Looking for Mama

12 February, 14

Anytime I have traveled, whether it was across town or across the globe, I have always looked for a Mama. This does not arise from sappy sentimentality or from fear of the dark. It is cold-blooded pragmatism. Mama means food.

All the girls I dated in high school, all both of them, only had sisters. This presented a magnificent opportunity for me. The first thing I did, the first time I walked into my girlfriend's house, was to raid the refrigerator. In no time at all, the mama's had added me to their grocery shopping list. If you want to win a Mama's heart, start eating.

Not all women are Mama's. This designation is reserved for those women who enjoy feeding others. They are the ones that bring the most food to the church potluck. They are the ones who all the kids in the neighborhood run to for snacktime. They just keep shoveling food onto your plate, until you cry "Uncle". Fortunately for me, I was blessed with an incredibly high metabolism, allowing me to ingest twice my body weight at every sitting.

One of my highest aspirations regarding world travel is to be invited into somebody's home to eat. I firmly believe that you cannot truly know somebody until you have broken bread together. Plenty of people have opened their homes to us here in La Alberca, and we have enjoyed some great food and fellowship. What I really wanted, however, was to be invited by a family that had no connection to Julio or his extensive family tree.

Last Sunday I hit the mother lode, or maybe I should say Mama Lode. Sorry. Couldn't resist. Vicky and Pedro are friends of Katherine and Elizabeth, respectively. Elizabeth hangs out at the park with Pedro and a cadre of other teenagers. Katherine plays futbol with Vicky, who is very competitive. One day she came to practice wearing a shark tooth necklace, similar to what you might find at Eagle's in Myrtle Beach. I started calling her tiburona, which means shark. Every time she makes a good shot or pass, I yell out "Tiburona!" Her parents started doing it too. They were very friendly towards us and always made an effort to speak during the games, which is not typical.

Over the summer, I would escort Katherine to practice and try to take a different route home, as a means of learning the town. One one particular day, I stumbled into Plaza Victoria and walked into the restaurant in the middle of the plaza, named Restaurante Victoria. Very creative. I was surprised to find Vicky's mother, Antonia, working there. It was months later before I understood enough Spanish to realize that her family owned the restaurant, and her mother's name is Victoria. Susan and I have visited this restaurant several times now and really love the food.  It is obvious that both Victoria and Pedro, the owners, love what they do.

Last Sunday we got invited to eat at Victoria and Pedro's house. I thought it was going to be our family, and a four or five other people. It was more like a family reunion. The first thing I did was to find the kitchen. I was not disappointed. There was an old kitchen table in the center of the room with food piled up on it. Homemade salchicha, fresh vegetables drizzled in olive oil, salt-cured dorado, and a big bottle of vino. Standing around the table were a handful of septuagenarians, scarfing down the appetizers, like the apocalypse was approaching. I bellied right up and commenced to munching. And Mama was happy, happy, happy. Victoria kept bringing food out to the kitchen table, but I knew this was just appetizers.

After about an hour of eating in the kitchen, we retired to the dining room for the meal. I actually got a little nervous, because I wanted to leave room for the main course. Their dining room table seated about 25 people. That was the most raucous group of folks I have ever encountered. The jubilates, or retired people, were whupping up on the young punks, questioning their manhood. One of the jubilates made all the salchicha. I told him I wanted to help the next time he was making some. That started a whole litany against the youngsters, because they never asked to help.

All the while Mama was beaming. She would have cooked all night long, if we had let her.

The Redneck's Guide to Food--Paella

13 November, 13


I am all about some eatin'. There aren't too many things I won't eat. Even mayonnaise has become, well not a friend exactly, but a neighbor I don't mind talking to across the fence. I have eaten some crazy stuff in my life.

One day at Carowinds, we were in line at the Hurler roller coaster. As you wait in line, you pass under the coaster, which is a huge wooden monstrosity. On the ceiling of the tunnel, you will find a sea of chewing gum stalactites. I don't know what possessed me that day, but I took down one of them and put it in my mouth. Luckily it was mint flavored, which is my favorite. The kids around me were appropriately grossed out, and I got some free gum. It's amazing how long the flavor lasts in gum these days. The old Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum or Big League Chew would only take about 5 minutes to turn into a bland mush.

Then there was the time at Mama's house, when I was hanging out with all my nephews and nieces. We found a good-sized worm, and I asked them what they thought it would taste like. Nobody seemed to know, and nobody was willing to find out. So I did what crazy uncles do. They taste like dirt. It's funny, you say they taste like dirt, but when we speak of wine, we say it has an earthy taste, as if that is very much better.

Now you know that when I recommend something to eat, you should probably ask if it's been eaten before and left behind by others. That's my disclaimer...

Paella is one of my favorite dishes in Spain. Everybody in Spain loves Paella, and every region has a little different spin on it. Some use chicken, others pork or seafood. Basically, though, it is a big pan of rice, colored with saffron. You add other ingredients to taste. You never cook paella for yourself. It is, by its very nature, a fiesta food, which helps explain its popularity with Spaniards.

The other day, we got a paella lesson from La José. Her name is actually María José, but everybody calls her La José. She reminds me a little bit of Ellie Mae Clampett.

Given the choice of wrestling Ivan "The Russian Bear" Koloff or La José, I'm taking the Russian.

But like Ellie Mae, she is pretty and sweet and happy at the same time. I have no idea what she's saying most of the time, but when I do understand her, it is usually something that I cannot repeat to my children. She was born the middle of 13 kids, so I guess you have to learn how to defend yourself and fight for groceries at the dinner table. They all prayed with one hand on the chicken leg, if you know what I mean.

So La José showed up on Saturday and she got us jumping around like grease on the griddle. She and Susan started cooking up the chicken and red peppers. Then she threw in some artichoke hearts. The last step was adding the rice and saffron. Then you step away and wait for the yummy goodness to all come together.

If you're really serious about paella you go out and buy a special pan, called a paellera. We just used our frying pan, and it was still awesome. We are thinking about trying to cook up a batch over Christmas with the family. Vamos a ver...

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...