Spain. Part 2

The butcher and his wife

We stayed in a renovated 18^th century house about two hours north of Barcelona. The downstairs was all arches and walls of brick and stone and it is where owners of old used to keep their animals. In the mornings, we were woken by birdsong so loud it almost felt like we were sleeping in trees. The swallows swooped up and down the street all day long and the fattest sparrows ever nested in the building facades.

We were surrounded by fields of glorious golden wheat, wild poppies, apples, corn and olives. Gravel roads cut through the fields encouraging a slow amble from one tiny town to another. (Ignore the veal cows. Ignore the veal cows. Ignore the veal cows.) In the distance, we could see the Pyrenees, all blue and strong. (The house was restored and is owned by an American expat and his charming Irish wife.) The coast, with long sandy beaches, was three miles away.

There was one restaurant and one little grocery store, where when we bought a chicken the head and feet were stuck in the bag too. So not Publix. The owner made his own sarchichas and the wife was always kind in offering cooking tips, history lessons and directions to local parks para la niña. Though half the time I didn’t understand what they were saying (damn my Catalan), it was a highlight of the trip to visit with these two people. I regret we did not accept their invitation to go country line-dancing. Yes, you read me right. Line dancing in the Spanish boonies. How I regret not going, but the party didn’t get started until sometime between 10 p.m. and midnight. Me in jammies then, even in hard-partying Spain.

Another highlight of boonie living Spanish-style was going to the produce markets to buy gigantic peppers, olives made in heaven, and fat fava beans.

One day, I bought fava beans from a lady who gladly gave me her recipe for fabada. She told me to walk over to the butcher for the chorizo. When I told the butcher I needed enough sausage for a fabada, he told me I needed three different kinds and then he gave me his recipe. But, then he told me to forget what he said and called his wife over. She gave me her recipe. How much water to add, no oil, just a little salt and let this last bit of chorizo just melt into the beans, she instructed. Then, a guy tapped me on the shoulder and told me to add more water than the butcher’s wife suggested. When that guy walked away, the butcher’s wife said no way, don’t put too much water in. She waved a big knife around the whole time.

Well, my fabada was OK. Who knows if I followed the instructions correctly, as I surely missed some words. Our friends ate it. I ate it. It didn’t look like any pictures I’ve recently googled. More than the taste, I loved the experience. That slice of life might just be one of the coolest shopping moments of my life.

And guess what I have in my fridge? Fava beans scored at the local and wacky Hispanic/Asian grocery. I even bought a piece of chorizo in pig casing, something the inside of our fridge never has seen.

Travel makes me brave.

I will be very happy with my Tennessee fabada, for sure…but really, what I most want is some state-side condensed milk in a squeeze tube.