babysat Friday night. Dinner was a fried egg and jamon serrano. Tomorrow, Saturday, Andres will take his charges to L'Oceanografic. To preserve scraps of sanity between now and then, Andres is considering eating copious amounts of ice cream, watching Mary Poppins, and exploring Satellite TV. Thankfully, lunch was good today.

Spain, Day 16

Bkfst: Special K with plain (European) yogurt and a diced banana
Lunch: Vegetable Soup, Fried Fish and Calamari, Bread, Ajioli, Olives, Chocolate Torte, Fanta de Limon
Dinner: Kit-Kat McFlurry

n.b. None of these dishes merit praise--save maybe the plain European yogurt* with cereal and banana, ironically the only dish I prepared myself--but if we play the toddler-like, Sesame Street-esque "one of these things is not like the other" game we will identify (hopefully) an especially jarring blemish in today's food diary, and no, it is not the fact that today was double-dessert day (it would have been a triple had the family not appeared so weary after the movie, too tired even for dessert!).

*clarification vital to anybody who nurses a passion for "plain" yogurt--in and of itself a misleading term--and has sampled both American and European varieties and understands the offerings distinguish themselves by consistency and taste with the latter trumping the former, clearly...

Spain, Day 15

Last Saturday, while walking through downtown Valencia, I spotted a yellow sign on a checkerboard background, and while I wasn't at an angle to read the word, I recognized it instantly as the emblem of Pans and Co. This discovery inspired a surprising nostalgia in me for my time when I used to drink Fanta de limon with my friends during snack time in Barcelona. I resisted an impulse to barrel in and order the first thing I saw off the menu, and I explained to myself that there was no need to succumb to such sentimentality. Nevertheless, I was gladdened to have seen it, and I enjoyed remembering past times, but I recognized that my time would be better spent, and my appetite better satisfied if I listened to the more grown-up part of my brain, which encouraged me to head towards one of the countless little restaurants, cafes, or bars that offered much tastier and more personalized treats. I admit to a moment of indecision and so I kept walking and the excitement of downtown Valencia overcame my desires to snack.

I pride myself upon that decision to avoid sub par food, no matter what sappiness if may have been fried in. I also prided myself on defying the European caricature of the American eater: slovenly and heavily reliant on fast-food or ready-made meals. It is therefore difficult to properly describe my disgust when I discover the people who are so eager to criticize my upbringing in Chicago and its "American culture," as they understand it, engaging in despicable acts of gastronomical treason.

With the hectic pace of life, I understand the difficulty of providing three meals a day for your kids, especially when the principal meal comes in the middle of the day. In a working household, scheduling the time and mustering the energy to prepare a satisfying meal while on your lunch break cannot be easy. Therefore, I understand why the custom has devolved into a half hearted shrug of a meal, sometimes. Other times, I would hesitate to consider some foods the basis of a meal at all.

For the record, 20 pieces of Chicken McNugget and three bottles of water for the kids squirming in the back seat falls into the category of non-meals described above. But when you're running from one hospital to another, checking up on patients, monitoring a surgery, having yourself examined, well, then I can commiserate. This does not excuse, however, that you purchased McNuggets and fed them to your kids, without even stopping the car.

Needless to say, when I experienced this, I wondered why I had signed up for this trip. Fortunately, we arrived home and I was relieved that there was considerable fuss to prepare a "real lunch," until I realized that that constituted throwing two frozen pizzas in the oven.

Horrified, I was grateful for the slices of fresh cheese and pate served as appetizers to our pizzas. My horror, however, has manifested itself in odd ways. Firstly, when we took a family trip to the grocery store yesterday, I was relieved that we were stocking up on real food, but nevertheless I took precautions to advocate for a cereal that I liked, just in case. Secondly, and perhaps more earth-shattering, I have considered taking up cooking for a little bit.

Spain, Days 12-14

This writing business may just not be for me, or it could be that I find it an unfit use of my time to try and fabricate experiences from moments that I don't necessarily remember or treasure experiencing. Hence, this entry is entitled "Days 12-14" (Sunday through yesterday, Tuesday). This should imply, along with the drab topics of the days leading up to this one, that the weekend transition to Valencia may have brought cable television, wireless Internet, and a pool, but not necessarily any culinary inspiration.

Instead, my time here has taught me not to worry about losing to a nine-year-old in Battleship, because the game is too long to hold his attention anyway. I have likewise learned that the nine-year-old will, nevertheless, still claim victory. By his rules, because he had sunk half a ship more than me at the time the game ended (or more precisely, when he ended the game) he won.
I have resolved now, as my stay here is more than half past, to chalk this stop up as a reintroduction to family life and I remind myself that though I may wish to cavort in Spain with pseudo-academic intentions, this week presents an opportunity to capture the Spain behind the touristy/Medieval-historical facade and live in the Spain that pulses with a cosmopolitan vibrancy that mirrors that of established international metropolises. This energy belies the cobblestone streets, the lack of orthogonal planning, and the dense city centers that characterize much of this country.

My new nine-year old companion must be fueled with the same stamina, which would explain why I enjoy his company most when he is in bed next to me reading.

Spain, Day 11

"Sleeping in" never ranked highly on my favorite activities list, but it seems to be climbing with my new later bedtimes. With dinner averaging 11 o'clock p.m., and taking into account my adversity to sleeping on a full stomach, I find getting into bed before 1 a.m. difficult. But a note on these late dinners:

I have yet to enjoy a dinner to its fullest extent. The balance is tricky. When lunch is large you want a lighter, but still satisfying dinner (it was 8 hours ago) and when lunch is small your appetite threatens to get the better of you. And yet, if dinner is too hearty, then going off to bed feels like a waste of energy, not to mention that when you roll over you understand the difficulty sleeping during the last trimester of pregnancy.

Up to now, my favorite dinners have included fruit, and I am quickly becoming a champion of substituting fresh fruit for dinner, and this is a plan that works especially well when lunch is very filling. The fruit also adds a sweet burst of happiness to the end of a meal, that I would seldom feel naturally (even when fit to burst, I find it sad to have to stop eating, which explains my affinity for multi-course meals).

I guess, however, that if I could just get this appetite of mine in check, this conversation would be moot.

Spain, Day 10

I can't complain. Ultimately, that is the most frustrating part about trying to describe New Haven to people half way around the world. Normally, I begin with "small town," followed by "less than 150,000 people." Sadly, in a town of 20,000 that wins more admiration than pity. The second most irksome part of thinking about New Haven while in Benicarlo is that my prejudice against small towns, which New Haven cultivated, has now dissipated. Perhaps I should instead consider a ban on small cities, which may be a more apt description of New Haven.

There is something to be said in favor of walking out your door and being able to say hi to the first people you see and it is (dare I say it?) charming to be greeted from a balcony while ambling down the street in search of shade. The deeply personal touch that permeates all aspects of life cannot be ignored, and I appreciate that especially now that I have returned to "big-city" living.

While Valencia may not stand toe-to-toe with an American "big city," in its dispersal of people and loss of personal contact it qualifies. On the plus side, however, still condensed around a Medieval core, the city remains approachable and manageable from a visitor's perspective. My true test for Valencia, however, will come with my first visit to its markets (yes, Valencia has two!) where I hope the new kids will be nice and let me play with them.

Spain, Day 9

My Market Friends
Freshman year in New Haven, my regular Sunday outing in search of non-collegiate life always led me to our local Supermarket: Shaw's. I occasionally enjoyed a glimpse of people living outside of the university bubble, families, children, old people--all could be found at Shaw's, and there was food too! More importantly, these habitual trips were just one more manifestation of the senior citizen with me. This penchant for long walks continues, and along with a dislike of animals, children, and lollipops, qualifies me, albeit a tad prematurely, as an elderly crank.

Nevertheless, the fondness for an afternoon walk earned me a few friends while in Benicarlo, among my most special were my market friends. From my first day in Benicarlo, I would accompany my aunt every morning to the market. Unlike Shaw's, the meat section in this market was probably alive 48 hours ago, while the fish often hadn't properly died yet. The market consists of four basic types of vendors: those from the produce stalls, the meat stalls, the fish stalls, and the miscellaneous stalls (semi-prepared foods, flowers, etc.). Of course, my aunt already had her favorite vendors, so I can't say that I got to know the market well, it would have been high treason to venture to some of the other stalls. I was scandalized enough that we consorted with two fish vendors, and neighbors at that!

I came to know them well, not only from our morning chats but also in connection with my official interests in traveling to Spain. Mari, one of our fish ladies, came to call me "el estudiante," and from her central position in the market at which she could observe the main entrance to entertain herself, she would hail me with new questions about my research. She also proved an invaluable resource into the survival and development of traditional dishes of the region, as a native Benicarlanga who grew up on a farm in the outskirts of town.

Unlike my neighborhood Shaw's, this market reciprocated the love that I harbored for it. When it came time to leave Benicarlo, I remembered the warmth with which the market received me daily, and my farewell weighed upon me almost as much as my farewells to family. Nevertheless, while my culinary advisers promised to remember me, I in turn assured them I would return again to Benicarlo, not that I need much more motivation to visit Spain, especially next year when I will be a, comparably, short plane-ride away.

Spain, Day 8

Fideua, along with Lemon Fanta, remains a prime reason I continue to return to Spain. I have even confessed this to my family, dropping not so subtle hints about how I enamoured I was with this dish. Consequently, I was surprised it was almost a week before this vermicelli pasta dish appeared on the table, actually prepared by an aunt who possessed no knowledge of my special affinity for this meal. Therefore, I was taken aback when I walked into the kitchen to examine lunch preparations and found my aunt gearing up for a traditional Spanish lunch.

I have realized of late, however, that though delicious, the tradition of large lunches presents an obstinate need for siestas, which are not among my favorite of hobbies. In true testimony to the caliber of food yesterday, I need only direct you towards the end of "Spain, Day 7," which I could not actually describe to you. I just know that somewhere in a dazed satiated state, I began to slip away into a pleasing world of slumber, and as my resistance petered out, I barely mustered the energy to post an entry. What is was that I was posting I have no idea.

But returning to Wednesday's Lunch, I must emphasize the degree to which an appetite is cultivated by sitting in a kitchen watching the cooking unfold over the span of two or three hours. I have never known myself to be happier setting a table, than after having spent a morning salivating over the ingredients that gradually coalesce into a meal (this excludes setting a table at Thanksgiving and other formal Dinners, which unfortunately trump if only because napkin folding is involved).

Fideua is a dish of vermicelli pasta cooked in a juice that is leached from freshly stewed fish and seafood, and then served decorated according to the tastes of the cook, whether with pieces of calamari and mussels, as my aunt served it, or with gambas or other bits of seafood, as is served in various other households and local restaurants.

The flavour of this apparently coastal dish can vary in its tangy seaful taste. Some prepare it more subtly, while for others strong flavors match bolder inclusion of actual pieces of seafood. My aunt prepared a rich but still mild in stark seafood flavour dish. This of course, to please her oldest son who detests the fishy taste and fish in general (despite having been raised on the coast). Nevertheless, these stylistic differences do not dampen the joy of the dish, in fact they enrich the culture of this tradition, as one explores the permutations of this dish.

Alongside the fiedeua, my aunt served fish steaks (emperador, similar to kingfish) broiled in a rich stewed tomato and vegetable sauce. The comforting white meat was pleasantly savoured by the sauce and they balanced each other well. To drink, there was fresh watermelon juice, which could have used a few more ice cubes to chill it. Nevertheless, the sweet watermelon and its embracing juice refreshed nicely after the ocean-heavy meal.

The lunch seemed to satiate down to my bones, as I struggled to even sit upright in my bed to check my email. Perhaps, my bed wasn't the correct choice, but I was already sagging so noticeably, there were few other places to go, except the floor.

I can't say that I awoke in my expected state of heightened crankiness, because I can't quite piece together the first 20 minutes I was awake. I know I awoke to the face of my cousin who was notifying me that it was past 5 and that we were now going to "Aqualandia," which sounded positively horrifying. Nevertheless, I mustered neither the focus nor energy to properly assimilate the news, nor protest it.

Suddenly, 20 minutes later, I was in my swimming trunks, in the car, on my way to Aqualandia. Unfortunately, for my cousin and his friend, the water fun park was closed when we got there. I should not have underestimated my cousin, however, who pulled out Plan B before I could even suggest returning home. Off we went to the "Municipal Pool," to which I drove with remarkable apprehension.

We arrived at the Benicarlo Sports Center, however, to pay for our pool use and I surprised myself with my own excitement. The pristinely clean facilities reminded me that I had survived public pool use in Chicago Parks, and that this was a few notches up. Then again, the prices we were charged testified to the level of quality I should expect. What really impressed me, however, was the degree of use and enjoyment the community seemed to take in this center. With one Olympic-sized pool, half reserved for Swim Classes, half roped off for lap swimming, and a smaller, shallower, warmer pool for the youngn's, a sauna, and second, hotter sauna. The real surprise of the afternoon, however, was my lap swimming. I justified it as necessary recompense for the physical stress I had been subjected too (or subjexted mysel, more dcccccccccccccdddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddaccurately.

Spain, Day 7

The Italian tradition of serving primi, secondi, insalate, e dulce spoiled me; not that I needed that much food, but I can never claim to have felt uncared for. Spain celebrates the same gut-busting custom, and dangerously so, because the meal appears much more seamless to me. Italy's pasta and risotto screamed primi, and only ushered in the requisite meat and roasted potatoes, to be followed by a panna cotta or custard. In Spain, however, the cuisine seems to just sneak by, and when I think that I have eaten my main course the true gut-buster comes out, which tortures me because I never know how much I should enjoy (consume) of each dish in case something new comes out from the kitchen.

Sometimes, however, I just can't bring myself to care about "saving room," I simply have to enjoy each dish to its fullest, regardless of its place in the chronology of the meal. Mostly, I just realize that I possess a terrible talent of being able to consume unnaturally vast quantities of food. For example, when yesterday's dinner began with a cheese plate I knew the possibility of maintaining a dignified poise for the evening meal was doomed.

A cheese plate needs no description, thankfully, because I would be hard pressed for words to bind in words the soaring joy a fresh, warm, loaf of bread and a plate of fresh cheeses inspires. Try it. Unfortunately, for those like an uncle who happened to sit next to me, who cannot find it within themselves to properly appreciate cheese then I can offer no words of advice, just pity.

It should come as no surprise that within arms reach of my place at the table the tastiest primi could be found: the cheese, the tantalizing, aromatic, and and fleetingly salty cured Spanish ham, the succulent pieces of octopus with soothing spices that accented the natural flavor, and complimented the warm texture without masking it, and the Fanta de Limon... Yes, I do consider the Fanta de Limon to have been one of the crowning achievements of the meal. I have been told that pop is tastier outside the U.S. because it lacks the high fructose corn syrup that the American Corn Lobbies force into every can of American produced pop. I have not bothered trying to substantiate these claims. Suffice to say that I do not drink pop at home, but here I relish the opportunity to drink Fanta de Limon, which bursts with a fresh lemon taste that suggests it was bottled on my uncle's farm from his lemon trees. Anyway, I must confess there is also a bit of nostalgia attached to my affinity for the pop, I used to drink one almost every day once I discovered them back in eighth grade on my first trip to Spain.

But continuing on with the meal: I suppose there were other foods on the table aside from the ham, cheese, bread, and octopus, but I couldn't actually tell you with any certainty what they were. Those foods remained in another quadrant of the table, where I wasn't, and I would assume the other guests at dinner enjoyed them, because I heard few requests to pass the food from my end down to them. Again, it could just be that there were requests and I didn't hear them, or that nobody felt comfortable enough or brave enough to endeavour to divorce me from my food.

Once I began looking up from the octopus and cheese, the Doradas came out. Glistening beautifully like a fresh school of fish, the eight medium sized standard white ocean fish brought my appetite to a new level. The small silvery fish has a fresh neutral (as far as fish goes) taste, and resembles the mojarra of the Western Hemisphere. From the Costa Dorada of Spain (Mediterranean Coast of Catalunya) they were now a succulent brown from the oven and stuffed with potatoes, gambas, and other sea-goodies.

Though afraid to look up once more, I did so, only to be faced with a rich flan coated in a warm plum and raisin reduction. After this I was unsure whether I wanted to look up again or not, or even weather I could.

Spain, Day 6 (tardy, I know...)

Culinary Doldrums
My navy blue agenda emblazoned with my school crest was one of my first purchases upon arriving in New Haven as a freshman. I had grown accustomed to carrying one around for 10 years since the time when it was still called an "assignment notebook." The agenda had become a permanent fixture of my backpack, not really something that I used, but rather something to decorate when class failed to attract my attention. My agenda entertained me, and to express my appreciation I continue to purchase one at the beginning of every academic year. Whether I use it or not is less important.

Looking back over the last academic year, whole weeks are blank, and in some months the agenda served only as a place for me to write "None" beside a class name, in celebration of the lack of problem sets or reading. Considering the fact that it is an academic year calendar, running from September through August, I'm not quite sure why I lugged it across Italy and brought it to Spain--perhaps to warm my backpack again. I'm glad that I didn't ditch it in a canal in Venice, however, because that agenda is now serving probably its heaviest daily use in years.

Since arriving in Spain last Wednesday, I have recorded every dish of every meal in my trusty blue agenda. I'm not sure why, maybe it's to remind myself when I pass the ice cream shop why I should NOT get a scoop of coconut ice cream (or cucurucho de helado de coco if you will). Alternately, it has been a vital reference when it comes time to record my daily travails.

For example, last night the toils of excessive eating and the stress of foreign travel finally sapped me of my energy and by 9 p.m. I was longing for a bed during dinner, and at 10 p.m. I was passing out on a couch. Though I regained my strength, I couldn't muster the energy to write about my day, at least that is what I told myself.

In retrospect, I understand my unwillingness to write to have been more than a product of exhaustion, but rather inspired by sheer apathy with the day's meals. It's a terrible thing when a meal fails to distinguish itself, not because it was poorly prepared, but because the only feeling it induces is boredom.

I feel truly guilty about having passed this judgment on yesterday's meals, and I am compelled to explain the denunciation as a curse of comparison. It was in comparison to the other food I have enjoyed while here that yesterday's meals failed to distinguish themselves. Nevertheless, I am confident that the listlessness of Monday's cuisines has been emphasized sufficiently, if only in the fact that the beginning of this entry includes an extended description of my relationship to my agenda. But it is true, that when I speak of comparisons, my agenda cannot lie. Although I will say that my agenda tried to protect the Monday meals by putting them on a new page, but I remembered how crammed Friday, Saturday, and Sunday had been with dishes, ingredients, and flavor so Monday was, well, Mondayish.

Rather than complain, perhaps I should treat Monday instead as a palate cleanser. Monday was my lemon sorbet, or the ginger to my sushi (actually ginger has far too much flavor, and I enjoy it a bit too much in various forms for me to regard Monday as highly as ginger). Furthermore, Monday was a lesson: I have been inspired to take more direct action in ensuring the quality of my meals and in influencing their development. I firmly believe that this personal involvement will greatly augment the excitement of the few meals that remain to me in Benicarlo. Already, I have taken steps to secure an invitation for dinner Tuesday with my aunt, who will inevitably ask my opinion before preparing her menu, which I will not hesitate in giving. After all, I am sure she will want me to be as happy as possible with her hospitality. It's not like I get to eat with her everyday.

p.s. as for actually detailing Monday's menu, I will do so below, having failed above...
(taken from my trusty agenda)

Bkfst: Assorted fresh fruits (The grapes were steeped in flavor that flowed from bite, while the overly watery and totally tasteless plum set a dull tone for the day. If only I hadn't eaten it after the grapes)
Lunch: A broccoli (and maybe other vegetables) and cheese soufflé, steak, a cream of carrot soup
Dinner: A rice with pulled chicken and diced vegetables and soy sauce (?), think Spanish fried rice..., Tomatoes, olives, and sardines(?) prepared in olive oil and vinegar, melon (a green-skinned, very sweet honeydew, which ended the day as sweetly as it began, but unfortunately wasn't enough to redeem it )

Spain, Day 5

I am convinced that we understand "no" so universally to offset the considerable difficulty required in saying the phrase. The word-gods let us slip this one word into so many languages so that we wouldn't have to compound our troubles with the struggle of translating. No other word could match the distress and pain this monosyllabic phrase inspires, and never is the situation more painful than when this word is directed at a cook. How does one graciously turn down someone who has labored for hours preparing a dish? How does one deny oneself exquisite tastes, turn away an enticing presentation, and stifle that eternal desire for more? No, it cannot be done.

My Sunday at the "beach" proves this (I refer to a "beach" and not a beach because we were actually a block away from the beach, and said beach had no sand, and our view from said beach was primarily of the Port of Castellon and its graceful containerships; hence, it was a "beach"). I arrived that the "beach chalet" of my uncle's close friends to sit immediately at a table laden with gambas, mejillones, pimientos salados, queso, pan, ensalada con aceitunas y huevos duros, but not before we had visited the paella that was simmering in its special stove/oven.

The major miracle of the day, however, proved not to be the amount my stomach expanded, nor that the seat belt in the back-seat of my aunt's car actually extended sufficiently to accomodate my enormous girth, but rather that I actually ate the gambas. These gambas weren't a joke, they were some prize winning shrimp, so delectable I'm sure that I guess it was a privilege to look upon them in there in their entirety prior to consuming them. I had barely reminded myself that shrimp is the one food I do not touch, before half the plate before had disappeared into my young cousin. I had barely inhaled before he had thrown half a dozen gambas on his plate, torn off their heads, cracked off their legs and sucked out their meat and juice. He failed off course to appreciate the delicacy off their heads, and I believe, also, to devein them--the second bothered me a bit more.

My surfacing horror was quited by my gratefulness that for every shrimp he consumed I saved myself from one more threat. And my sense of security rose as I filled my plate with mussels, cheese, salad, and other delights, but it was swiftly squashed with the ephemeral "Have you tried the shrimp? It's a regional specialty! You must have some more!" This was the first time today when "no" would have come in handy.

I need not describe how gingerly I handled my gamba nor how meticulously I peeled and deveined it. My tentativeness dissipated, however, with the first taste. With indescribable joy I chewed my gamba and enjoyed the texture, aroma, and flavor for the first time in a dozen years. Dangerously, I thought "maybe 'no' is overrated, perhaps I pull it out too quickly. Thank goodness I desisted, look what benefits I reaped!"

What stopped me from consuming vast quantities of my newly found friend was the trouble of peeling them. I wish I could say that I was actually being sensible and trying to conserve energy (and space) for the Iron Man Challenge ahead.

The paella arrived sensibly enough, and I enjoyed it to the extent that I believe it was supposed to be enjoyed. Thankfully, there was enough paella only for one plate per person, roughly, but that plate was laden with small chunks of rabbit, chicken, duck (a slightly new flavor), peapods, pepper, and served mixed with our saffron cooked rice. Needless to say I polished me plate (literally...for some reason nobody touched the bread but me--I am tempted to say they were wiser to the ways of this meal than I was).

I expected next maybe some offers of coffee and maybe a candy or a chocolate. What arrived were dishes of fresh fruit and a large bowl of cherries. I rejoiced. After weeks of fresh fruit deprivation in Italy, I was recuperating quickly here. With the privilege of bottomless bowls of cherries at home I skipped those in favor of a peach relative that had the same skin as a peach, but the shape of a miniature pumpkin and the texture of ripe honeydew, with a fresh, juicy, flavor that blended peach melon. Comparably, the other fruits (kiwi, plum, regular peaches, apricots) appeared mundane, so I enjoyed a second difficult to name fruit (I'll remember the name tomorrow, I'm sure).

The meal should have ended here, and happily so. Everyone had enjoyed their food, was ready to sit back, reposar, and take some sun, but then the desserts really arrived. I understood that for my Spanish friends, terms were not mixed nor used lightly. When they mentioned dessert earlier in the meal they meant dessert, not a cop out fruit picking. Between the flan with an almond torte base, the paper thin apple tart (thinly sliced apples in a syrup on a leaf-like pastry crust), the soft chocolate sprinkled with sliced almonds in a pastry crust like that of the apple "pie's", the macaroons and the pound cake I subconsciously accepted that the summer would end in obesity. I knew I would not be allowed to leave the table until I tried each and every one. The cruelty compounded at the fact that I wouldn't even be cutting my own pieces. Again, "no" would have useful here.

If college has taught me anything, it is that drinking occasionally offers solace. Upon seeing the spread I would be embarking upon, I accepted the first drink offered to me: Pacharan. The liqueur turns out to have been casero, made by our host (and quite well). It is a northern Spanish spirit from Navarra, Basque Country. A soft honey color, its smoothness was deliciously refreshing, and, served on ice, its light and crisp taste related it more with a juice than an alcoholic beverage. The flavour was enticingly familiar but I couldn't pin it, and sadly didn't ask for a second glass.

The Pacharan provided precisely the fortification required to complete my mammoth (in caloric value, at least) task and I sailed through dessert. Cleanly dispensing with each dessert in turn. Thankfully the meal finally drew to a close, and after 3 and a half hours I considered myself safe at last. A few hiccups of resistance surfaced later (Orchata Valenciana, made with chufa, but in texture the same as mexican horchata and served with some fluffy sweetish breadsticks) but I conquered them admirably (if I do say so myself). Finally, after over six hours of sitting at the table, having taken only one break to wash my hands of the gamba peeling trauma, I stood to stagger back to the car. In truth, "waddle" more aptly describes my action, and it was of such a form as to make nine-month pregnant women look like runway models, a career, alas that I don't believe I could ever aspire to, much less achieve.

Spain, Day 4

"Hay Moros en la Costa"
I was told yesterday that some Spaniards of the Levante region would find it difficult to recognize their Arab heritage. They would deny the Arab influences on their architecture and civic planning; defy the notion that Arab could ever have been their mother tongue; and contest that their food could have been molded by the "Moros." Nevertheless, lunch was served today and I smiled inwardly and secretly hoped that one of the non-believers would drop by.

The albodingas, garbanzos, stewed beef (carne guisada), rice, green salad echoed the traditions of the Arabs of the Middle Age. A simple look at the names alone was enough to underscore the vitality of the Arab presence on the Peninsula.

Spain, Day 3

La Uva Sobremadura
"Let's call your Mom to tell her what you drank tonight..."
It appears my uncle was playing a game called "How fast can I sober up my 19 year-old nephew." Oddly enough, as the 19 year-old nephew, I was far from amused. Nevertheless, I dialed as I was instructed after muttering protests about a seven-hour time difference and my parents' certain Friday night plans. Thankfully, home appeared deserted until my father picked-up.

I acted as normally as possible, but I have a strange feeling my meticulous conversation construction was thwarted by the extended conversation my uncle enjoyed with my father, which included the words "no, no, not too much," among other such suspicious phrases. When the phone returned my way, however, my father gave no inclination of suspecting anything amiss and he passed no criticism or judgment otherwise. Needless to say, my relief manifested itself in a deep car-time stupor (otherwise known as a "nap").

In hindsight, my common sense should have kicked in when the dessert wine arrived. Sadly, the dessert wine went the way of the multiple bottles of champagne, the after-dinner shots, the two steaks and the accompanying foie gras, the crispy phyllo dough topped vanilla bean ice cream smothered in warm chocolate, the calamares a la romana, the chipirones sauteed with diced zucchini and artichoke, the octopus seasoned in olive oil and pimienton, and the odd hash brown and fried egg platter that was regaled as haute cuisine (I called it breakfast, but still tasty). And now I wonder why I feel like an 18-wheeler. I also realize that perhaps ordering water after the dessert wine arrived was a bit late. Just one glass of the "detoxifying agent," as my aunt called it, was really not enough. To think that it was normal for everyone else to enjoy a two-hour dinner drinking only beverages upwards of 12% alcohol.

My first indication that this behaviour was par here should have really come when I was wandering through the supermarket today (it was the only place open during my midafternoon walk while the rest of the country rested). I discovered that buying some brands of pop would set me back farther than buying certain bottles of wine. And for the kids, the boxed wine (still of considerable Alc. by Vol) appears perfect for those lunch boxes or as a solid midday snack.

I am fairly certain that my sumer activities will drive me to exercise or to hunger suppressants. Either seems easier than having to say no to some of these foods. And to think, I have not even touched upon today's lunch yet!

Spain, Day 2

A Morning Recuperating
When I am served two patés, fresh toast, jam, and yogurt topped with fresh strawberries and walnuts within an hour of waking up, the day can't possibly go poorly. While breakfasts in Italy floored me (sadly, there was no Muesli today) my worries of needing a coronary bypass by dinner as a result of all the morning meat and cheese have subsided slightly. Nevertheless, I'm keeping my appointment with the surgeon's knife because the way the summer has been unfolding, if I don't hit cardiac arrest I'll still need an operation to carve out the family of four that my appetite implies is nestling in my stomach.

Ostensibly, I am in Spain for school and to research food. Specifically, my fellowship charges me with investigating Medieval Arab Culture in Spain and assessing its impact on the development of Spanish Cuisine, at least that is what I've been telling my family and the new Spanish acquaintances. Unfortunately, investigation suggests work, which I am surprisingly adverse to doing when the sun is shining and the beach is a 5 minute walk away. It could also be that after three weeks of living out of a suitcase, the comforts of home are spoiling me, especially when the house in question offers some unrivaled amenities (there is an elevator, and only three floors, need I say more?)

It may also be plausible to suggest that my aversion to studying stems from a case of the dreaded "Consumption Coma." Lunch today sent me staggering in the direction of a bed, but fortunately I resisted the hated "siesta." Meanwhile, the rest of the city shut down...

Needless to say, I'm sure I will regain my wits by dinner time, and perhaps even muster a productive minute or two in preparing for the interviews that I will be conducting. I may even fit in a little bit of research as I figure out what exactly I'm studying and what I will be asking people about food. Sadly, however, excuses for procrastination are plentiful, including the savory freshly picked cherries from one of my uncle's orchards. He boasts they are the "best in Spain," and having consumed a couple kilos already and with a new bowl right beside me, I am hard pressed to contradict him.