My designated stool in Maria Jose's kitchen is my current favorite place in the world. Although she doesn't speak my language, and I barely understand her's, we interact in this tiny stuffy room as if we had been observing eachother for years. We meet daily at least once, usually over deep fried food with astronomical salt and carbohydrate content, to discuss the important things. Today, for instance our conversation began with her explaining a diving mishap (wait...what?) that was driving her to take painkillers (she shook the bottle in my face) and evolved into the facial hair of French men. Okay, so we're hardly discussing theology but I laugh until my stomache hurts! Last Wednesday, Maria prepared a menu for me to cook: fried chicken, fried bacon, and a baguette...who knew about these people's love for everything breaded and cooked in grease? The recipes were quite simple, but we ended up polishing off a bottle of wine (and a half) and spending an hour or two in the kitchen.
This weekend was incredible (despite my flight delays in both directions..six extra hours of waiting at the airport in total, a missed train, and an extra night in madrid that i never would've wished for...don't fly Iberia) and fast-paced; Althought I didn't spend it in Spain, my journey to the French Riviera only invigorated my love for this impermanent host country of mine. What struck me, other than the prolific beaches and peaking mountains, was the sense of comradare and communalism that I observed both in Italy and here in Spain. I met a good friend, JD in Nice--he was staying with a friend named Thomas who he met through a new program called 'couch-surfing' online. I arrived around two am Saturday morning, and JD, Thomas and his friends greeted me warmly. After a night that ended in the Mediterranean, we spent the day Saturday visiting with Thomas's family and his friends...a stranger turned into a friend within hours. We woke up at nine am Saturday, and Thomas told us "We are going to Cannes" which I associated with a film festival but now I imagine strange white trees and steep mountains. Five of us piled into a car and ended up at his mother and fathers' house which resembled a hotel. We spent the day as a group, eating pistachios, barbaqued pork, and drinking roset. Europeans know exactly how to live, not efficiently, perhaps not in a most modern way, but thorougly and wonderfully. That said, it takes about three hours to accomplish anything. We realized hunger, collectively and out loud around six pm. At that time, Thomas made a verbal list of the process that would lead us from his friend's backyard saltwater pool (beautiful) back to his parents' house for "a large barbaque."
"First, we will finish this wine. Then we will collect our things. Then we will walk, with our things, to the car. Then we will go to the grocery store..." I had to stifle laughter because innocent ol´ Thomas was saying this all with a straight face. We ate around ten pm, and how wonderful the pork and pasteries were!!! I ended the weekend with my roomate Christina and JD on the Mediterranean after a huge breakfast of crepes with ham, egg, and cheese. A series of tedious events led me back to Maria's kitchen where I sit typing this as she watches me standing at the sink over a pile of dishes, smoking her fifteenth cigarette of the hour.
Besos de españa,
Allyson
You end where you began: the kitchen. I maintain that the heart of a home is this, at times, confined place. The most important room is always the kitchen. I am so glad you have found this in your host family and hope you continue to discover its secrets.
ReplyDeleteTake me to a kitchen and I know what a mother, the person really running the house in Spain, thinks. Another great post, Allyson.