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.
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| The Pit Boss |
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| The beginning shows the olive stump. They would transfer the coals to the grills as needed. |
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.
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| Toñi was the life of the party. I couldn't understand most of what she said, but it was funny just to watch. |
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| 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.
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