A Catalan Christmas

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

I think it’s high time y’all learned about Christmas in Catalunya.  I can tell you about it, but I cannot explain it fully.  Poop plays a pretty big role in the holidays here; in fact, it’s ubiquitous.  First off, it’s quite common to have a crèche as part of one’s holiday decorations, a nativity scene that includes all of the usual suspects—kings, shepherds, wise men, the whole nine.  But here in Catalunya, the scene also contains a special guest—the caganer.  Caganer basically means “pooper” in catalan.  Traditionally, the caganer is a figure of a peasant who crouches, pants down, somewhere in the scene, a big duty right under his butt (all of the traditional caganers I’ve seen are male).  As far as I’ve been able to gather, the caganer brings good luck.  Why poop?  Well, given that the traditional ones are farmers, it has something to do with the cycle of life—eating what comes from the earth and then the waste returning to the earth.

The plaza in front of Barcelona’s town hall is home to a very large crèche—everyone says you have to go and see it.  When John and I went the other day, a tinny version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” warbled from a set of ancient speakers.  In 2005,  controversy about the appropriateness of the caganer caused it to be ousted from the city nativity scene—Barcelona had recently launched a campaign against public defecation and urination, and I guess having the caganer there in the city hall plaza seemed a bit hypocritical.  Many Catalans viewed his removal as an affront to Catalan traditions, and a “Save the Caganer” campaign was launched, resulting in the return of the caganer in 2006.  I walked around the nativity scene in order to find him and, sure enough there he was (see photo below).

John and I walked from the plaza to the Christmas market in front of the cathedral.  Vendors there sell fresh greens and poinsettas, nativity scene components, and crafts.  If you have a crèche at home, you are likely to buy the pieces individually rather than an entire set.  This allows you to pick out the specific Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, etc. that you want.  And, of course, the caganer.

Entire kiosks in the market sell nothing but caganers, and these days you can buy not only the traditional peasants, but also figurines of famous people assuming the traditional caganer pose.  “Look!” I said to John who, in another lifetime, went to seminary, “you can buy a pooping Pope!”  “Where?” he asked.  “Right between Hilary Clinton and Sarkozy,” I replied, pointing.  He declined.  We found Obama, Spiderman, the Dalai Lama, and several star soccer players.  See the photo of Queen Elizabeth, below; those things that look like chocolate donuts under her butt are poop.

The origins of the caganer, and of the practice of placing him in the nativity scene, are unclear.  Some say it represents fertilization of the earth.  Others say that Jesus is God manifest in human form, and there’s nothing like a little shit to remind us all of our humanity.  Yet another interpretation maintains that it’s about equality—no matter what your race, color, or creed—you poop just like everyone else.

The second important poop-related Christmas tradition is the Caga Tio, which means “poop log.”  These little oddities are logs dressed up with faces and hats (see the display of them at the market, below).   Starting December 8 and until Christmas, the children of the house are supposed to take care of the caga tio, covering it with a blanket each night and giving it something to eat each day.  When you buy one, you also get a stick and, on Christmas Day, the children beat the log with the stick while singing the following song:

caga tió, caga torró, avellanes i mató, si no cagues bé et daré un cop de bastó. caga tió!"

poop log, poop turrón, hazelnuts and cottage cheese, if you don't poop well, I'll hit you with a stick, poop log!

giving log, give us treats, give us sweets! if you don't want to give, I'll hit you with a stick, give it up!

An alternate version goes something like this:

caga tió, tió de Nadal, no caguis arengades, que són massa salades caga torrons que són més bons!"

poop log, log of Christmas, don't poop herrings, which are too salty, poop turrón which is much better!

log, log, giving log, don't give us herrings, they are too salty, give us treats, give us sweets!

The stick-beating is supposed to get the log to poop out presents.  The CT does not poop out large presents (those are brought either by the wise men or by Papa Noel), but rather nuts, candies, sometimes dried figs.  The denouement happens when the Caga Tio poops out a salt herring, a head of garlic, an onion or "urinates".   I guess it’s something like the grand finale at the July 4 fireworks.

Milo checked our Caga Tio this morning just to make sure there weren’t any gifts yet.  There were not.

We asked a Catalan friend about the proliferation of poop here at holidy time; she just shrugged and said, “Well, Catalans are a rather scatological bunch.” In fact, Wikipedia tells us that one popular Catalan phrase before eating says "menja bé, caga fort i no tinguis por a la mort!" (Eat well, shit strong and don't be afraid of death!).  Indeed.

I swear to you that every word of this entry is true; I could not make this up.  And, if you promise to care for and then beat you Caga Tio and sing to it on Christmas Day, I’ll express mail you one so that you don’t miss out on the fun.

PS--the photos below are courtesy of John Green

Photos of the Day

Good Friends and Persimmons

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

Our friend John Green arrived this morning from frozen New York City.  You know someone is a good friend when they have only two nights to spend in Barcelona and they opt to spend one of them going to your children’s holiday concert.  Rumor has it that last year’s concert started way late and ran more than three hours.  But there is a new music teacher this year, and we were promised that it wouldn’t go longer than an hour and a half.  Still, I call this loyalty.

I figured the least I could do is feed him well before and after.  Last night I whipped up a tortilla and my first experiment with the persimmons—some lemon-glazed persimmon bars.  I had also gone to the market to buy a few good cheeses, membrillo and some quality jamon.  A green salad, and dinner prep was done.

Alec’s reaction to my declaration that I intended to embark on a persimmon adventure was less than excited.  His description of the fruit?  Mushy, bland and viscous.  I bought some at the market—they are called palo santos here—but they did not look exactly like the ones I’ve seen in New York.  I did a bit of research and found that there are two kinds of persimmon—fujis and hachiyas.  Fujis are the squat, harder variety that I’d seen before coming here.  Hachiyas have a more elongated shape and thin-skinned; when ripe they seem almost to glow from the inside.  The persimmons I’ve found here are hachiyas.  They are very soft, and very sweet.    When I got mine home, I opened one up and scooped some out—very soft and very sweet.  Not my favorite fruit.

So I searched around for recipes, and found the persimmon bar one on Epicurious, rated four forks.  You scoop out the persimmon pulp and press it through a strainer, then mix it with flour, egg, sugar, clove, cinnamon, nutmeg, lemon, and finely chopped dates and nuts.  After you bake that part and let it cool, you make a simple glaze of lemon juice and zest, and confectioner’s sugar and spread it over the top.  The result?  Really tasty, but the persimmon flavor doesn’t really jump out at you.  The color, combined with the spices and nuts, made Alec think pumpkin more than persimmon.   I’d make them again, but I also want to do some more experimenting while they’re still around.  I’ve passed a few trees that are leafless and heavy with ripe fruit.

And the kids’ concert was lovely—I will post videos and photos soon.  I got C.C. to wear a dress by telling her it was a tunic, just like the ones knights wear.  Milo wore real shoes, not sneakers.  And their renditions of Jingle Bells (Milo) and a Spanish lullaby (C.C.) were really sweet.  John snoozed in the audience, and the concert was over in under an hour, which I think must be some kind of record.  We stopped at Foix—a fabulous bakery in Sarria—on the way home for some baguette, pastry, and a brioche for the morning.  Sat around the table talking and eating for a long time, catching up with a good friend.

Photos of the Day

Persimmons on a tree in France, and at our local market

Santa comes early

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

The first part of our drive to the kids’ school is a long, straight shot up Balmes, to the Avinguda Tibidabo, then a left onto the Ronda de Dalt, from which you get a nice view down to the rest of the city.   Looking out his window this morning, Milo shouted, “Mama!  I see Daddy’s airplane!”  “Really?” I said.  “How do you know it’s his?”  “Because I saw him inside it,” he replied.  Of course.

So Alec arrived back this morning, his suitcase loaded with booty from his trip to New York.  What did he bring back?  Crushed red pepper, aleppo pepper (my sister, Jody got me hooked on it about a year ago and I use it all the time—if you have not tried it, you must), chocolate chips, maple syrup.  Deodorant, my favorite SPF 50 moisturizer that I cannot find here, and the alternatives cost a bloody fortune.  The toy baryonyx and maiosaura (with nest) that C.C. wants for Christmas.  A book on the Mondragon cooperative, and a copy of the Frankie’s Spuntino cookbook (an indulgence, I know, but I could not resist). You’d think we lived in the middle of a desert. 

I was hit by a strange stomach thing yesterday so worked from home all day today, caught up on email, napped, and dove into the new books.  I’ve eaten nothing but brioche toast since yesterday noon, and the everything bagel Alec brought me from New York.  I don’t eat a ton of bagels, even when I’m in New York, but there’s nothing quite like it.  A taste of home.  There is still harissa soup in the fridge, so I think I will test myself with that for dinner.  I’m hungry.

Photo of the Day

Barcelona dresses up for the holidays!

PS--Milo's socks

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

Note that in Milo's goalie picture, he's wearing his human highlighter socks.  He refused to wear the ones that go with his uniform.  I figured that since he is the goalie, it'd be okay for him to have some distinctive socks.  Pink lives on!

Photos of the Day

Milo the portero, and the view from where we parked at school this morning

Soccer and Soup

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

Early on Saturday, Alec left for a few days in the states, so we’ve been a threesome since. Milo played his first ever soccer game on Saturday morning, which Alec was disappointed to miss. His team is part of what they call the mini-champions league, and all of the teams are named after pro teams. Somehow Milo’s team got to be Barça.




It was a gorgeous day—fall-feeling, and the field full of 6-year olds was impossibly cute. Milo is the starting portero, or goalie, mostly I think because he is the only kid who regularly goes to soccer class twice a week. He has completely embraced the role, which is kind of interesting because most kids his age would rather score goals than anything else. He now wants a Victor Valdez jersey for Christmas. Whenever one of the other kids scored, he’d run back the length of the field to high-five Milo and they’d all hug and cheer. I had trouble keeping score—the coach told me the final score was 6 – 6, but Milo swore they won 11 – 8. I guess it doesn’t really matter—they had a great time.



We spent the rest of the afternoon trekking around for shoes and some clothing items suitable for wearing to holiday concerts and other events at which jeans and sneakers won’t cut it. Now that the kids are wearing PE uniforms to school twice a week, I’ve kind of slacked off in the clothing department. I think we are all set now, but walking around the city did us in, so we came home, crashed on the couch, and had pizza and movie night.



Yesterday the kids got up and played, allowing me to sleep in a bit. Milo had an afternoon birthday party to go to, so we all hung out in our pajamas until it was time for him to get ready. I made a big pot of soup inspired by the harissa I bought in the Mauguio market. It’s delicious, and vegetarian and hearty. I highly recommend it. You can find the recipe at Epicurious.com: http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Tunisian-Soup-with-Chard-and-Egg-Noodles-351436.



I read the reviews on the site and heeded some of the advice, using ground cumin, and adding shredded roast chicken and fresh cilantro. Also, check your harissa before you put it in to see how spicy it is. Mine is pretty spicy so I added one tablespoon instead of two. You can always add more at the end if you want more heat.



C.C. and I went for a great hike up in the hills while Milo was at his party—it was warm enough to be walking in our t-shirts, which felt great. Then we picked Milo up and watched the original Horton Hears a Who video, which also features several other Seuss cartoons—much better than the recent Hollywood version. We had a sleepover in my bed last night—something we often do when one of us is out of town—which meant I got jabbed by little elbows and knees all night. To top it off, C.C. insisted on bringing her entire stuffed dinosaur collection, and Milo appeared with Blue Bear (who’s not really blue), Pink Monkey, and a soft baseball. But I didn´t really mind. Whenever I got woken up, I thought about how little time I likely have left during which they will want to snuggle in with me.

Provence, sort of...

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

No, I did not drop off the edge of the world.  We went to France—southern France.  In December.  Not exactly the southern France of the Cannes Film Festival and the Riviera, but at least we had no crowds.

December 6 and 8 are holidays here, and this year they fell on a Monday and Wednesday, so of course everyone took the 7^th off as well, creating another 5 day weekend.  When a holiday falls on a Thursday or Tuesday, and you get the Friday/Monday off as well, it’s called a Puente, or bridge.  When you get two extra days off, it’s called an aqueducto.  I like this practice.  We had no internet access at our French home, so I did not write.  And, even though we returned to Barcelona on Wednesday night, somehow I had gotten out of the blogging groove.  I’m back.

We did a home exchange with a lovely retired couple who live near Montpellier.  Montpellier is not technically part of Provence, but it’s close.  Margareda, who is Swedish, met Alain 40 years ago when she came to France to study the language.  And she never went back.  The house we stayed in used to belong to Alain’s mother.  Situated on a small canal in the village of Mauguio near the sea, it basically functioned as a hunting and fishing cottage.  When she died, Alain and Margareda completely renovated it and now spend time there when they want to get away.   It is small and cozy—painted bright yellow throughout, with a fireplace and local linens on the tables and bed.  The large fenced yard was perfect for the kids, who “fished” in the canal and looked for flamingos and other shore birds.

We are a family that travels on our stomach.  Long ago I stopped feeling guilty for not spending most of my travel time in church after church, obscure museum after obscure museum.  Rather than punctuating our sightseeing with quick stops to refuel, we create our travel agendas around food markets, pastry shops, and restaurants we want to try. 

We left Barcelona around 5 pm on Friday and set off for the 3 ½ hour drive.  We ate our first French meal at a rest area not far over the border and, not surprisingly, it left a lot to be desired.  Even in France, rest stop food is rest stop food.  There were a few notable differences, however.  For example, the plastic flowers for sale in the vending machine (see photo).  And the two grand pianos—one pink—that graced the dining room.  We arrived shortly after 10 pm and met Margareda and Alain on the road near their house so that they could help us find it.  They had stocked the house with wine—red, white, and rose—along with breadfast fixings.  They oriented us to local sites on a map, we gave them our keys, and they were on their way.

On Saturday we drove to Montpellier and, arriving hungry, looked right away for a place to have lunch.  We found one that claimed to be good for families in our guide book, and went straight there.  It looked a little nicer than the family restaurants we’re accustomed to, and had higher prices to match, but we decided that getting food into our bodies was top priority.  Alec and I had terrific and inventive fish dishes, and we ordered the 15 euro kids’ menus for C.C. and Milo.  Unfortunately, both Alec and I swore the waiter said the main course was poulet (chicken), but what showed up was salmon, which neither of them touched.  Clearly, our French was rusty.

After paying $18 each for our kids to eat a lot of French bread and butter, and the ice cream that came with their meals, we walked through the old town which featured a large holiday market, and got them waffles with chocolate sauce.  It was cold, and I had a cup of hot mulled wine, which totally hit the spot.

Sunday is market day in Mauguio, and Margareda had told us it was a really good market that lots of people travelled to.  We set out in the morning, excited despite the chilly grey drizzle, and bought amazing cheeses, two kinds of honey, olives, chicken sausage, bread, croissants, a marinated duck leg, local mussels and oysters, and home made harissa.  After dropping our market booty back home, we set out again for two nearby seaside towns—Grand Motte, an odd, 1970s era planned resort that we were told “must be seen”; I don’t think I agree.  And Aigues-Morte, a 13^th century walled village with enormous towers at each corner, one of which housed the Bourginons killed during a particular battle.  The corpses were so numerous that they had to be stacked inside, each layer covered with a thick blanket of salt to keep them from smelling too much.  Indeed, this is sea salt country, and we drove past the Baleine plant that seems to stock every Whole Foods and gourmet grocery in the US.  On this particular day, mostly deserted Aigues-Morte hosted a western-themed telethon.  One of the buildings on the main plaza had its doors flung open so that the country music echoed across the ancient buildings.  We peeked in and saw a horde of line dancers whooping it up, many of them dressed in acqua suede cowboy boots and matching shirts.  Sometimes you come across strange things when you travel.

That night Alec cooked our mussels, provencal style of course, and they were delicious.  We each ate huge bowls of them and sopped up the sauce with our baguette, all for about $4.00 total.

We decided we were more interested in seeing small villages than larger cities, so the next day we drove beyond Arles to the town of St. Remy de Provence, which used to be owned by Princess Caroline’s family and is now just beautiful.  And it houses a fabulous chocolate shop—Joel Durand, chocolate, where we all got a little delirious.  My favorite?  The salted caramel and dark chocolate bars.  I have not yet tried the ice cream sauces we brought back, but I’ve been nibbling my way through the other treats.  www.chocolat-durand.com.

After walking around some incredible Roman ruins outside the city, we drove the short distance to Les Baux de Provence, another medieval hill town with a gorgeous view, and enjoyed walking the mostly deserted streets.  We’ve figured out that medieval walled cities are a sweet spot for us because we can browse shops or sit and eat a nice lunch while the kids run around outside.  Most of these villages are entirely pedestrian or have very few cars.

On Tuesday—another day with no sun--we lazed around the house in the morning and then drove toward Saintes Marie de la Mer.  Note that it’s Saintes Marie, not just one Saint Marie.  The story goes that after Jesus was crucified, the three Marys who were the first to see him resurrected—Mary Magdalene, Jesus’s Aunt Mary (his mother’s sister, who was also named Mary) and another Mary, took off from Egypt in a boat that had no sail and no oars.  They were joined by Black Sarah, a servant from Egypt.  Somehow, they wound up in the south of France.  Take a look at a map—this is long way to go without sails and oars.  But I supposed they had other forces on their side.  Anyway, there are now enormous pilgrimages to this town every year; like most activities that take place in this neck of the woods, the pilgrimages are in the summer.  A lower chapel of the church in town is devoted to Sarah, who was also sainted at some point.  The chapel features a statue of Sarah dressed in a gaudy, sparkly dress that’s a few sizes too big and a fake tiara.  People light candles and leave notes and plaques—asking for favors or thanking her for miracles.  We lit candles for Grandpa Joe and Hoover, and the kids drew some pictures to stuff into the message box.  Even though my Dad did not go to Catholic church much during my lifetime, the smell of the incense and the candles—and all of those Marys—make me feel close to him.

That night Alec grilled our market chicken sausages over the fire, and we heated up some Riesling cooked sauerkraut that we had also bought at the market. Delicious.

Wednesday we had to pack up and head out.  We took a detour to the village of Carcassonne—another medieval, walled village.  The kids played knights and dragons while we ate cassoulet and vegetable soup out on the terrace of one of the restaurants that stays open in winter.  It was warm in the sun and the views were incredible.

So ours was not the Provence of bright sun and impossibly purple lavender fields.  But it is a beautiful part of the world nonetheless.

Photos of the Week

From top:  Artificial flowers in the vending machine, cheeses at the market, the kids and me in Aigues-Mort, and again, bottom, in Les Baux