Saturday, November 27, 2010

A Better Bocadillo?

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 9!


After skyping our families and eating hamburgers for dinner on Thanksgiving, I went out to meet a woman Alec’s cousin Lisa wanted me to meet.  Graciela was born in Argentina, raised in Spain, and has lived in England, the Netherlands, and Italy.  She got her PhD in sociology in Italy and then became an academic.  But she got bored after awhile and wanted to return to Spain, so she moved to Barcelona, where her brother lives, and opened a fresh pasta shop with her sister-in-law last winter.  There is something innately fascinating to me about someone who invests all of that time in getting a PhD, becomes an academic—and likes it—and one day simply moves on.  She’s continued to do some writing, and just published a book about organ donation.  Lisa’s husband Jaume, who is an architect, designed the shop, which is called Taller de Pasta.  It is gorgeous—white marble, butcher block counters, and chrome—and smells like heaven.  Lisa and I met her there shortly before the shop closed at 9 pm on and spent a couple of pleasant hours over beers at a bar down the street called Dow Jones.

When I arrived back home just before midnight, the lights were all on and laundry was strewn about in various stages of clean-and dirti-ness.  I think I’ve made it clear already that Alec, for the most part, does not do laundry.  Certainly not late at night.  Turns out Milo had a bad reaction to the medication he got for his throat infection, and projectile vomited all over his room.  Alec was in the process of washing pajamas, sheets, mattress pad, bedspread, rug…  Milo was doing better by the time I returned home, but wide awake, so I changed places with Alec and lay with him until about 2 am, when he finally fell asleep. The night was too short.

                                                    *                 *                 *

Despite my overall—and I think temporary—fatigue with Spanish food, this week I’ve had a craving for jamon to beat the band.  I think it all started in my Spanish class.  We were talking about how to say “acorn”—the word is bellota—which of course led to jamon because the pata negra, the best pig for ham, eats only acorns.  This diet lends a nutty richness to the meat.  It is indescribably good.

I went to the Hospital Sant Pau tour on Thursday, which ran longer than I expected, so I had to hurry to get to my next appointment.  I never, ever skip a meal.  I was hungy, and I wanted jamon.  On my way to the metro, I ducked into a nondescript little bakery and asked if they had a bocadillo with jamon iberico.  The woman said she could make me one right then and there.  I took it out on the street and simply could not wait to get to my office to eat it.  My mouth was watering with the mere thought of it sitting there in my bag.  So I unwrapped it and began to eat it as I walked.  Eating on the street is simply not done in Barcelona, so I avoided all eye contact and focused on how good the jamon tasted.  The sandwich embodied simple perfection.  Fresh crusty bread smeared with tomato, and salty, rich ham.  That’s all.  No lettuce, mayo, mustard, cheese.  Bocadillos here consist of a baguette type of bread, split and with something in the middle—meat, cheese, tortilla, but never more than one of those things.  In fact, I’d never had one with the tomato. To me, it was genius. This sandwich hit the spot like you cannot imagine.

The next day—Friday—I went to the market to buy the fixings for our Thanksgiving feast.  I’ll tell you one thing—it’s a hell of a lot different buying supplies for two people (the kids won’t eat most of what we cook) than it is buying for twenty.  Which bodes well for the cooking and clean up as well.  I got our turkey from Mari, the chicken lady (see below) and decided to get some jamon to take home from Henrik, our deli man. 

Jamon comes in a range of grades, for a corresponding range of prices.  I decided that, if I was to embark on a jamon journey, I’d start near the bottom and bought a quarter kilo of pernil Salamanca, sliced.  I had already bought tomatoes, and stocked up on baguettes—for stuffing and sandwiches from Paul, the bakery where we buy bread.  Paul is a French bakery. The brioche and croissants are buttery, and the baguettes are crisp and clean.  I have not been too impressed with Spanish bread.  I’ve been told that many bakeries use lard in their bread and this makes sense to me because sometimes you get some bread that tastes, well… it tastes a bit porky.  I love pork, but I do not want my bread to taste of it.

When I got home, I checked the New Spanish Table to see how Von Bremzen makes her tomato bread, and I used her formula.  Split the baguette, drizzle with good olive oil and rub with garlic.  Put it under the broiler until it starts to get toasty.  Take it out, and rub/squeeze a halved tomato—it needs to be ripe and juicy—on each side.  On top of one side I layered several slices of my jamon, topped it with the other side, and sat down at the kitchen table.  I am hesitant to put this in writing, but I think I’ve improved on a classic.  Have you ever seen that Bobby Flay show called Throw Down in which he travels around the country taking on the best of the classic food makers?  Muffalettas in New Orleans, chicken and waffles in Harlem, barbecue in Texas?  I didn’t do much to this humble bocadillo, but it rocked.



Mari with our turkey.  Below, mushrooms "without worms, without sand."  Just how I like them!

Friday, November 26, 2010

Lousy

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 9


Last week our kids’ school emailed us a letter with the following subject line:  “Kindergarten Lice/Piojos.”  Well, this wasn’t the first I’d heard about lice at the school, and not only in kindergarten.  I knew of 1st and 2nd grade cases as well, which means it’s probably a downright infestation.  As with mice, if you see one, you know there are more where he came from.

As I read the email sitting at the dining room table, I began to sputter, to no one in particular: “They want us to check our kids ourselves!  Isn’t that what they have a nurse for?  Isn’t this why we are paying private school tuition?  Why don’t they check the kids at school?”  C.C., who was in the middle of playing a game with Milo, said, “I got checked in my classroom.”  “Me, too,”  Milo put in.  “You did?  Did they find anything?  Why didn’t you tell me?”  My head started to itch.

Alec and I do not conform to many gender stereotypes, but when it comes to rodents and parasites that live on your body, I turn into a total girl.  I am the one shrieking on top of the bed, hyperventilating and scratching in odd places.  So of course, I delegated lice duty to Alec.  He had, after all, worked for several summers as a camp counselor and so had some relevant experience. 

Two of my friend Karen’s kids have had it this year already.  It’s a real pain in the neck if you get them.  You have to wash all of the linens and the kids’ stuffed animals in hot water, and keep combing and combing for the nits—which are the lice eggs. 

Being away for the whole bedbug drama in New York City had made me feel as if I’d gotten over, and now this.

Now, I know lice are common.   I have received similar letters from my kids’ schools—public and private—in Brooklyn.  But in Brooklyn everyone just takes their kid to Abigail Rosenfeld, aka “the Lice Lady,” and she takes care of it. There is no Lice Lady in Barcelona.  It’s every parent for herself.

“We need one of those special combs,” I told Alec.  He came home with the special comb and some spray stuff called Repelice.  Alec is convinced that it’s snake oil but bought it to get me to pipe down.

That night, everyone got a hair wash, after which Alec inspected us all with the comb.  “Are you sure you know what you’re looking for?” I ask.  “I’m going to look on the internet to make sure you know what they look like.”  I move toward my laptop, but Alec stops me.  “Don’t do it,” he says.  “You’ll just get grossed out with those pictures.   Trust me.”  I heed his advice, imagining my dreamspace filled with giant lice. 

“Did you ever think about the word ‘lousy’?” I asked him.  “It comes from being full of lice.”

“Huh. Are you sure?”

I do a quick search on google.  Here’s what podictionary.com says:

“Originally in 1377 something that was lousy was infested with lice.  The word lice in turn comes from Old English and can be found way back to circa 725.” 

So things have been lousy for a very long time.  And the word “louse”?  Dictionary.com gives the slang definition as:  “a contemptible person, especially an unethical one.”

These are creatures you do not want living on your body.

Even nitpicker, the person who tries to rid you of the lice, has a negative connotation:  “someone who makes small and unjustified criticisms.”

One day last week I brought the kids to the school library after school for some extra books.  As we descended the stairs from the library floor to the ground floor, we could see down to the nurse’s little cubicle.  She was cleaning a big bowl of lice combs.  “Look!”  C.C. cried out.  “There are the nitpickers!”  Eew.

Humans have the unfortunate distinction of hosting two different kinds of lice—head lice and pubic lice.  This is because we have two entirely separate hairy zones.  Take that fact to your next cocktail party, especially if you are near the shrimp table, and you are sure to get clear access to all the shrimp you can eat.

In the end, we all came out clean.  We sprayed the kids’ hair with Repelice the next morning before school and it made their hair look greasy and stringy, as though we hadn’t washed them for a week.  I’ll take the tradeoff, if it works. 

Photo of the Day

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Not quite Thanksgiving

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 9


I woke up this morning and thought about all of the turkeys sitting in all of the refrigerators back home in the US.  By now they are probably getting stuffed and put into ovens.  I miss the smell of morning sticky buns, butter, sage, and cooking meat.  Normally Alec and I cook for a large and fluid group of friends and family in Asbury Park on this day.  I love Thanksgiving.  In fact, it’s my favorite holiday.  No gifts to buy, no religion that includes some and excludes others.  Just gratitude and good food.  What could be better?

As the holiday approached us here in Barcelona, we weren’t sure what to do.  The kids have school, and our offices were open.  I didn’t feel up to hosting a large dinner.  Somehow the things that seem easy back home—throwing a child’s birthday party, cooking Thanksgiving dinner—still feel a little overwhelming here.  Alec and I talked about it and asked the kids what they thought.  They still have fuzzy concepts of time, and didn’t seem to feel strongly one way or the other.  “Maybe we should just skip it,” I said.  “Or maybe someone will invite us.” But then, as the holiday approached, I began to feel more and more that I wanted to celebrate it, even in a scaled down way.  I told Alec, and he felt fine with it.  We asked our chicken lady, Mari, if she could get us a turkey.  She can.  We thought about whether to invite anyone, and decided to invite the other two families at the university who are here for a year—one American family, and one British.  Turns out they can’t come.

But no matter.  We’ll be cooking our bird on Sunday, along with a local wild mushroom stuffing, green beans with walnuts and dried cherries, and potatoes Anna, which I have not made in years but have had a hankering for lately.  I think I’ll make a pear ginger crisp for dessert.  It’s impossible to find fresh cranberries here.  I thought about smuggling some in on my way back from the states last month, but figured I’d surely get busted by one of those suitcase sniffing beagles the Department of Agriculture uses (see below).  But last week, during my brownie mix quest, I found some cans of Ocean Spray cranberries—sauce AND jelly—at the Deli Shop.  So I picked up a can of the sauce.  It’ll be good on leftover turkey sandwiches.  And it’s a good thing I bought it when I saw it, because one of the PTA ladies told me she went this week, and it was all gone. So the Brownie Debacle was good for something.

Meanwhile, young Milo is down for the count.  Alec picked him up from school yesterday and he did not want to go to soccer.  Milo always wants to go to soccer.  He fell asleep in the car and, excepting the transfer to his bed and our waking him up to have some Tylenol and get his PJs on before we went to bed, he slept until 7 am today.  I spent 3 hours with him today at the clinic, waiting for doctors and test results.  They tested his blood for mono, and he was a real trooper when they stuck that needle into him.  Luckily, the test was negative, but he does have a throat and ear infection.  He went right to bed and fell asleep almost two hours ago.  Hopefully he will be right as rain by the time our turkey is cooked, on Sunday.

I miss my family today, all of whom are gathered at Jody, Matt and Zadie’s house.  I know it will be full of good smells and tasty food, and a lot of love.  Hoping we are all together next year!

 

Photos of the Day

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

My new look

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 9


The best thing about today was that I got to wear a hard hat.  And a bright orange vest.  I don’t know about you, but I find that fancy headgear enhances almost any experience. 

A few weeks ago, I joined a group called the Barcelona Women’s Network.  BWN is a group of over 250 women from more than 30 countries.  They organize monthly excursions and coffee mornings and, like most women’s groups, engage in good works.  The only common denominator is that everyone there speaks English or wants to.  Now, I am typically more of a lone wolf than a joiner, but I had heard good things about this group and wanted to expand the group of people I know beyond the kids’ school and the university.  So I went to a coffee morning and checked it out.  It took place in a very large room at the top of the Institute for North American Studies and, when I opened the door, I was almost bowled over by the noise of more than a hundred women of all ages, chatting away.  They had brought baked goods, of course.  Despite my initial paralysis, I was hustled into the room and cheerfully welcomed by several nicely dressed mother hen types.  It had a bit of a junior league feel to it, but I decided to stick it out and meet three new people.  One, whose name I cannot remember, was French but moved to Barcelona many years ago after marrying a Spaniard.  I met Francesca, a spunky woman in her 70s, at the pastry table.  We were both about to take the last item on a plate.  I told her to go ahead and eat it, but she refused, demanding that we play Rock, Paper, Scissors instead to determine who would get the last pastry.  I won.  I liked Francesca immediately.  I think we could be buddies.

And then, in the sea of sweater sets and tasteful scarves, I spied a woman with dyed red hair, an embroidered denim skirt and funky jewelry.   She looked like someone I might see in Prospect Heights, in Brooklyn.  I made a beeline and introduced myself.  Isabela, who is British and has lived here for about eight years, is in the middle of a 3 year program in which she is learning to analyze people’s feet to determine what’s wrong with them.  She needs practice, she told me, and asked me if I’d like a foot analysis some time.  Then the ladies in charge asked us all to sit down and listen to a presentation.  “Here comes the boring part,” Isabela said, rolling her eyes, and I felt I might have met a kindred spirit. 

So back to the hard hat.  At the coffee hour, I signed up for a trip to the Hospital Sant Pau.  I’d heard that it was an impressive building and thought it would be a good way for me to meet some new people and also learn more about Barcelona.  Today was the day for the tour.  The buildings, in the upper part of the Eixample, were built just after the turn of the 20th century.  It is an amazing example of Art Nouveau architecture—a bit chaotic what with the references to nature, the religious symbolism, and the repeated Catalan motifs, but worth seeing.  Originally planned to consist of 48 buildings, 22 were ultimately built. As with most ambitious architectural projects, the money ran out before the plans were completed.  The building was designed by Domenich i Muntaner (so that’s where the name of that street comes from!) who also designed the Palau de la Musica Catalana.  It operated as a hospital until about a year ago and is currently being restored—hence, the hard hats.

I’m glad I went.  It’s been one of my goals to get to know this city really well, and I’ve got to get busy!  Isabel the foot analyst also sent me an email.  She wants to meet me for some stand-up comedy.

Photos of the Day


Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Something Spicy Please!


I need a break from Spanish food.  If you read this blog even irregularly, you know that I have jumped into Spanish food and cooking with both feet, submerged myself in pork and paprika, cabrales and tetilla.  But about a week ago, I realized quite suddenly that I needed a change.  My mouth wanted lime, chile, salt, a good lasagne.  I have always gravitated to hit-you-over-the-head flavors.  Subtlety is lost on me when it comes to food.  It is a common misperception that Spanish food is spicy.  It’s not.

Fortunately, a friend had just told me about Supermarket Extremo Oriente, an Asian market, and I happened to be in the neighborhood last Thursday.  The market carries pretty much everything you might need to cook any kind of Asian food—Thai, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, Vietnamese.  I bought as much as I could carry—lemongrass and Thai basil, mint, coconut milk, chili garlic paste, sriracha, fish sauce….  I went a little crazy, but my heart was filled with joy.  I always feel better when my cupboards and fridge are full.  And somehow having these Asian ingredients, which I usually have on hand in Brooklyn, helped fill a culinary hole in my life here.

What with all of the fresh herbs and chilies I had bought—mint, basil, cilantro, lemongrass—I had to get busy.  Friday night I made a terrific curry noodle soup with sweet potatoes and chicken.  And Sunday I cooked a flank steak that had been marinated in a paste of lemongrass, lime, garlic, and chilies, and sliced it atop a noodle salad full of the fresh herbs.  On Saturday and Monday I ate Mexican food, and tonight I’m cooking lemon pepper chicken, and roasted cauliflower with curry, lemon and cilantro.

I have fragrant lemongrass, and the most beautiful little red chilies in my freezer now, and all is right with the world.

Monday, November 22, 2010

And then there were three...

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 9


On Saturday, we celebrated Milo’s birthday—the third and final event—at the Barcelona Zoo.  We had initially given him the choice of inviting just a few friends or his entire class.  He was very clear that he wanted a small party, but then would come home from school each day saying, “I’d like to invite Mario, too.  And Daniela C.”  Until there were only three kids who were not invited, at which point we told him he needed to invite everyone.  Kindergartners talk about these things, you know, and we didn’t want anyone to feel left out.  When all was said and done, we had 17 kids—Milo, C.C., most of Milo’s class, and a couple of siblings.

I felt extremely grateful that we had decided to put the whole shebang into the hands of a third party.  We have done every other birthday for our kids at our own house, and in recent years the decibel level has become deafening, the wake of destruction left post-party, truly awesome.  I tend to the arts and crafts, and the food, while Alec takes care of the entertainment.  In fact, he is the entertainment.  He has orchestrated “Walk the Plank” at the Pirate Party, “Pin the horn on the triceratops” at the dinosaur party, and countless other activities.  Neither one of us felt the least bit sorry about having outsourced ourselves.  In fact, we had so completely let go of the whole thing that we completely forgot to put together goody bags for the kids.  I don’t think anyone noticed.

Even thought the day ended up being chilly with intermittent rain, the kids had a blast.  They made animal masks and then went out to one of the restaurant pavilions for sandwiches and cake—Milo had “Happy Birthday” sung to him in English, Spanish, Dutch, and Hebrew.  When we got to the lunch tables, we found two other birthday parties in progress.  It felt a little bit like those wedding factories out on Long Island, where they assure you you won’t see the other brides on your big day, but of course you do.  Milo didn’t seem to care.

After lunch, we all headed off to the dolphin show.  The kids got seats right up front, in the Splash Zone, and Milo got to go up onstage with the other celebrants to touch the dolphins and brush their teeth (see Video of the Week).  He loved it. 

Then we took a long walk around the zoo to visit Milo’s favorite animals—the hippos, the spider monkeys—dipping into the reptile area when it started to rain harder.  One kid wanted to go home, so Alec carried him for the rest of the party.  Another said her legs really hurt, so I ended up carrying her here and there, with breaks to rest my back.  But all in all it was a big success.

One of the practices at the kids’ school that I hope to bring home is that the kids contribute a small amount of money for one big present instead of everyone bringing their own gift.  It’s good for the birthday parents because you don’t end up with a pile of clutter.  And it’s good for the guests’ parents because they don’t have to race around buying and wrapping gifts every weekend.  Milo got a bike—fire engine red with flames on it.  Very cool.

After the party, Alec and C.C. went off to get C.C. a new fish, and I took Milo out on his new bike, to rent some videos for the rest of the weekend.  Alec and I had been invited to go out to dinner with another couple and we were very excited not only to be going out, but also to be going out with people over four feet tall whose palates stretch behind spaghetti and pizza.  In fact, we were going for Mexican food, which also made us happy.  We have been craving spice and tang.

Alec and C.C. had not yet returned when our canguro, Andrea, showed up.  She often brings one or both of her daughters when she babysits.  Jennifer, 10, is sparkly and smart, and very kind to our kids.  Yasmin, 5, is a bit of a minx, but of the endearing variety.  I ushered them in, and Jennifer presented me with a paper bag—a gift, she said.  It was squishy.  I opened the bag and found… a fish!  “Of course,” I thought.  Andrea the canguro is Sulma the house cleaner’s sister.  Sulma found Cyclone’s dead carcass and had told Andrea.  Too sweet.

Not 15 minutes later, C.C. returned home with the fish she had picked out.  So now we have three. Cyclone, Carolina—named by Jennifer, and C.C.’s fish, who has yet to be named.

And we had a lovely dinner in Gracia—good company, yummy food, a nice walk home.  It’s been a long time since I had three margaritas at one sitting and, although my head felt a little cottony on Sunday, I think it did me some good.

Photos of the Day