The Tortilla Española

¡Que rico!

It may not look like much, but if not so delicate a delicacy of Spain, the tortilla española is certainly a staple of noms throughout the country. The pie-like circles of potatoey goodness circulate at every birthday, festival, and social event. I am convinced that Spanish men and women are born knowing how to cook this extremely delicious pseudo-omelette, but for those of us that aren't, have a look at this great article by Brittany Griffith that I nabbed from "The Cleanest Line". "The Cleanest Line is the official blog for ethical outdoor clothing company Patagonia.

Cooking the Tortilla Española

I encourage you all to give it a try and then adorn or dip with your favorite sauce- that's what I'll be doing, an ocean away! I find that something a little picante, or spicey, compliments the taste well.

The Pasta Game

We are playing a game in my host's house, but they don't know it. I personally think that this makes the game more fun. Here is the setup. I live in a house with a group of people that really love pasta. As a matter of a fact, it is not uncommon for us to eat pasta several days in a row. I have no problem with this, carbohydrates are my friends. If I tell myself that over and over again, they will not make me gain weight out of sheer gratitude that I don't hate them like every other female on the planet. My plan- it is genius. 


Anyway, every so often, when there is a load of pasta in the fridge or cupboard, just waiting to be eaten- the lady of the house will make it her mission to cook anything BUT that darn pasta, because as soon as it starts, the Italian trend will keep up for days. For the first half of the week these "avoidance meals" appear to be utterly normal in their culinary makeup, but as the supplies dwindle, things get increasingly... creative. Luckily, three and four year olds will eat nearly anything if allowed to apply their own mayonnaise and ketchup, so the condiments flow like the Amazon at mealtimes here.  I'm not entirely certain that anyone else notices the trend, but for me it has become the pasta game. When I come in from my apartment for lunch I will attempt to discern from the door, without even approaching the table, if we have finally broken and given in to the five-minute simplicity of boxed tortellini- the silent tyranny of ready-made foods, the false allure of three-step cooking. Sometimes we have and other times, we are eating a curious combination of chick-peas, rice, and stewed onions. It's creative! We're setting an example for the children! Be creative, because someday you will be too tired after work to even think about going shopping. As far as I'm concerned, I'm putting aside ideas for when I'm a starving writer. Or, in this case, a not starving one.


Either way, tonight I am cooking. 

Post IV: The Coffee Conspiracy

*Note- written before the fact (January 18th, 11:30 AM) and updated later

I am making a goal of finding out what strange process goes into the making of coffee here in Spain. Questions will be asked, interrogations will be held. Let me let you in on why I feel so passionately about this topic. When you order a coffee at an exorbitantly high price, expect a cup of roughly the height and volume of a three-year old's fist. The punch on the other hand is a bit stronger than that of a three-year-old's fist. If you've ever been hit by a three-year-old, then you know that this is saying serious things about the oomph going into one of these cups of coffee. 

In the United States, if I drink a coffee I am a bit (more) wired (than usual). This is a coffee of about five or six times of the drink to be had here. Yet, it makes me a shaky wreck that is magically fluent in Spanish- or at least has confidence like she is. Sometimes I dance. I wish I were kidding.

Sherlock Holmes would suggest foul play and, following in the footsteps of great intercultural detectives before me, so do I. I am possessed of the opinion that when you order coffee in Spain you are actually just ordering espresso and that they find it hilarious to watch confused Americans jitter around the airport, buying everything that they twitch on.

Post II: Bienvenidas a Madrid

Note: Written without wireless (Jan 18). Updated after the fact.


Buenos días y gracias por volando con Iberia.

Good morning and thank you for flying Iberia.

Chirps the intercom when it inevitably becomes 6 AM Madrid time. Granted, it's 11 PM in Chicago, the city that we departed from, but details details. Either way, it's good that the disembodied voice that just initiated a full airplane overhead light revival is pre-recorded, or some slick-toned flight attendant would have a very grumpy group of college kids to deal with on this fine Spanish morning. They groan awake on all sides, unused to staying up this late unless there is alcohol involved, and the excited chatter begins.

Nearly everyone on this plane is headed for the international university in Seville, Spain for a four-month study abroad program. It is apparent that they come from colleges all over the States. Of course, with this enormous selection of college-aged gentlemen on the plane, I was seated to literally one of three old men. Still, no real reason to complain! The Germany native was an excellent conversational partner and we spoke on such topics as racism, the European college system, and I'm certain the strange sounds he made while asleep were a subconscious agreement with me that the breakfast selection was positively morbid. He's been to Madrid several times on such choice red eye flights and he had to agree that this morning's breakfast selection was decidedly lacking.

Menú (If you say it like it's French, it adds class)

• A plastic cup of non-pulp orange juice
• A muffin- apparently made out of compressed sugar and grain (bite-size!)
• A dry mini-sandwich smaller than a fist
• Deteriorating honey-dew
• A Kit-Kat bar

While the rest of the menu was a bit high society for me, I enjoyed my working class Kit-Kat bar and then promptly walked down the length of the plane- which effectively burned off all of the calories that I had potentially just consumed. You would think that on such a long plane they would be able to spare another inch or so of leg room. And that for such an expensive airline they would be able to afford more than three, slightly concerning televisions running down the middle row, that appeared to be prepared to disconnect from the ceiling should we confront turbulence. These are the questions that haunt us. 

Still, with all of this, it was the fastest international flight that I've had. We were flying over Spain before I knew it and I couldn't have been happier to see Madrid. I forget how enormous it is and, having never flown over it at night, was pleasantly surprised at the complex spiderwebbing of lights that seem to be the result of the particular urban layout adopted by European cities. It was a good thing to land to. And now to Bilbao!

Or rather, four hours of layover. And then to Bilbao!