Noche Buena

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

When I told people in Barcelona that we were going to Galicia for Christmas, they replied—to a person—“Galicia is beautiful, and the food is spectacular.  But it’s cold!”  They are right.  After a lazy morning of hanging around in our pajamas, we went for a late lunch across the street—croquettes, asparagus baked with cheese and jamon, mushrooms in shrimp sauce, and jamon with manchego—then to Castro Park, which provides an amazing view of the sea and has a terrific playground.  By the time we got there, the sun had begun to set and, even with gloves and a hat, I had to keep moving.  I suppose I’ve adapted a little too easily to Barcelona’s mild climate.

As for the food, where do I start?  Galicia is well-known for the quality and variety of its local seafood.  There are four kinds of lobsters, for example.  Lubina, a lovely white fish, starred in the feast.  Raquel and Mila left the house around noon to go to the Corte Ingles for the freshest fish and other provisions.  The apartment was already so full of food that the unheated laundry room had been converted into an extra cold room.  If you opened the door, you would trip over bowls of salad, bags of fruit, and lord knows what else.  Still, they asked us several times before leaving:  “Tell us now what else you want, because the stores will not be open until Monday!”  Two whole days!?!  We have enough provisions for 10 people for a week, easy.

Gena, another of Raquel’s six sisters, had arrived at the house by the time we returned from the park, and the three sisters were busy in the kitchen. The two lubinas were prepped for cooking, in a pan, covered in kosher salt (see below).  I do not know what “lubina” is in English, but it’s delicious.  One would never start Noche Buena (Christmas Eve) dinner before 9:30 pm; it’s simply not done.  Raquel was worried that we’d be done before the 10 o’clock news, and that would be scandalous.  Still, she did allow us to begin with appetizers at about 9 pm.  We started with fried calamari, served simply with lemon and salt, more cheeses from France, and from Spain, and—of course—jamon.  Then we moved to the table for thick slabs of fresh foie gras, apples sautéed in butter, and a lovely sauterne.  The lubina followed, so simple and so delicious, accompanied by roasted vegetables.  For dessert, a fresh fruit salad, and platters of turron,—xixona, Alicante, and yemado—figs stuffed with walnuts, marzipan, and polverones (powdery cookies made from almonds).  All of the Christmas pastries have almonds as their base.

We finally got the kids to bed around midnight, threatening that Santa passes by the  houses where the children are still awake.  And then Raquel, Mila, and Gena began to sing Galician folk songs, beautiful old melodies fuelled by nostalgia and wine.  They tried to explain the concept of morriña to us which, apparently, is the feeling these songs evoke.  From what I could tell, it’s something like homesickness.  In a strange coincidental twist, when I went to bed, I read a little, as I always do.  As it happens, one of the books I am currently reading is called Everything but the squeal: Eating the whole hog in northern Spain, by John Barlow.  I bought it because of my jamon obsession and, even though it’s set in northern Spain as opposed to the south, where Barcelona sits, I thought it would give me some insight.  I did not know when I ordered it that it takes place in Galicia.  And when I opened the book to the page where I had left off and started reading, I soon came to a passage about the exact same word—morriña.  Barlow defines it as “a feeling that is said to be stronger and more complex than mere homesickness; ‘home-yearning,’ perhaps, although many Galicians insist that there is simply no adequate translation of morriña.”

This is the first time in many years that Raquel and Myron have spent Christmas in Spain; they usually come in January, and we are usually with them at their house in Pawling on Christmas Eve.  Invariably, at some late hour, which means it is 6 hours later in Spain, the phone rings in Pawling and it’s Raquel’s sisters on the line, whooping it up.  Well, this year we are all together for the whooping, and at 2 am I finally said “uncle” and went to bed.  Apparently Gena and Mila were up talking in the kitchen until 5.  I think there are siestas in all of our futures.