Friday, January 28, 2011

The Neck of the Pig


One thing that’s tricky to buy when you’re not on your home turf is cuts of meat.  Especially for me, because as much as I cook, I don’t cook much meat.  I eat it, but the cooking of it is Alec’s department.  I’m trying to learn how to poke it with my finger while it’s cooking so that I can gauge its doneness. We’re having 6 people for dinner tomorrow night, plus us, and I did the marketing this morning.  Alec is making a pork stew with spring vegetables (favas, artichokes) that calls for pork shoulder, what we call pernil in the US.  But here, pernil is the leg.  I want to see Henrik.  His wife, Isabel, waited on me, and when I told her I needed “el ombro del Puerco” she looked at me as if confused.  So I pointed to my own shoulder.  She dug around in the meat case and came out with a piece of meat.  “This is the neck,” she said.  “Pig neck?” I thought.  I don’t even know if they sell pig neck in the US.  She assured me it was the right thing, and it looked fine to me.  But, based on years of experience, I knew there was a good chance I’d get home and be told I’d gotten it all wrong.  So I called Alec, but had to leave a message.  I bought the neck, cut into cubes, and went on with my shopping.  Alec called while I was shopping for produce, so I dashed back to Henrik’s and asked if I could hand him the phone so that Alec could talk to him.  It seems like the neck is the closest thing Henrik has to what we need, so that’s what we’ve got.

As I stood in line at the various food stalls, at least 8 people commented on my shopping list—some version of “You’re buying all that!”  Their eyes opened wide as they took in the crowded sheet of paper.  “I’m having a dinner party tomorrow,” I said.  But in truth, it’s not so much different from other weeks.  Friday morning is the time of week when seniors shop, and I suppose they shop every day, or every other day. 

I almost always come home from the market with something that was not on my list.  Today it came from the nut, spice, and chocolate ladies.  I was buying the pistachios for the Aunt Sassy Cake I’m making, and the woman at the counter came over to me with a small, glass-domed dish.  She lifted the lid and passed it under my nose.  Truffles—the pig-snuffling kind, not the chocolate kind.  “We just got them in,” she said.  “It’s the season.”  Those three words are magic to me, so of course I bought one.   It remains to be seen whether I will share it with our guests, or hoard it for us.

Photo of the Day


Thursday, January 27, 2011

Blissed Out


Yesterday I cashed in my birthday present chit from Alec and the kids for a massage at the Bliss Spa—it only took me four months to use it.  Bliss is at the W Hotel, a tall building on the very edge of the sea—its shape evokes a sail.  The W is not exactly conveniently located, but its location is spectacular.  It feels good to be so close to the water.  It took me forever to get across town during the morning rush hour, but I made it just in time for my 10 am appointment. 

The hotel and the spa are spanking new, the robes incredibly plush.  Once I got myself face down on the massage table, I realized I should have gotten my butt there sooner.  Maria, the massage therapist, started with a paraffin treatment on my feat—a nice touch that made some progress in healing the canyon-like cracks on my heels.  I know I can’t complain about spending this particular winter in the Mediterranean when my New York friends are suffering through yet another snowstorm, but even here, winter is no friend to my skin.  I get dry and itchy.  My nose turns red. If only I could walk around in paraffin booties from November to March.

After the rubdown I hung out in the Jacuzzi and super hot sauna.  No one else showed up, so I had the place all to myself.  Carlos Abellan (of Comerc 24) has a restaurant called Bravo at the W, and I thought I might go there for lunch, but it was only noon, the restaurant didn’t open until 1:30, and I had to be in Gracia for a 1:45 meeting.  So I ate a sandwich in the lobby surrounded by Beautiful People and headed out.

Over dinner, Milo wanted to know if anyone had walked on my back, and if I got to soak in mud.  C.C. wanted to know if there were cucumbers for my eyes.  I think they were a little disappointed that I answered “no” to all of their questions.  “But they have mud and cucumbers at Phineas and Ferb’s spa,” Milo said.  I had to convince them that it really was a good spa and that I had had a lovely time.

Later, as C.C. and I were rough-housing before bedtime, I threw her onto the bed and her mouth hit her hand.  When she sat up, that one last front tooth, which has been hanging on for weeks, was gone.  She looks like she got hit in the mouth with a baseball.  I told her she doesn’t need to brush her teeth for a full two minutes because she hardly has any left.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Bye, Bye Bittman


Yesterday I went on a “gastronomic tour” of Barcelona with the Barcelona Women’s Network ladies.  I was on the fence about whether to ditch my work to go, but it was only 2 hours and only 10 euros.  I figured if I picked up one or two tips it would be worth it.  The ladies all met up at Café Zurich, which is right where you pop up when you take the L7 to Plaza Catalunya.  I got there a little early, planning to have a coffee in the sun and read a Milano colleague’s book prospectus.  But pretty soon one of the other ladies showed up and I decided to ask her to join me.   This woman, a Brit who I’ll call Marian, chatted with me about what brought each of us to Barcelona.  I told her about my sabbatical.  Marian, who is probably in her late 60s, told me she was one of the “lucky ones” whose husband did not want her to work.  “Hmmm,” I thought, tempted to respond about how lucky I felt to have found work that I love and that allows me to poke around in cool places like Barcelona.  But I didn’t.  “What’s the point in making her feel uncomfortable,” I decided, although I am often tempted to say something provocative to get people to question their unexamined assumptions.  Please.

Once the group had assembled, we walked down the Porta de L’Angel, stopping at Planelles Donat to talk about turron.  I have been to the shop many times, but at least I had a chance to ask my question about why horchata is not sold in the winter.  The answer?  “Because we sell turron in the winter.”  Never mind that tiger nuts, as far as I know, are not seasonal, and that turron lasts for a year with no preservatives.   This is the way it’s done, and no one questions it.

Our next stop was the Casa de Bacalao, which is interesting because just the other night Alec said to me:  “You know, we probably shouldn’t leave this city without experimenting with some bacalao.”  Bacalao, literally translated, means, simply “cod.”  But when people talk about bacalao, they are usually referring to salt cod.  The story about its origins is that someone at some point long ago ordered something like 100 kilos of cod and received 1000 instead.  In desperate need of finding a way to preserve it, the cod was salted.  You buy it rock hard and crusted with salt, then soak it repeatedly (changing the water) for about 3 days.  The Casa de Bacalao, on Carrer Comtal, has existed for ages and ages, and when you walk in the door you are hit over the head with an overpowering fishy, salty smell.  I have to think some more about whether I’m ready to take the bacalao plunge.  Right now I’m in a potato phase.

We crossed Via Laeitana into the Born and eventually got to my favorite stop, Casa Gispert, a nut roaster that has been roasting nuts on the same site, with the same wood-fired oven, since 1851.  The vaulted ceiling is stained black with smoke, and the smell of warm, roasted nuts is heavenly.  Everyone left with a bag or two.  Gispert also sells teas, honeys, jams, spices and other things you find yourself needing and can’t seem to locate anywhere else.  I got a jar of homemade bouquet garnis; I have not been able to find cheese cloth here, so they will be perfect for soups and sauces.

After the tour ended, the ladies went to lunch but I had had my fill of them, and also had to get to my office for a call with the aforementioned new colleague.  I still needed to read her book prospectus, and I also needed something to eat, so I stopped on the Rambla at Café Viena for the flauta d’ibéric d.o. jabugo.  I first learned about this delectable sandwich from Mark Bittman’s 2006 piece in the New York Times in which he sings its praises.  It is simple and perfect (the sandwich)—everything Bittman promises.  When I got to my office and opened my email, I found a note from my good friend and fellow foodie Norm Glickman with the subject line: “Mark Bittman ends NYT 'Minimalist' column after 13 years; heads to opinion section, magazine.”  Norm gave me a copy of Bittman’s How to Cook Everything when it came out several years ago and it is one of my go-to cookbooks, a contemporary Joy of Cooking.  It’s here with us in Barcelona.  Even though Bittman kind of annoyed me on that Spain road show he did with Gwyneth Paltrow and Mario Batali, he is rock solid and I read his column every week.  I will miss him, and I wish him well.

Photos of the Day



Casa de Bacalao, Casa Gispert, and the 170-year old Gispert oven

Monday, January 24, 2011

C.C. Turns 8!


Alec woke up early this morning to make C.C. chocolate chip banana pancakes and serve them to her in bed.  Like many people, she hates Mondays, so having her birthday fall on one made it better than most beginnings of the week.  Alec’s brother Nick had sent a video of himself singing two songs for C.C. (he usually performs at the kids’ birthday parties)—a dragon song that he composed himself, and the GourdsHallelujah Shine, which is my favorite Gourds song.  Then Blanca called, and sang Las Mañanitas to C.C., which is the traditional Mexican birthday song.  It was 1:30 am in New York.  C.C.’s birthday has always been the anniversary of the date Blanca joined our family—when she showed up to work for her first day, I was in labor.

It’s a lovely song, and a beautiful way to be awakened on your birthday:

Estas son las mañanitas, que cantaba el Rey David,
Hoy por ser día de tu santo, te las cantamos a ti,
Despierta, mi bien*, despierta, mira que ya amaneció,
Ya los pajarillos cantan, la luna ya se metió.
Que linda está la mañana en que vengo a saludarte,
Venimos todos con gusto y placer a felicitarte,
Ya viene amaneciendo, ya la luz del día nos dio,
Levántate de mañana, mira que ya amaneció.

Translation:
This is the morning song that King David sang
Because today is your saint's day we're singing it for you
Wake up, my dear*, wake up, look it is already dawn
The birds are already singing and the moon has set
How lovely is the morning in which I come to greet you
We all came with joy and pleasure to congratulate you
The morning is coming now, the sun is giving us its light
Get up in the morning, look it is already dawn

* Often replaced with the name of the person who is being celebrated


I dropped the kids at school and spent the morning digging into the economics of happiness literature, which is pretty interesting.  Have you noticed that everyone and her sister is writing about happiness these days?  Either we are getting our priorities straight, or we’re a desperately unhappy lot.  But more about that some other time, when I have more to say.

Then I went back to the school with brownies for C.C.’s class.  Alec baked them last night with the last of the mix I had been hoarding; I am now a die hard brownies-from-scratch gal and there’s no turning back.  But those greedy little second graders shoved them into their mouths so quickly there was no way they knew the difference.

I had signed up for a Positive Parenting class at the school and today was the first of six sessions.  It really was a super mom kind of day, which is a little scary.  The class was good, but no silver bullets so far.  I will be happy to share the recipe for effective discipline if I learn it.

C.C. opted not to do her homework tonight, which I thought was just fine.  She played with her new dinosaurs and dragons instead, taking several of them into the tub with her.  You really need to check carefully before you step, bleary-eyed, into the shower in the morning.  We had skype calls with Nick, and with Grandma Lois and Aunt Jody, opened more presents, ate cupcakes, and got everyone to bed.  And now, it’s my turn.  I’m still not feeling 100%, and tomorrow’s another day.

Photo of the Day

C.C.'s birthday breakfast in bed

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Dragon Party!


After Milo’s birthday party at the zoo—the first time we had ever had one of our kids’ birthday parties outside our home—I was pretty much sold on the birthday-party-elsewhere concept.  Once I found out that the CosmoCaixa (the science museum) did birthday parties, I was sure we were home free.  But no. C.C. wanted a dragon party, and she wanted it at home.  AND she wanted to invite 15 kids.  Given how difficult the adjustment was for her, we sucked it up and agreed.

First, we had to figure out what we were going to do with 17 kids (15 invites plus C.C. and Milo) in our apartment for two hours.  It’s pretty big, but not that big.  I figured we could at least bring in outside entertainment, so I set about calling various magic acts and other children’s entertainers.  One woman I spoke with went on and on about her medical problems, what the doctors had prescribed and how she just didn’t feel up to it.  Others were unreachable.  Finally, I found a guy who did puppet shows, one of which has a dragon in it.  I booked him on the spot.  When I told C.C. about it, she didn’t look completely happy.

“What’s up, bud?  It’s a puppet show; it’ll be great!”

“Well, you know how fairy tales are, right Mom?  The dragons are usually bad guys.  I only want the puppet show if the dragon is a good guy.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

So, I called the puppet guy back, and asked if the dragon was a good guy or a bad guy.

“We can modify it,” he told me. “How about if the dragon starts out bad and becomes good by the end?”

“I think that will be okay,” I said.  “If you have a princess, it’ll be fine if she’s evil or gets killed,” I told him.

Then I found a craft activity—dragon stick puppets—and a dragon cake recipe/plan on the internet.  How did people figure all this stuff out before the web?  Alec was in charge of food, invitations, and tables and chairs.

I woke up yesterday with a full day of work planned—making the cake, prepping the craft, taking the kids out for a movie to get them out of the house for awhile.  While making my morning tea, I grumbled that my muscles felt sore—I figured it was from the yoga class I had taken on Thursday. It had been awhile since I had taken a class, and I don't bounce back the way I used to.  But then, after making the cake layers and inviting Milo’s friend Peter to come with us to the movies, I realized that it wasn’t just too much yoga.  It was the kind of body ache you get with the flu.  Alec had gone to the market and I had promised the kids the movie, so I didn’t feel like I could reneg.  I could snooze during the show if I needed to.

I felt worse and worse, and by the time I got home all I could do was go to bed.  I got up three hours later and dragged my butt into the kitchen to make the frosting and assemble the cake.  I still felt like shit but it had to be done.  And it came out pretty well if I do say so myself.  It was no easy feat finding Fruit Roll-Ups in Barcelona for making the wings.

Then I went back to bed to watch Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps and cut out 17 sets of dragon puppet heads and tails while Alec fed the kids and put them to bed.  I slept for 10 hours and felt mostly better this morning, enough to launch into the decorations and clean up the house.  There is nothing like a party to get you to straighten up.  Of course it also means that our “office/art room” has become the place where we stash everything that’s hard to find a place for.  I put a “Do Not Enter” sign on the door and left it at that.

Despite the fact that the electricity went out during the puppet show—meaning they could not use their microphones or their recorded music—the party was a big success.  C.C. wore her Pino’s Pizza shirt (which is about 4 sizes too large) from Brooklyn, and the stuffed dragon tail Milo gave her in the morning.  Oh, and we didn’t time things exactly right.  After the craft, the pizza, the puppet show, and the cake, we still had a half hour until the parents were supposed to come and pick up their little darlings.  We grabbed a couple of oranges and put the kids in two lines, and had them pass the oranges from neck to neck.  Then we played the telephone game, in English and in Spanish, and some musical chairs.  Lesson:  always have some backup games planned.

Tomorrow is C.C.’s actual birthday, so we’ll have a little family celebration then.  And tonight,  I plan to soak in the tub, eat leftover pizza, and read my book.

Photos of the Day