Christmas is in the Air

Christmas is coming! Time for mantecados, turrones, tamales, mazapan, cookies, pies, polvorones, chocolates, roscos de vino, oh my...

Photo credit

Time to get back to the gym before that mountain of food arrives. This calls for some vigorous 80´s calesthenics!

Look at those pelvic thrusts!

Fusion food

If I have a Spanish-American baby in like 5 years or so, when I'm 28, it would be weaned solely on this.

In which the protagonist grows. Literally.

I am finally back in Málaga! Flying into Málaga is beautiful. You fly close over the olive and oxide colored mountains that surround the city and then make a dramatic touch down in front of the sea. Then you get off the plane and José is there waiting for you and it is the best feeling ever.

Now that I'm back I am working on getting things set up, cleaning, organizing private classes and volunteering and the Teacher Mentoring Program. And removing the pounds packed on by the evil combination of Gredos camp food, mom's delicious food, car travel rather than foot travel, and the ability of American food companies to sneak high-fructose corn syrup into every food product (Oops, I guess it's "corn sugar" now. Sorry about that Corn Refiners Association.) Mostly, however, it was my own fault.

At least in the US we have a variety of products to cover up with.

Wizard in the corner?

In Spain I don't have these options. Mostly because I haven't given up on life to the point where wearing pajamas all day sounds fine. Guess I'll just do this the old way.

Guess this whole "walking" thing is more complicated than I remember. These Europeans seem to be good at it though.

Tamales: A Visual Journey

Last weekend tamale stocks at the Conrad cabana were replenished and we hope they last until Christmas. This holiday is also known as when Claire comes home to make tamales again. It's a self-perpetuating cycle.

On Sunday, I cracked out the tamale recipe and got going.

Ye olde chile-stained recipe book.

I am indeed aware I am caucasian, but my dad is from New Mexico and has a need for tamales and chile that approaches addiction. Yes, it is lame that I still refer to the recipe, but I only do them twice a year and don't have the extended family with me to ease the manual labor of them. Earns me the right to consult the lard-to-masa levels, says I.

Step one: boil pork butt for one million hours until it gives up the will to live and dissolves. Add a whole bunch of chile and garlic.

Mana from heaven.

Step two: Go buy lard, act like you're not a fat ass buying lard and avoid direct eye contact with the checkout kid. Mix that up with some tamale flour mix stuff, add hot water, and get in their with your fingers.

Masa harina.

Get some dried corn leaves and steep 'em, steep em good so they're all nice and soft like.

Corn leaves.

Then, smash some of that dough onto them corn leaves. Add the maximum amount of pork you can shove in there, as really, tamales are just vectors to get chile-spiced pork down your gullet.

Roll that up like a big, fat, pungent, sweet smelling....legal cigarette.

Tie it down with some string or some pieces of corn husk.

Then lather...

Everyone in the sauna!

Rinse...

Stack it up.

Repeat...

Mt. Tamal.

Love me some tamales.

USA! USA!

I got home yesterday to Florida for six weeks of quality time with the family and intense visa processing. Upon touchdown in New York I got a big smack of America in the face. Big. A visual representation of returning home:

An obsession with manicures and time management.

E pluribus, unum.

Good things!

In case I wanted to get my electronics on the go.

A quick several hundred dollars on a DS.

Mandatory CNN.

These aren't pay phones, it's straight business.

Wifi! And phishing!

Rolos, peanut butter M&Ms, Hershey's, Werther's Original.

Mobile recharge unit.

Every product you will never need. In case you
get the urge to consume midflight.

HP!

It's cool but weird being back. Full frontal America is a lot, even if it's your country. But it is wonderfully my country.

Signs of Life

Loyal yet dwindling readership: I'm still alive. I will still be blogging. Let me explain myself.

I've been working at an English camp in rural Madrid province. As an English teacher, I've been braving the dangers of hundreds of children chanting in unison, edible-like substances that they continue to refer to as "food" in the cafeteria, and 5 hours of English class a day with a bunch of kids who were mistakenly led to believe that July means summer vacation. José, beer, the beach, and quiet time have been out the window since we got here.

On the positive side: the hours are long but I'm learning lots on how to be a good teacher. I'm living rent-free and my only expenditure is at a fine establishment called Antonio's Bar. The air is cool and refreshing. The countryside is beautiful, bucolic, and I´ve been taking nice runs around the nearby lake.

Photo courtesy of Sarah, of Love and Paella fame.

Plus the flesh-eating animals have shaved about 8 minutes off my running time.


Thinking positive.

Dinner is served

A while back my friend and incredible blogger Sarah did two really funny articles on Stuff Americans Like and Stuff Europeans Like. One of the insightful entries under Stuff Europeans Like is "Eating the Whole Animal." Given the ready availability of boiled pig blood, stomach, chicken feet, and other internal bits, this is a very true observation.

This evening I walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Eugenia, my roommate, was cooking something on the stove. What's for dinner?

Sesos.

Pig brains. Mixed with eggs.

Dinner is served.

A few good reasons to shop at Atarazanas market

Almudejar style entrance to the market.
Photo credit: malaga.eu.

The Atarazanas market in the center of Málaga is one of those classic Euro markets that you see in movies. Produce hanging on every corner of the stalls, pot bellied men smoking cigarettes while hacking at blood red bluefin tuna (no joke, saw a fishmonger smoking while cutting a tuna, health code violation!), cow brains being chopped up for eager old ladies who comment on the meat selection like it's Champions League. It's more than a place to buy garlic, it's an experience.

Photo credit: mercadoatarazanas.com

Last week I popped in to buy a zucchini and some queso fresco to make lasagna and thoroughly enjoyed my twenty minute meander around the place. I offer below, for your reading enjoyment, a few reasons why you might want to have a look around, maybe pick up some non-ashy tuna.

1. Free herbs: Buy a bunch of produce, get a bunch of parsley or mint for free. Deal.

2. Free molluscs: I caught a stowaway on my tomatoes the other day.

 This guy was lucky that the Cordobesas weren't
around, they do love them some snails.

3. Fresh fish: The seafood selection is top notch. There are huge bins of octopus, sardines grouped into various sizes, monkfish, cod, navajas, mussels, and other marine life. Many fish are in that Tony Bourdain-approved state of rigur mortus, with their bodies arched like acrobats. As far as I know, this is the best place to get seafood in the city. 

4. Fresh produce: All oranges have leaves and stems on them, all bananas are slightly green, no tomatoes have spots, all potatoes have dirt on them. Make sure they give you the fresh stuff when you tell them what you want, otherwise you´ll get saddled with the mushy avocados they keep in the back.

5. Fresh men: An average stroll through the market by a 20-something blonde yields more catcalls per worker than construction sites. I'll just have the lettuce, thanks, hold the whistles.

Rain drops keep fallin' on my head

Over Easter vacation my friends Jackie, Eric, and I decided to go for a low-cost, high-beach vacation in the Algarve, Portugal's southern-most province and their version of Andalucía. I love Portugal. Last year's vacation launched the tiny country into my number one destination in Western Europe, mostly due a critical combination of food, Sagres Preta beer, EU debt, lack of tourists, castles, pastry, falling down historical buildings, scenery, crazy driving, and the possibility of getting bread with chorizo baked inside at any hour of the day. I was excited to spend a few days relaxing on the beach. Yes, I know Málaga has a beach, but the dirty, waveless paddling beach of the city is little comparison for the windswept, Atlantic surf-pounded, relatively-empty beaches of Portugal. I like a beach with caves and the possibility of body surfing for hours.

Looming over our trip, however, was the forecast of a week of rain. Rain. On our beach vacation. We were apprehensive.

On Monday I set out for Sevilla, as our bus left the next day at 7 a.m. Upon arrival, Jackie and Eric met me in Santa Justa station and we walked through the crowded streets of semana santa revelers to Eric's house. That evening we went to dinner at Luna's house, one of Eric's friends, who lives in Triana. Eric's friends all seem to be some sort of artist, as he met most of them through his roommates, who are in theater or drama or dance school. It's a creative household.

La bien pagá sung by a Frenchwoman.

On the way back from dinner we saw a semana santa procession proceeding over the Triana bridge. The thrones are much smaller in Sevilla than they are in Málaga. However, this cofradía had the maximum number of nazarenos (KKK-hatted people) with them, and it was an impressive production.

We set out for Portugal and arrived in Portimão on Tuesday afternoon and went to our hostel. It was sunny. We had a bargain lunch of quiche (so cheap in non-touristy parts of Portugal!) and then put on our suits and headed to Praia da Rocha, the beach famous for its rock structures.

We promptly fell asleep on the beach. That night it clouded over. We stopped at a restaurant on the main plaza to fortify ourselves with some crisp vinho verde from the north before heading to a restaurant, where we ate grilled fish with boiled potatoes, washed down with a liter of house "aka shitty boxed" wine.

The next night was the final of the Copa del Rey, Spain's soccer championship. Like normal, it pitted F.C. Barcelona against Real Madrid, (a matchup called El Clasico, which is like civil war in Spain). We walked into a bar and asked if they would be playing the game, as the Portuguese league had a match that night too. The man looked at us with that distinct "you're not from around here" look and confirmed that they would, indeed, be showing it. We grabbed some seats, some Sagres, and waited for the game to start. By kickoff, we were surrounded completely by a group of Portuguese and African men, yelling and making bets on who would win, talking about Mourihno (Madrid's coach) and Ronaldo (Madríd's forward), both of whom are Portuguese. A small boy who took the chair in front of me decided that we were best friends, and spent the rest of the game staring at that foreign girl. He attempted to explain what offsides was in Portuguese, until he realized that offsides is actually an English word. The game ended after 2 overtime periods, with Ronaldo scoring Madrid's only goal, giving them the cup.

The next day was spitting rain. We had another break and salvaged a few more hours of beach time in a cove that was protected from the wind.

It started pouring, so we went back to the hostel to begin what turned out to be a lot of napping/reading time.

The next day it was stormy. We got back on the bus for a half-hour trip down the coast to Lagos, our next destination. At this point we were looking into turning around and heading for Sevilla, but due to our rusty Portuguese (to say the least) and the fact that the woman at the Plaza de Armas bus station in Sevilla decided that she didn't feel like printing off our return bus tickets, we couldn't manage to change our tickets.

As we got off the bus Jackie called the owner of our second hostel. The confirmation of our reservation did not have directions to the place listed, but said to call the owner, who supposedly spoke English and could come get us. Jackie got out her phone. The conversation went something like this:

"Hi, my name's Jackie and we have a reser....yes....ye........yes...."
Jackie stops smiling.
"Yes, for tonight, for thre..........."
Jackie's face gets serious.
"Yes, we are at the bu........bus..........yes, the bus sta.....ok...."
Jackie looks confused.
"The bus station. And what does your car look like so we know wha.......ok.....gree.......green Foc...ok...."
Jackie is frowning. Jackie shifts her weight.
"Ok, gre.....ok...."
Jackie hangs up.
"This woman is coming to pick us up. She has a green Ford Focus. She talks a lot."

The woman, who was the owner of our guesthouse, was very sweet to come pick us up at the station. Especially because we didn't know where we were going and it was raining. Shortly we saw a car approach and she jumped out, energy overflowing. The talking started. The talking continued. The talking didn't stop.

She learned English from working with tourists over the years and in the short ride to the apartment she told us about the town, where she came from, how her day was, her kids, the Portuguese identity cards, etc. It was a mix of English and Portuguese. When we walked up to the guesthouse she explained in detail our room, the apartment, the view, the weather, the towels, the bathroom, the guestbook, the beach, her trip to Tunisia, the process of bartering, the types of tourists she gets, where things are on the map, a good restaurant to eat fish, where the grocery is, what she would do later that day, and so much more!

On her way out, after about 40 minutes, someone dropped a vale. She turned.
"Hablas español?" she asked, eyeing us. 
"Pues sí, trabajamos en España..."
"Ah! Well I have many Spanish tourists and my granddaughter speaks English and she learns in school and my daughter also speaks a lot and this one time my granddaughter was here and...."

After another 15 minutes we shut the door, sat down, and reveled in the silence. Any thoughts of going home early were dashed, thinking of the time that would be invested in explaining that we were leaving.

It was rainy, so we hunkered down and read and napped for a while. The view from the apartment was gorgeous, and for our own apartment, the price was supercheap.

We spent our time in touristy Lagos moving from café to restaurant to bar. When there is not much else to do than go to the beach, one becomes very attentive to the next meal. And alcohol consumption goes up.

We took a boat ride on our last day to see the grottos around Lagos. They're beautiful rock formations that have been worn away by the sea.

Our last night we ate at a fish restaurant recommended enthusiastically by our host. It was delicious. Eric and Jackie confirmed that it was reminiscent of a Wisconsin fish fry, which I have never been to, but can imagine. It was a giant hall filled with people eating fish. It was great.

The next day we made our way back on the six hour bus to Sevilla and I left for Málaga later that day. The rain was a bummer, but it was a good trip with Jackie and Eric. If you have the chance to get to Portugal, do so. You won´t be disappointed.

Torrijas: Part one in an occasional series of recipes

Spain has awesome food. Lacking in the spicy department, but excelling in pretty much every other department. Stealing an idea from Bradley, I will be unveiling a new occasional series of recipes.

This recipe, torrijas, is traditionally eaten around Semana Santa time. Pay close attention, it may ring a bell.

La merca also sells ready-to-torrijar bread.

Torrijas

1 loaf of day-old bread, cut into thick slices
Half a liter of milk
Cinnamon
2 eggs
sugar
olive oil

Mix in a shallow bowl the milk and cinnamon, adding as much as you like. In another shallow bowl, beat the 2 eggs. Heat a good amount of olive oil over medium-high heat until it begins to smoke a bit and smell like olives. Soak a slice of bread in the milk until it's dripping but not totally soaked. Dip in  egg, coating each side. Fry for a few minutes on each side until golden-brown. Add sugar. 

Serve hot or cold.

This may sound very familiar. It is. It's essentially...

FRENCH TOAST!!!!

But with olive oil instead of butter, whose life or death battle will be the subject of my next entry.

Feliz Semana Santa!

Spring weekend: Part three in an occasional series about how much I love my life

The winter weather has broken, which meant the weekend looked something like this:

Azahar, or orange blossoms. Their perfumes is over the whole city.

El Pimpi.

La Malagueta.

Calamaritos fritos.

Espetos de sardinas, a Málaga tradition.

Rosado a la brasa.

Same fish, 15 minutes later.

It's hard to believe I live here sometimes.