The Redneck's Guide to Sports

31 October, 13

I have been playing a relatively new sport lately, called Padel. It was invented in the 1960's by Enrique Corcuera in Acapulco, Mexico. As you will see on the Map of Padel locations, the sport has caught on mostly in Spanish speaking countries. Argentina and Spain make up the vast majority of clubs and world champions.

If you have played, or even watched, doubles tennis, racquetball, squash or handball, you are ready to play Padel. It is intended to be played in a doubles format, which lends well to building relationships. You don't run as much as you would in tennis, because the court is smaller, and you can play the bounce off of the walls, like racquetball.

Like most things, I have jumped in whole hog. I bought a pala, bolas and zapatos

from the local sports store for about $100. That is my total investment in the sport.

I play with Julio, Alicia and a rotation of other players to fill in the fourth spot. Often it is Fede or Juan. Truthfully all three guys are just there in hopes that we can play on Alicia's team. She is a Padel monster. The other side counts it a great moral victory if they can return her serve, regardless of whether we actually get the point. Nobody has ever broken her serve. To win a set against her is akin to summiting Mount Everest. I would like to see Alicia and Becky playing together. They would take over the Padel world.

The game rewards control and court presence, which automatically puts me at a disadvantage. You must learn to read the walls and anticipate where the ball will be. The palas have holes in them, which allows for wicked spin as well.

My biggest asset in sports is hustle. I am like Pete Rose, without the ability to hit the ball. My daddy once told me, "Boy, you got a linebacker mind and kicker body." It is true. I desperately want to win at everything I do, but I seldom sip the champagne in winner's circle. A hard fought second place is usually what I get for my efforts. This makes me a popular opponent. Not really a threat to win, but a fun challenge. I am the Bluegill. Fun to fish, but nobody eats them.

That shouldn't engender any sympathy for me. I really do have fun in my own little competitive universe, and knowing I will never be the champion at anything keeps me from trying to take over the world. I would make a terrible emperor, but maybe I could be the governor of a smaller state...

The Rednecks' Guide to Food--Jamon Serrano

29 October, 13

Elizabeth left Sunday morning for a week-long field trip to Granadilla. Its purpose is to use child labor to clean up and restore a very old Spanish city in the region of Extremadura. That would be roughly translated as "Really Hard". I will write about her adventures, as soon as I get some news.

Extremadura is the home of the best jamon serrano, according to every Spaniard I have asked, including three different butchers. This is significant, as you can't get Spaniards to agree on anything. Put 10 Spaniards in a room, and you get 20 opinions.

Jamon Serrano comes in three classes:

• Iberico Bellota
• Iberico Recebo
• Iberico Cebo

The best is Bellota Puro, which means the pigs are free range and have papers showing both father and mother are registered breeds. They cure these hams for 48 months, before shipping them off. Spain is very serious about its ham. Jamon Serrano is to Spain what Bonsai is to Japan. It's all about the art. Spain's just happens to be edible. 

The first time Susan came to Spain, she lived in Granada for three months. Susan is not what you might call an adventurous eater, but she fell in love with Spanish foods from Andalucia, and the surrounding regions. One particular thing she kept raving about was the jamon serrano. When we visited Granada together, I couldn't wait to try this new variant on my favorite animal. I told her we called it salt-cured country ham, back in South Carolina. She was not happy with my description.

It really is delicious. They slice it impossibly thin, making it a translucent red color.

You will find the carving stations, called jamoneros,

in every restaurant, bar, café, street corner and prison cell in Spain. We have one in our apartment, but we have not tried it out yet. You have to buy a whole leg to use it, and I don't think we could eat that much jamon serrano. You can easily spend €500-800 on a quality jamon. Maybe closer to Christmas, we will have a few parties and break it out. Or if we have some guests from the USA...

Halloween Fiesta

27 October, 13

In my house, October is the time for a fiesta. Our first big party came in 1997. Susan and I were married for about one year when we started building our house in Pinehurst. It was a disaster. We fired the builder four months in, because we were only to the basement walls, and should have been almost complete. I stepped in as the general contractor and proceeded to finish the house apace. It only took me eight more months. When October, 1997 finally rolled around, we were ready to be done with the stupid thing and have a party to celebrate.

I had been working at Triangle Building Supply during this time, so I was able to get all my building materials at a discount. More importantly, I was able to find all my subcontractors. It was my previous job at Burlington Industries, however, that hatched the party plan.

Hervon "Snowflake" McCollum was a friend of mine from work, and he had a pig cooker. His mama made her own Barbecue sauce, and even Hervon didn't know the recipe. His buddy raised and slaughtered hogs. All I needed was a location and a date. Check and check.

About a month out, I called him and set the date for the weekend. Susan invited all her friends. I invited all my friends. We invited all our friends. We invited all our neighbors. Then I invited the guy beside me at the gas station. And the waitress at "Mac's Breakfast Anytime". And the sheriff's deputy at the jail. She actually came. I invited all my family from South Carolina. Susan invited her girlfriends from elementary school.

We had well over 100 people for that first pig pickin'. It became an annual Askins tradition, along with epic "Total Makeover" birthdays , Christmas and New Year's Eve parties. We have hosted literally 1000's of people in our home. We know how to throw a party.

So we decided Halloween was the right time for us to host a fiesta here in Spain. Our family has never really made a big deal about Halloween. We don't especially like the celebration of death and evil that is often associated with it. Here in Spain, Halloween isn't even celebrated much at all. It's about as big here as Cinco de Mayo is in the USA. The girls and Susan, however, have been OBSESSING over it for about three weeks. I think they are just groping for a little bit of American-ness.

Well, I invited my friends. Susan invited her friends. Elizabeth and Katherine invited their friends. Then I invited the guy at the pump...You get the idea. We had a relatively small turnout of about 40-50 people, but still big by Spanish standards.

Susan cooked up some really scary looking food, and I got our grill going with salchicha. We had anchoas, tortillas patatas, atun, olivas, jamon y asparago. We also introduced them to deviled eggs, pound cake and a token veggie tray, to assuage our guilt over feeding people so much stuff.

Dados de Brujas, Witches Fingers

Oranges decorated like pumpkins and a pound cake

My buddy, Julio, helping me get ready for the party

Los Chicos had a sugar binge with all the carmelos. They don't give their kids much candy around here. After the party our salon was covered with candy wrappers, strewn about like so many beer bottles at a college frat party. The last guests left at 3:30 AM. A few of us sat on the terrace, discussing the merits of capitalism and its effects on China. At that time of night, there really isn't much more ground to cover.

Susan and I staggered to the bed and slept 'til noon, exhausted after three weeks' preparation. It was awesome.

Teacher Strike!

23 October, 13

Spain is in the middle of La Crisis. It is all part of the worldwide financial meltdown that began way back in August, 2007. I remember visiting here in 2001, just prior to the conversion from the peseta to the Euro. There were big cranes all over the place, and buildings were popping up like mushrooms in the forest. I asked my friend, Antonio, what was going on, and he told me that people were laundering old money with construction projects.

Now many cranes are sitting idle all over the country. I suppose it is cheaper to leave them where they are than to dismantle and store them. Four or five of them dot the landscape in La Alberca, so we have not been immune to La Crisis, but it is pretty hard to find any other evidence.

Everybody we have met has a job, and many of them are quite good. We don't see beggars in the street. We don't see bread lines or riots. The first personal encounter we have had so far has just hit us this week.

Teachers are going on strike.

It seems the government has cut their pay over the last few years, in an effort to get the budget under control, and the teachers are fed up. The rage is welling up in their souls, and they must be heard.

In a show of solidarity, the high school students at IES Alquibla, where Elizabeth attends, staged a strike of their own. It was a stirring show of support for their beloved teachers, as the students decided not to show up for class. Of course Elizabeth was swept up by her passion for teachers and education in general. She begged us to allow her to go on strike as well.

How could she focus on her schoolwork, knowing these poor teachers were underpaid and overworked?

How could she sit in a classroom, the very site of this financial slavery?

"Give me fully compensated teachers, or give me death!"

Her fervor reached a fever pitch last night, when we informed her that she would have to attend school, even if all her friends decided to go to the park and have fun instead. Her heart ached for teacher equality. She pined for a fair and reasonable wage on behalf of her teachers. She pleaded for the opportunity to make a declaration of independence from government tyranny. But to no avail.

We made her go to school, reasoning that she needed every minute available to learn the language and get a little ahead on her studies. Going to school when nobody was there would afford her the opportunity to meet with her teachers one on one and get some good teaching from them.

Elizabeth was not happy. We were ruining her life. We were making her look uncool. Blah. Blah. Blah. Insert your own teenage girl angst-filled histrionics.

She went to school, a slave to the system.

At 9:30, I got a phone call from my friend, Julio, asking if I could pick up his daughter from school. Apparently, she was the only other student in her class, besides Elizabeth.

Revolution springs up in the strangest ways. The despots just never seem to see it coming, do they? I went to school and scooped up Che Guevara and Sam Adams, feeling the sting of my defeat at the hands of the proletariat.

Or so they thought. (Insert evil laughter)

I deposited Julia at her house. I don't have a dog in that fight.

Elizabeth and I walked home in silence. She defiant and me calculating. That's when I had a stroke of tyrannical genius. She wasn't going to school. School was coming to her.

We got home and immediately started working on math, the bane of Elizabeth's existence. Polynomials. Order of operations. Powers. And tomorrow, when the teachers are really striking, more of the same. Bwahahahahah!


I lost a battle. I will win the war.

Ding! Dong! The Ticket Witch is Dead!

22 October, 13

Here are some quotes that I really like:

Bureaucracy gives birth to itself and then expects maternity benefits.
Dale Dauten 

Bureaucracy, the rule of no one, has become the modern form of despotism.

Mary McCarthy 

If you are going to sin, sin against God, not the bureaucracy. God will forgive you, but the bureaucracy won't.
Hyman Rickover

Every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy.
Franz Kafka 

Bureaucracy is a giant mechanism operated by pygmies.
Honore de Balzac 

Go here for more quotes.

Clemson University was my first real exposure to the inherent evils of bureaucracy. It came in the form of the ubiquitous ticket police. We affectionately called them Ticket Witches. Some enterprising student even went so far as to make t-shirts with a picture of the ticket witch riding a broom.

The rest of the University machine lumbered along like a bloated, overfed, underworked pack mule, doing just enough to escape a beating. Not so the intrepid Ticket Witch. She maneuvered her little three-wheeled TW golf carts all over campus, looking for some poor, unsuspecting student who had violated the sacrosanct parking laws. The witches seemed to have an innate sense for timing, almost relishing in the idea of writing a ticket as close to one minute over the allotted time as possible. I can imagine their coven gatherings now.

"Brumhilda! You nasty little witch! What do you think you're doing? That last car was sitting, UNTICKETED, for five whole minutes!! Keep this up, and you'll be stamping rejection letters in the President's office."

They finally broke me one night. It was late on a Sunday night, and I had to go to the computer lab to start/finish a paper for English. This is back when they had things like computer labs. Of course there were no parking spaces available, except...Except that whole football field-sized area of handicap spaces, tucked between two buildings, where nobody could see me parking. I am not one to take a handicap space, but give me a break. There were at least 20 spots, and not one of them taken. It was 10PM on a Sunday night, and all three of the wheelchair bound students on campus were accounted for. What is the problem with taking just one teensy-weensy little space for a few minutes, while I complete my educational requirements?

"I'll get you, my pretty!"

Stupid witch. The only car in the whole stupid parking lot got the only stupid ticket. Forty-five dollars later, I finished my stupid English paper. As a form of silent protest, I waited two weeks to pay the stupid ticket, which meant that the stupid fine got doubled. That is the price of freedom. 

I now know the origin of these Ticket Witches. They started in Spain. Brujas de Multa. Even the name sounds sinister. 

My first experience came several years ago in Toledo, the oldest city in Spain, which means they have the most seasoned brujas in Spain. That place is on lockdown. Susan and I were tooling through the city, looking for a parking space, so we could check out the main plaza. Toledo is a beautiful city, brujas notwithstanding. I finally found a spot, and lucky for us, it was right at the plaza. All the other drivers missed it, because it was right beside a handicap parking spot. Evidently they had been burned in college as well. I whipped in the space and caught up with Susan, whom I had deposited at the plaza. We were gone exactly 15 minutes.

As we returned to the space, I noticed a tow truck pulling away from the area. These are not very common, so it caught my eye. I then noticed a car on the back of the tow truck that was eerily similar to mine. Naturally my gaze drifted toward my parking space, to see if this car was the same color. Well it was. I took off on a mad dash to try and catch the tow truck, but to no avail. 

Toledo was the first capital of Spain, chiefly because it occupied the high ground. Parking Violators Prison was at the bottom of a very long hill. Susan and I schlepped all the way down the Hill of Hell, where we had to pay the $200 fine for parking in a handicapped space. They don't mark their handicap spaces the way we do. It is every space from "this sign" over. Stupid Spanish signs.

I tried to get Susan to negotiate with the head witch, but to no avail. Pay up or walk. As a form of silent protest, I vowed to eat at a restaurant that would cost at least as much as the ticket. I showed them. That is the price of freedom.

We ended up meeting a nice couple and walking around the city for several hours together, so it all worked out.

Recently Susan and I have been attending free Spanish classes in Murcia. Free, that is, except for the parking tickets I am gathering like flies to a turd. I am going to start wearing a garlic necklace to hopefully ward off the witches. I will not be cowed by their malicious desire to stamp out freedom.

I am William Wallace. I will prevail! 

Freedom!!!!

It's a Parade!!

20 October, 13

Nothing says Small Town Pride like a parade. Everybody comes out for a parade. You're either watching it or in it.

I remember making floats with the Mighty Class of '88 for our Red Fox Homecoming Parades. Somebody's daddy always had a barn and trailer in a top-secret, undisclosed and well-camouflaged location. We would stuff little balls of paper into a chicken-wire rendition of some witty play on the opposing team's mascot. Then on the big day, we would all ride on the float, waving at the onlookers and throwing candy at the kids, just knowing we were gonna win the "Best Float" prize.

Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, tractors and those crazy fez-hat dudes in their little go-carts were interspersed among the floats. The Mighty Foxes Red Regime marching band would lead the procession with all the appropriate pomp and circumstance.

Somewhere in the ranks would be the procession of beauty pageant winners:

Miss Hartsville
Little Miss Hartsville
Little Wee Miss Hartsville
Miss Tween Hartsville
Miss Young Adult Hartsville
Miss Cotton Gin
Miss Chitlin' Strut
Miss Puddin' Swamp (Shout out to Judith Elizabeth Belk!)

Those were the days.

Yesterday we had a big parade in La Alberca. I was excited to see how they did things. Boy was I surprised. Toto, this ain't Kansas anymore.

Parades in L.A. are all about some booty-shaking. I have several movie clips. The funniest part was seeing some of the participants, walking down the road, dancing along and toking a cigarette at the same time, as if smoking and dancing in a parade was the absolute most natural thing in the world to do.

Of course, many of the little girls were cute. Some of the ladies were a good bit past their prime, but I applauded their willingness to get out there in front of the world. A few of the guys bordered on the ridiculous, but hey, it's a parade. Strut it!

I think this is more like Carnival in Rio than the Hartsville Homecoming parades of my youth. Oh well, Bienvenidos a España!

Plaza Casino World Tour

19 October, 13

La Alberca has been celebrating something for the past two weeks. I'm sure somebody knows, but most of the people just accept it and have a fiesta. Two days ago, we had the girls dancing the night away. Last night we had a Queen tribute band, Unrisen Queen.

I have to say I was pretty impressed. They played and sang very well. "Freddie Mercury" has put on a few pounds, and he seems to have fixed those big buck teeth, but other than that, they were right on the money. Maybe this was a tribute to what Queen would have become, sort of like the Eagles. Hitting all the right notes, but not quite as fast. Walking across the stage and standing in front of the mike all night, instead of doing some crazy onstage antics. Mellow and refined but still good music. One of the back-up singers did some interpretative dance to one song. Perhaps standing in front of the mic was a good idea after all.

I did not realize how big Queen was in Spain. The whole crowd, and it was a big one, knew the words to several songs I had never even heard before. We were toward the back, so it was fun to watch the crowd interact with the band. Several generations were in attendance. Abuelos would be sitting around a table on the side, drinking a cerveza and watching their nietos as the parents sang out all the lyrics. All the chicos were cruising in and out of the plaza, doing what teenagers do. Elizabeth and Julia went to the park, the location of which is still a mystery to me. Katherine hung out with several different groups of friends all night. Susan and I watched the concert with some of our friends. We all made it home at about 2:30AM.

The whole scene reminded me of a Beach Blast in Hartsville. Several hundred people gathered together, having a good time, enjoying a little Beach Music. Some people are listening. Some are dancing. Some are just walking around.

It's life at the Plaza...

Plaza Casino--Dancing the Night Away

14 October, 13

Plaza Casino is the heart of La Alberca. It is in the middle of everything, five minutes walking distance from anywhere in town. In America, we put restaurants on highly exposed corners or outparcels of larger shopping centers. I was in a high level commercial real estate class several years ago, and the professor said that McDonald's was not in the hamburger business. They were in the real estate business. Location. Location. Location.

In L.A. the mentality is a little bit different. You can't get to Plaza Casino by car. Even if you could there is no place to park. You can't see it from the road. If you were a typical tourist, you would never even know it existed. No directional signs saying, "Plaza Casino this way". Yet, everyday for el almuerzo and every night for la cena, the whole plaza is packed. It is the place you go to hang out with friends, eat some tapas, and just relax a while.

Last night, a local dance company performed on the Plaza, so it was especially packed. You have been to these performances, if you have little girls. All the four and five year olds get up on the stage in rounds and shake their little tushies.

As the girls get progressively older, they start to resemble pole dancers, wiggling this and poking out that. Somebody is gonna be mad at me for saying that. Please forgive me. I am only making observations, not judgements. The dancers are having a great time and very few of them go on to careers in pole-dancing.

Susan and I have discovered that the American songs that we have always considered acceptable for our girls to hear often have some pretty bad lyrics. In America they delete a lot of the f-bombs, but not so in Spain. A group of 10-12 year olds was dancing the night away to some pretty raunchy lyrics, but they were in English, so I guess the girls and parents had no idea.

Back in 1998, Antonio Lomba took us to a flamenco bar in Granada. It was up in the Albayzín area and the whole restaurant/stage was cut into the side of the mountain. You literally walked into a cave. As they were dancing, Antonio interpreted for me the words of one of the songs. Flamenco is all about passion, but this was way over the top. The lyrics were basically saying, "I love you so much, I want to drink up your blood." I kept looking around for bats and the undead after that. Maybe not knowing the lyrics is better.

My Kids Are Different--Katherine

17 October, 13

You're wrong.

That's the answer to the statement that is floating around in your head. To wit, "My kids are better than his kids."

Sorry to burst your soap bubble. Just sayin'.

Yesterday, I wrote about Elizabeth. I forgot to mention an anecdote from about 2 years ago. It will shed light on both girls.

One night at dinner, I asked Elizabeth what she wanted to do when she grew up. Without a moment's hesitation, she told me her dream life.

"I want to go to Clemson and get a business degree. Then I want to come back to Sandhills Community College, to get my cosmetology license. I want to do hair and makeup for really rich and important people, move to England to learn British and marry a prince."

It is hard to question that kind of logic. To my credit, I did not try to correct any of it. I just told her that was a very creative response. It's Lizzy's World. We just live in it.

Noting the success I had with the first child, I turned around and asked Katherine what she wanted to do with her life. Again, without a moment's hesitation, she told me her plans.

"I want to be an architect or an engineer. I will have a really nice sports car and a three story house, with a fully furnished walk-out basement, because Elizabeth will need a place to stay when she has no job. And Elizabeth will NOT be allowed to drive my car."

I think my only question was what color car she wanted.

Katherine is a ponderer. She is constantly deep in thought about something. The problem is you can't tell. You might be asking her about her next soccer game, but she is on a totally different plane of existence. Here are some Katbird moments:

"Daddy, when God said, 'Let there be light', what language was He speaking?"
"Daddy, if evolution is true, why do we still have monkeys?"
"Did Adam and Eve have belly buttons?"
"If God knows everything, and He's all-powerful, then He must have known that I was going to sin and wanted it to happen. Otherwise He would have stopped me from doing it, since He's all-powerful."

Go ahead and take your best shot.

Katherine's mind can wander into dark places too. Sometimes she becomes convinced about things that are not true and have no logic. Susan and I took her clothes shopping the other day. Not my idea of a good time, but I'm there. We walked through three stores, but she could not find one thing that she liked. Well that got my pump primed. We'll just have to fix this, because I am not gonna go through this whole stinking mall. See where this is going?

I finally got her to start describing what she liked. Then she started picking out shirts that were all grey. After four or five stores, we had three grey shirts. You have to understand that Katherine is an artist and loves color. I am no fashion guru, but when she wears something bright, her whole being radiates. She has magnificent, natural beauty. The kind that takes your breath away.

I called a timeout and asked her what was going on. She finally said that when you wear colorful things, that gives people an opportunity to say you don't look good.

#Schmuck. #Turd. #Loser. #WorstDadEver.

An Acme safe landed on my heart. How could she think such a thing? Her friends here have been so incredibly kind and loving. She has been literally embraced by her classmates. We constantly affirm her, yet somehow, she is getting a terrible message.

We convinced her that she rocks color and nobody thinks that way. Then all of sudden, she found about ten outfits that she liked.

I think our salvation was Tina Wrona. She is an incredibly gifted photographer in the Sandhills area, and she mentors other photographers. These images came from a photo shoot. For the first time, Katherine saw herself as pretty. We use these images as a benchmark for Katherine and remind her of the way she felt back then. It is hard, even for her superpower intellect, to refute that logic.

She is a complicated little lady, but that is what is awesome about her. Once she harnesses that incredible talent for seeing things differently, Katherine will take over the world. We will all bend to her will. I just hope she is a benevolent dictator.

Most artists underestimate their incredible gifts. Since it is relatively easy for them to produce their artwork, they assume that it is effortless for everybody. Lately Katherine has been watching YouTube videos on how to draw things for Halloween. She has produced dozens of little figures freehand, as she watches online. She spends about ten minutes knocking it out and even going beyond what the video does. I told her she needs to be making her own videos.

Coming to Spain has given Katherine an opportunity to reinvent herself a little bit. She has blown me away. It takes some guts to walk up to a crowd of Spanish-speaking-only girls, all of them two years older, and start playing soccer with them. Katherine is now getting recruited by other teams. Her coach came to us the other day and told us that a team with younger players saw her in action, and they want her to play with them. Coach wanted her to stay.

We have met with all of Katherine's teachers and we now have a new Spanish word--Perfectionista. Her teachers have recognized Katherine's drive to be perfect and are working with us to help her understand that nobody expects her to speak fluent Spanish one month into moving here. I helped her study for her first science test last night. The teacher is altering her exam, so she just has to write down four or five definitions in English and Spanish. Katherine is comprehending the Spanish.

Las Estrellas son cuerpos celestes formados por la acumulación de enormes cantidades de gases.

She knows what that means. Can I get a BOO-YAH? 

Katherine is incredibly intricate, and that is what makes me love her so much.

Be nice to her, and she might let you have a room in her basement. But don't even think about the car.

My Kids Are Different-Elizabeth

16 October, 13

My kids are different. On so many levels. They are different from your kids. They are different from me and Susan. They are different from each other. This Spanish Experiment has brought out a lot of differences that have been very interesting to watch unfold.

My girls are almost exactly 30 months apart. Often though, people think they are twins. Aside from both having blonde hair, I can't really figure that one out. I told one lady, "Yes, they are twins, but they were born 30 months apart." She didn't get it.

Elizabeth is the one with my kind of attitude toward the world. "Resistance is futile." She will have the world, because it is given to her on a silver platter. The people who give it to her probably won't even know why they are doing it. She'll smile, take the platter and walk away, as if she were just picking up a hamburger from the counter at McDonald's. Lizzy's World has its own dimensions outside of time and space. She is all glitter, glam and sparkles. I have to admit that what she does, she does well. Most women over age 30 think she uses way too much makeup. Elizabeth doesn't care. She likes it, so she uses it. In her defense, she does a pretty good job of it and actually approaches makeup like a professional. Her hero is Coco Chanel. She can tell you the thirteen parts of the eye:

1. Outer crease
   
2. Above crease
3. Brow/Highlight

Well, you get the idea.

The problem with Lizzy's World is that it often collides with Reality, which makes for quite an explosion. Elizabeth decided several years ago that she did not like school. It required too much work, and Elizabeth doesn't "do" work. Here in Spain, she has to work twice as hard, because she has to translate everything, then think about what it means, then craft the appropriate response in Spanish. The other day, she was bemoaning this sad state of affairs, and I told her she was being lazy. This is not an insult to Elizabeth, as she will tell you that about herself. She quickly replied, "I work hard. I just do it in a lazy way." She could not understand why I thought that was funny. 

Elizabeth is sneaky about learning Spanish and learning in general. She knows a lot more than she lets on. The other night, she came into the room and told me excitedly about her experience at the park. On this particular evening, her normal translator friends were not there. It was just Elizabeth with her other Spanish-only friends. She was forced to speak Spanish or sit by herself. For two or three hours, she had conversations with the other kids. To be sure, they did a lot of Tonto-speak, "Ugh. Lizzy need baño", but she was also able to communicate in a foreign environment without her normal crutches. 

Elizabeth is turning a corner. In her own way. In her own time. And that is why I love her so much.

The world is slowly approaching the platter, preparing for the handoff.

Making Migas, Part II

15 October, 13

Making migas ended at 2PM, but we still had 13 hours to go in our Saturday festivities. We left the back alley and headed over to another section of town, where some guys were working over a grill. They were making their own charcoal out of a big olive stump, transferring the hot coals from the fire pit to the grills, one shovel load at a time. That got me fired up. I love to see pros at work. It was just too busy for me to get in there with them, especially since I still can't communicate clearly enough. Maybe next year...

Susan and I ate bocadillos, with fresh grilled pork. They also had morcillas. Remember those blood sausage things? People were paying for them. One Euro for a sandwich and a cup of beer. People were lined up eight deep, like the concessions stand at halftime of a Clemson/Carolina football game.

The Pit Boss

The beginning shows the olive stump. They would transfer the coals to the grills as needed.

After we finished our bocadillos, Susan and I headed back to Plaza Casino to meet up with Julio, Toñi and Santi, one of their friends. We had tapas and cervezas, and our girls ate real hamburgers, which was a treat for them, since that is not too common here. We stayed there for an hour or so, then headed off to Carlos and Soledad's house.

It just so happens that Carlos, husband of Soledad, was returning from Colombia, after working there for 3 months. You might remember Soledad from Teaching English in Spain. She's the lady that almost burned down the house.

Since Carlos had been gone so long, of course Soledad wanted to have a party in his honor. It reminded me of home. Back in Pinehurst, NC we have a lot of military families associated with the Special Forces. These guys go on "trips" about 4 times a year for 3-4 months at a time. I have gotten to know several of them over the last 15 years, and I can tell you that what they really want when they first get back is a hot shower and a comfortable bed. Their families, however, want to celebrate them and the fact that they made it back alive. Who can blame them? So Sgt. Army puts on the brave face and makes one more little sacrifice for his country. They really are amazing. I keep saying I want to be like them when I grow up, but I am older than any of the soldiers. At my age, they are retiring from the Army, mostly worn out and busted up, like professional football players. We just don't realize how big a toll war takes on our soldiers. Regardless of your politics, they deserve our praise and adoration.

So Carlos got home from Colombia, which has a 6 hour time difference with La Alberca. That spells jet lag, but hey, sometimes you just gotta suck it up and party. What should we eat? How about migas? Well by now, I am a miga-making expert, seeing as how I just helped make the best dang pan of the stuff you ever laid eyes on. Carlos and some of the guys were huddled around the pan, so I chest-bumped my way into the action. I know how to stir dough into little bitty pieces.

We got the mix all ready for the salchicha and then transferred the pan to a little three-legged stand in the middle of several chairs. Soledad handed everybody a spoon, and we commenced to eating.

Toñi was the life of the party. I couldn't understand most of what she said, but it was funny just to watch.

I think she was either telling a fishing story or doing the Macarena.

Migas has its origin out in the field with shepherds. They would start with stale bread and olive oil. Everything had to be cooked in a single pan, because they couldn't tote a whole kitchen's worth of pots and pans. When it was ready, all the shepherds ate together, family style. No plates or napkins required. So that's exactly what we did, and it was great.

Everybody just sat around outside, eating migas, drinking a little vino tinto, and chatting the night away, while the kids ran around in and out of the house. After everybody was done, we went through a round of cafe solo. Then we went through a round of after dinner drinks. Then we moved to the picnic table, and most everybody opted for cerveza. Then...these Spaniards just keep going! Except Carlos, who was passed out in the hammock. His body clock was all screwed up.

We finally left Carlos and Soledad's house at 3:30AM, absolutely worn out from a day of relaxation.

Making Migas

14 October, 13

Saturday was a big day around here. I guess when your country has been around for a couple thousand years, your calendar is pretty well booked up with big events. October 12 is a good example. It is significant for us too. This is the day Columbus landed in the New World.

Really Spaniards don't need much incentive to go out and have a good time. This is a pretty amiable bunch. Perhaps it was different when they were a world power, and therefore responsible for everybody else's welfare. It's hard to have a good time with that much responsibility on your shoulders.

The morning started off with more of those infernal fireworks. I finally saw the guy lighting them off and offered, in English, to give him a nice knuckle sandwich. Sometimes it's good to be in a country that only speaks Spanish. A big crowd had gathered near Plaza Casino for the Migas Cookoff. In the South, we would be cooking Barbecue. Here they cook migas. I have a link for the recipe.

The basic ingredients for migas are flour and elbow grease. You have to constantly stir and mix the dough with oil over low heat for about an hour, before it has the right consistency. It reminds me of stuffing. Not dressing, which is a little wetter, the best example of which was at Johnson's Restaurant in Hartsville, SC. Once the dough mix is almost granular, you add the chorizo, ajo, cebollas and pimientos. Now you're talking.

One thing I have learned about cookoffs is that they are usually done by men. I'm not sure why that is. Somehow we think it's fun to get up really early and cook for big crowds, but not on a daily basis for our families.

Susan and I walked up and down the alley, looking at each contestant's mixture. At a BBQ cookoff, you can start a conversation with the guys, asking them about their recipes, their smokers, prep ideas, etc. I love doing this, mostly because you almost always end up getting free samples of Barbecue. I can't really ask these Spanish fellas what is going on, because they all respond in Spanish, which makes it difficult to segue to the free samples part. Then I found a way.

I spotted a man and woman working over their burner, stirring the migas. They didn't have a big crowd helping, so I started asking about ingredients. They seemed congenial enough, so I asked if I could help. Claro! (Of course). I grabbed a wooden spoon and commenced to stirring and chopping and flopping the dough over and over and over again, getting it down from a big lump to those little pieces of heaven. We were working pretty hard, so the guy picked up the wine bottle and offered me a drink. We don't use glasses around here for that kind of stuff. They had a little bamboo spile stuck in the bottle, and you just turned it up, Redneck style. Free samples baby.

Then Granny got in the act. She took a look at our mix and decided it was a failure, so she brought out another pan, took half of what we had and started over. Nobody argued with Granny. She got over that fire and started whipping those migas into shape. Another 30 minutes or so, more vino tinto, and we got ourselves a batch of migas! Here's the interesting part. They add grapes or pomegranates on the side. The migas is more on the dry and savory side, so the grapes and pomegranates add sweet and liquid. It was delicioso!

We start serving up plates to whoever was standing close by and celebrated with more vino tinto.

Not a bad way to start our day. That only gets us to about 2PM. I'll need to post another blog to get us through the rest of the day.

Dino con vino

Granny is large and in charge.

Stop Hunger Now!