family matters

On an average day, my shelf in the refrigerator is home to something like half a red pepper, some apples and a stockpile of plain yoghurt -- foods that are about as exciting as my culinary talents. This week is an exception. On Sunday the royal galas and danones were pushed aside to make space for a more valuable cache. The stack of taper, contrary to the regular fruits and dairy, is worthy of all envy. Each of the plastic boxes is filled with the most delectible of Spanish homecooking: there is one of paella, another of sopa de ajos (garlic soup), albondigas (meatballs) in sauce, stewed chicken...and a foil-wrapped tortilla de patatas, crowning the pile.

I have learned to like a lot of things in Spain -- red wine and eggplants, to name a few -- but the gusto with which Spanish mamás clean their houses and cook their feasts has not rubbed off, not even a smidgen. This weekend confirmed what I already suspected -- that while I don't fit the mamá profile, being a Spanish child suits me just fine.

My school collegue and Portuguese student J had been promising to tour me around Southern Extremadura since the beginning of the year, and this weekend our schedules finally coincided. We spent Saturday morning in Jerez de los Caballeros (a pueblo blanco with a church like none other, a happy medley of red brick, painted tiles, and bright blue details) and lunched in Zafra.

By evening we were at J's hometown of Almendralejo, where his mother and 98-year-old grandmother (!) welcomed us. We gathered some more family members and dug into that steaming paella for Sunday lunch. As the day proceeded, the sensation of being lent a family for the weekend grew stronger. The finishing touch -- almost too good to be true -- was when I was packed off to Don Benito that evening with my own bag of tupperwared goodies. Food for the week, conveniently packaged and labled to save me time on work days. Not only that, but a cherished family tradition I was invited to partake in. Something about nuking my ready-made meals makes me forget I'm so far from my own family. A simple but effective delusion.


The delusion has been necessary in the weeks since my parents' visit at the end of April. They crossed the border into Spain for the first time, in order to spend a weekend with me. We did a lot in the three days they were here -- day trips to Sevilla and Mérida, midnight feasts, shopping on Don Benito's one-and-only avenida...Dad even had time to change the oil in the car.
They also brought me goodies: sesame cookies from Abu Dhabi, books from Lisbon, movies of my munchkins from my sister. It's not that treats are the only thing parents are good for, but they are what most invites you to revel in your condition as someone's son or daughter.

With each bite of sesame cookie and tortilla, I think grateful thoughts for family, real and otherwise.