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.