A Daytrip and Feast

This weekend started with my first Saturday off-work since January and now that it's over Jack and I (and probably Lyle, in his mysterious, doggy way) agree that it was one our best weekends (excluding visitors).

We have a couple of friends, or maybe a 'friend couple'?  Regardless, they are a couple and they are our friends.  Our friends are generous.  They are also fun. Last, but not least, they have a car and a healthy spirit of adventure.  They were having a 'visitor weekend' and invited us along for a hike and some paella in the mountains near Valencia (close to Serra, I think?).

There is nothing like being in a car, climbing switchbacks into the mountains, inhaling Mediterranean-pine breezes and listening to Jamiroquai.  The destination was somewhere that we had never been before.  We scrambled our way up to a magnificent vista where you could see over Sagunt to the ocean.  While we both fear (a lot) for his safety, Lyle appears to be quite the little rock scrambler.  We held him up for an obligatory Lion King picture.  He was not anywhere near the precipice, but I'm not sure he's forgiven me.

It was a wonderful walk around, but our exercise to eating ratio was... let's just say, we ate a lot.  We had traditional, Valencian paella, but decided to opt out of the liver and snails.  So the breakdown was: chicken, rabbit, green beans, garrafo beans.  It was all cooked in a tomato/broth concoction with saffron.   It was easily the best paella we've had so far.   This time, I think I could really taste a spicy flavor that I thought was ginger, but after Amanda said rosemary, I had to smack my forehead a little.  Of course! I really like rosemary, despite the fact that I'm never tempted by the 'lucky' sprigs gypsies sell in the plaza on my way to work.  I cook with it sometimes, but it seems to dominate the flavor of everything it touches.  This was the first time I've had a 'rosemary' dish where the herb was relatively elusive, but it definitely added a little oomph to the paprika.  

Paella is a dangerous dish.  You eat a heaping portion and then, when you can take any more... it's socarrat time.  The best part of the paella (and not just in my opinion) is the tasty part that's left stuck to the bottom of the pan after, it's not exactly burnt... but a little crispier and smokier than the rest.  The traditional way to eat paella is to have the entire family eat from the dish, maybe serving to their plates, maybe not.  This gets intense at socarrat time.  Imagine an entire family of spoons digging at the bottom of the pan.  I apparently have no shame... I got more than my fair share.  

Of all the Valencian cultural traditions, I think the Sunday paella is my favorite.  As my students enthusiastically tell me, the whole family gathers in the garden to tend paella over an open wood flame and then eat it together.  It's about family togetherness.  It's also a little about calculated gluttony.  This combination appeals to me.  Hopefully, in the future, even if I'm far from Valencia, we will have Sunday paellas.  Not every Sunday, but often enough to keep alive this memory of overlooking the Mediterranean next to Jack and Lyle, without any agenda besides savoring the moment.

Promising Days Ahead

The year has flown by while this blog has stagnated.  My bike was stolen.  We moved twice.  I gained jobs.  Other jobs ended.  It got cold (very occasionally, from our perspective) and rained sometimes.  Artichokes came in season and I feasted.  Oh how I feasted.  The town exploded (quite literally) in large and small ways during Fallas.  Asparagus came into season and I feasted. The orange trees blossomed, wafting a scent that stopped us in our tracks and led us, hound-dog style to the nearest tree.  Yes, we were the foreigners sniffing the trees in the otherwise-respectable plazas.  Friends have come to visit, and we have shown off "our city" nearly bursting with pride and felt connected in a way that distance makes all the more remarkable.  These are the people with whom you can share a comfortable silence as equally as a belly laugh, with whom you can discuss politics, music and life (even when you disagree), and people who are generally on your wavelength.  It reinforces my main goal for the future ** make Spanish friends **  Yes, we have them and yes, we are always trying to take it to 'the next level' in an entirely platonic way.  It's easy, however, to give up.  To let the silences and laughs become "awkward" and to stumble over tenses.  Something tells me, however, that all around me, all the time are these amazing potential friends and I just have to push through the little 'awkwardness' (which, as far as I know is something you can't even say in Spanish) of communication and it will all be worth it.  Beyond worth it, in fact... this is, after all, why we're here!

So, here is an entirely gratuitous picture of me and my younger sister in the plaza outside our house.  She left on Tuesday.  We had an amazing week together, even better with the visit of one of my best friends from way back.  

This visit was something special.  We caught up, really caught up and I felt so close to this wonderful, poised girl and generally proud of her.  It also seems strangely like the years are bringing us together... and by that, I mean literally making us look and act more alike.  For a while I thought Jack was going to go crazy with us echoing the same things constantly.  So many people also told us that we looked alike and that is something that we have never, ever gotten. Usually there's obnoxious jokes about the milkman and suspicious looks... but not this time.  People actually thought we were sisters and it felt so good.  I'm so looking forward to our next reunion, but in the meantime... I'm going to live each and every moment in this beautiful city up.

Re-create the Look: Extreme Edition

I'm not sure how I feel about winter --that is real, snowy, below-zero winter-- anymore.  Growing up it was the most magical New England season.  My best friend, sister and I were sledding- and snow-fort-building-enthusiasts, to say the least.  My mom used to have to drag us inside every couple hours to prevent frostbite.  As a young adult, I devoured books like Dogsong  by Gary Paulsen, which Google Books hilariously labels "Self Help" (perhaps, for twelve-year-old girls wanting to do the Iditarod). Now I wonder if I'll ever choose to live in a place with a real winter again.  I know my younger self would scoff at the no-fun kind of grown-up I've become, but I'm wary of the prospect of shoveling snow and waiting until April to see green.  Yet, there's a small part of my imagination that will always live in the snow.  Not in the real, cold snow, but more like the winter fantasy pictured above, where racing across snow and ice involves a puppy in a designer handbag and a camp as pictured for our destination. (See a slideshow of Eric Valli's campaign for Hermes here, you will not regret clicking, I promise).

Not that designer handbags are really my passion, per se, but puppies and forts are still at the top of my list.  The above via Helena Holmstedt .  Clearly the arctic dog sled is underutilized as a decor piece.  Here's what you need to live the fantasy on a backyard scale:

The classic, flexible flyer with red, powder-coated steel runners.  This is a dream sled of the variety that become family heirlooms and endure their time in the attic between generations with grace.  At 48", I have definitely outgrown this model.  I am not discouraged in the slightest.  Available here (currently out of stock) for around $80.00.

At right is a serious tent.  This is the SpikeII from Montana Canvas via.  Unlike the above, open air version, I'm sure you would stay toasty in there, especially with the addition of the stove.  You could actually camp in this, in the real winter.  It's priced accordingly (around $1000).  To re-create the former, only suitable for fantasy winter, or daytime lounging and cocoa consumption between sled runs, I think a tarp with grommets, some poles, twine and stakes, a princess in the pea mattress would work.

Here's the Coleman NORTHSTAR® INSTASTART™ PROPANE LANTERN.  the lantern resembles those hanging on the side of the tent and looks like it would adequately fulfill my needs for propane lanterns.  I love my little propane stove and the primal exhilaration that comes from cooking something incredibly simple over it.  It reminds me of the Bunsen-burner cooking in A Wrinkle in Time, continuing the YA fiction theme.  I can only imagine that this would do for lighting what that stove does for cooking i.e. make the magic.  For only about $50, I'm sold.  (We also have a few vintage kersosene lanterns around my Mom's house.  They don't burn clean, but when they're lit it's a really special occasion, and they make a great silver lining in any power outage).

 

I couldn't resist.  I don't know much about huskies, but I do know that they *are NOT for every home,* probably not for most dog-friendly homes, in fact.  The kind of dog that is comfortable pulling an arctic sled in a pack for hundreds of miles is a special, special breed.  They need a cooler climate, companionship, mental stimulation and a ton of exercise. That being said, here is a rescue organization for Siberian Huskies in Pennsylvania. (The pictures are from their site)  

I Dream of Jeannie...

To be honest, something about the actual show really doesn't sit well with me.  Living in a lounge-in-a-bottle, however, has a certain appeal--especially, when the claustrophobia is offset by a brash palette of pinks and golds.  It could be comfortable, even fun.

Images: 1. Scott Weston via Desire to Inspire 2. Roland Persson 3. Marie Claire Maison via Desire to Inspire 4. Katie Sellers via The City Sage

Inspiration for a tired cowgirl...

because, sometimes, after spending days in the sun and the fresh air....

she would like her home like she likes her coffee... strong, dark and not too sweet.

(Images: Top to bottom, left to right: Twig Hutchinson, Twin Lens LLC, Anna Williams, John and Carolyn Malone via Design*Sponge ,   , Ellen Silverman, Kate Mathis , Tom Johnson's space via marthastewart.com)

Six weeks and counting...

I had every intention of beginning this blog on my first days in Spain, if not before.  We decided to drive down from Jack's parents' house in England, camping along the way.  I saw myself coyly curling up with my computer in our tent writing something about how being in Europe was already changing me as a person and I was actually a natural with the French language, of which I knew all of two words.  In the end, it rained the entire week we were supposed to make our road trip.  We ended up staying in cheap motels instead of lingering by fresh rivers in little hamlets.  There was a lot of wild gesturing.  I looked like Cookie Monster on steroids trying to order a croissant, let alone eating it.  The French people were not charmed.

So what has happened between that anticlimactic trip and now?  Well, some of my wilder dreams actually have come true.  They are:

1) The apartment.  Oh where to begin.  Fourteen foot ceilings.  Mosaic tiles on the floor.  Two balconies.

2) The bicycle.  It's perfect.  It's gently used, cosmopolitan (read black).  It has a basket.  It has a light.  It's named the Katemobile.  Overnight I have been transformed into a bicycle rider.  Encantada.

3) Living next to a park.  Not just any park.  This park, formerly the River Turia, is miles long and spanned by a range of bridges.  When you're down there it feels like you're in a completely different place.  A place inhabited by fitness freaks and the occasional homeless person.  But still.  I often take my dog down into the park to do his business... which is mostly peeing on exotic looking shrubs.  It's magical.  Every morning (or at least once a week) I try to jog which brings me by jumping fountains, into small pine forests and by the impressive domed buildings that were built centuries ago on the banks of the Turia.

4) The weather.

This is the rosy version, of course.  Each of these miracles of my new life has a downside, too.  Our otherwise perfect apartment is a mere floor or two above a "rock bar/club" that release a flood of men with waist-length hair, satanic tattoos and the voice projection talents of Pavarotti into the streets at 4 AM.  I know because I'm the cranky, foreign youngster in my nightgown and glasses hanging out the balcony giving dirty looks that are often misinterpreted.  The bicycle-riding I have yet to really master.  I walked the entire way home from the bicycle shop on tiptoes while sitting on my bicycle.  The last time I rode a bike was when I was ten.  So far, so good... but I need to gain a little more finesse before I wire a fake gerbera daisy into my basket (VW Bug-style).  And about the park and my jogging, or lack thereof, within.  I hope to make progress, but I have a long way to go before Spanish-svelte.  It probably will be just enough to balance out delicious tapas fried in olive oil and smothered with aioli.  Rants will come another day, for now I love this life in Spain.