Andalusian Adventures #1: Encounters at a Service Station

I was that girl, the girl who boarded the bus to Cordoba with nothing more than a fertile imagination and a hungry curiosity. As the bus pulled into the warm embrace of the La Mancha countryside-- a vast windswept region of flat lands made famous by Don Quixote-- there was an insuperable ebullition of excitement in the anticipation that an adventure as big as Miguel de Cervantes' legendary figure was coming to life.

Like all forays into the unknown, my introduction to the cuisine of Al Andalus began at a service station somewhere along the Autovia de los Vinedos. Like all service stations that I would eventually take pitstops at, this one was characterised by an extensive buffet bar that had almost every single regional dish under the heating lamps. But, like most passersby whom I would eventually encounter, I did what everybody else does-- part with €8.50 for a menu del dia (menu of the day) comprising an entree, a main, a dessert and a drink (which does include a bottle of cerveza-- aha!):

Gazpacho-- an Andalusian signature tomato-based soup served cold. Cold soup is not to my liking, unfortunately. 

A bastardised version of chicken stew-- I mean, fries?? That is so Americano. Thank god for beer. 

Smoked cod with steamed veggies. Bacalao. Cod. The word rolls off my tongue effortlessly.

Paella was good, but not the best. This wasn't Valencia, after all. And neither was this Italia, so I had no idea why lasagna was on the menu. But the focus here is the arroz con leche (literally, rice with milk), or rice pudding-- with a dusting of cinnamon. I could get used to the little spoonfuls of rice delight.

As I would later discover, a simple dessert of an egg custard topped with a milk biscuit and sprinkles of cinnamon is the cornerstone of Andalusian desserts. The best I had was at a hotel in Seville. Alas, too immersed in my own indulgence, I forgot to obtain photographic evidence of such pleasure in Seville.

I was finishing my custard when the jovial old Portugese lady from the bus proudly declared that the dessert I was enjoying also had similar Portugese versions. Ovo, she told me. Means "egg". In Portugese. Very nice. I couldn't have agreed more. I smiled at the nice old lady and thanked her for the little lesson. A plan to Lisbon was hatched, so to speak. 

Letter 596: The Undoing

August inches its way so stealthily into my mundane existence that I don't even notice the proximity of my birthday until it occurred to me that my cousin's birthday was yesterday-- which meant that mine was just round the corner. It's strangely frightening how half the year has slipped by and all I did was laugh at each passing moment, blissfully unaware that exams are looming till someone casually mentioned, "So, are you going to sit for the exams in February?" February is scary. February '11 was when I was officially in training, and they expect me to sit and pass the exams in February '12?! Excuse me while I close off the browsers of the travel websites I've been researching and shut myself from the world to brood study. At least I have my dog to keep me company. Pffft.

Cute-but-utterly-useless fact: My pup doesn't respond to the command "come". Whenever I ask him to "come", and he just sits there and cocks his head and looks at me strangely. Once, I changed my tactic and yelled out "Help! Help! Help me, Niño!", and he scrambled over like a paramedic to the scene. I think he's got potential for retrieval medicine-- or maybe he thinks I'm just plain weird.

Letter 595: Domestic Bliss

There is a certain slice of lucid stillness in the air that hasn't made its presence in this room in a long time. Just like a certain feeling of disjointed abnegation that hasn't been pouncing on my consciousness since choosing this particular career path. It is strange, indeed, how one can fall into a pool of pure contentment when you actually listen to your heart. Many people think there is no work-life balance to our job, and, to a very large extent, it is tragically true. But, to my luck, I have managed to equilibrize the two in a little place that has so much to offer that I absolutely cannot see myself leaving. The addition of little Niño completes that picture of tranquil perfection that I never imagined possible. A typical day is coming home to a hyperactive puppy and a boyfriend who's already putting the pasta to boil. Play with Niño for half an hour (and this is also my exercise regime, by the way-- try chasing a Jack Russell around your living room and you'll know why), shower, have dinner, watch Masterchef (yes, it's amazing how I suddenly find time for TV-- unless I'm on-call, of course), attempt to study, abandon study and go online instead (I hate B for introducing me to online shopping!), sleep, repeat next day. Weekends incorporate banal chores like grocery shopping, laundry, and housework during the day, but come night time, we usually watch a movie or two with Niño curled up on our laps, a tub of ice-cream on the coffee table, and a few glasses of wine. Pretty mediocre, really, and, for someone who writes in her spare time, pretty uninspiring (hence the lack of updates). But if you were to ask me if I'm happy, or contented with this life that I've chosen, I would nod and tell you that I wouldn't have chosen otherwise.

Tales from Toledo #3: Highway

I walk the narrow streets of Toledo, following the crowd of tourists equally in awe of the ancient medieval town that once claimed fame to being the capital of the Visigothic Kingdom and the Spanish Empire. The cobblestone streets are drawn together so intricately that the whole capital seems a bit of a labyrinth to navigate. It is not hard to imagine that galliant knights once patrolled this capital in their full armour, for it feels like I have stepped back into the Middle Ages as I roam the ancient streets. A Chinese restaurant, a vintage Citroën with a sheen of green, a fiery red Vespa, and a person with a yellow helmut asking for directions under a Coca-Cola sign serve as reminders to the fact that I am in the 21st century. I'm not sure if this is a good thing, for I quite miss the 20th century, to be honest.

~The End~

Tales from Toledo #2: The Son of a Swordsmaker

Everybody knows that we make the best swords in Toledo, he begins, without any hint of arrogance. The tradition goes back to almost 2000 years ago, before you and I were born. This, he sweeps his arm across the room, showcasing a grand display of swords, sabers and knives, is my life's work. I grew up with steel, make my living with steel, and maybe when I die, I will be encased in steel too, he jokes morbidly. Toledo steel, he reminds me, adjusting his glasses above his aquiline nose. But of course. What about your sons, my dear swordsmaker. Ah, my only son, he nods. He is in Madrid. His future does not lie with steel. He smiles wistfully and points to a sign above the set of sliding doors. He belongs to a club, the only club in el mundo worth supporting. Maybe you know him? I glance at the sign. Hmm, maybe I do know him after all.