It’s Typical! It’s Complicated!

The dreams kept marching through my sleep. The dream started with an old clay tile coming loose on the roof of our Spanish dream home.  If I walked on the tiles, they would break like eggshells. If I left  them alone, the  house would  spring leaks. Somewhere in the middle of the dream our house morphed into one of the nightmares we considered buying. A caved in roof hung over two squash blossom filled garden beds. Our friend Tona’s kids helpfully skittered across the roof bringing me the wrong tiles. Welcome to our dream home!

The truth is we could be daunted. Simple cosmetic fixes have already turned into more complicated projects. The front room’s exterior wall is what locals call “blown-out”. Somewhere in the continuous cycle of soaking up water and drying out the paint and plaster chose not to stick to the wall. Years of temporary fixes finally cried, “Uncle!” Malcolm the Builder recommends chipping it all off and doing it the way it should have been done in the first place.

In our first twelve years together Donna and I lived in eight houses. We’ve remodeled six houses together. Remodeling is basically undoing the dreams of everyone who owned the house before you. The pink granny’s house became a Southwest inspired tract home. The historic Craftsman was an exercise in lovingly bringing back period details. To do this we wound up gutting half of the main floor. The Seattle house had us shrinking our Herron Island remodel and building a backyard cottage. We are nuts!

5a1d5a83-e525-4113-8206-b2f1c2bfbdf1Our house in Spain didn’t start its life as a human habitation. It was at one time in the distant past a horse stable. This means it is authentically rustic. There isn’t a smooth wall in the place. The walls swoop and dip showing past blowouts and genuine rocks embedded in the below structural grade concrete. By this I mean the concrete is a combination of 90% beach sand and 10% cement. At some point I expect to find a horseshoe buried behind the plaster. We aren’t undoing dreams here. We are tweaking things while addressing deferred maintenance.

dfc5db71-38fa-4880-8784-9c03d6fc631bDonna is in her own special version of heaven. I’ve been painting. Painting…and having elaborate dreams reminding me that somewhere down the line squash blossoms will glow in the sun. Well that…and thank God we didn’t buy one of those gloriously marvelous wrecks!a7225161-89dc-47ae-a414-d834291e011e

Closer To Home: Methow Valley Ciderhouse

 

 

IMG_9773Heading to far off places in September makes a lot of sense.  It’s the end of the season, rates are lower, and the multitudes have gone back home.  For retired teachers traveling in September is the realization of a deferred dream.  It also gives you a place to put the energy you had always put into your classroom.

There is a distinct smell in the air when the end of summer comes rolling around.  It creates that Sunday afternoon feeling for people who work in education.  It’s a signal telling you it’s time to gut up.  You won’t take a deep breath again until the last kid walks out the door in June.

Donna and I have been escaping the country for the months of September, October, and part of November ever since she retired.  It has been liberating, but we haven’t experienced a Pacific Northwest autumn for awhile.  We had almost forgotten what we were missing.

The corrective action was a series of karmic accidents.  For a brief instant in my youth Richard, John, Carl, Ric and I formed a band called Hale’s Angels. We practiced the hits of the day and performed two of them at our Sophomore talent show.  We were slated to perform everything else we knew in the lunchroom.  We were out in the hallway when a pie fight erupted.  The event was canceled.  I have never been sure what the greatest disappointment was…not playing, or missing pie fight.IMG_9962Fifty-two years later we decided to have another go.  We were practiced and scheduled to play at our 50th High School Reunion.  The thing about schedules is they have a tendency to slowly, quietly, and inevitably expand.  The extra minutes kept adding up, and in the end the Hale’s Angels figured not playing would only disappoint the four of us.  The folks who came to dance were not to be denied.  Watching them out the dance floor proved that point.  Everyone could still bust some impressive moves.  Nothing less could be expected from Franklin Quakers!

A tentative plan was made for the Angels to regroup up at the Methow Valley Ciderhouse in late October.  Richard, our percussionist and former bassist, is the Ciderhouse’s proprietor.  The rest of Hale’s Angels surviving members couldn’t make it, but Donna and I decided we were due for a road trip.

Some casual figuring told us neither one of us had been to Winthrop for 35 years.  Our eyes told us this was a huge mistake.  Highway 20 is one of Washington State’s natural wonders.  In autumn it’s a feast of yellows, golds, and reds.  The highway ends at Methow Valley Ciderhouse, and Winthrop.

Richard and his wife Lynne are the Ciderhouse’s owners, cider makers, and marvelous hosts.  In no time at all we were sampling their entire menu of ciders.  All of the ciders are made from apples grown on their property.  It was difficult to pick a favorite.  That meant it was necessary to order another King Cougar, and a Town Deer.  While we were sipping a crowd of celebrants arrived in Steampunk attire and decided to settle in for cider, brats, ribs, and sides.

The musical entertainment, Jerome and Sara, weren’t slated to perform until later in the evening.  So, there was just enough time to explore the Riser Lake Loop with Richard, Lynne, and their dogs Trip and Bree.  Autumn in the Methow is worth the drive.

IMG_9781Later in the evening Jerome and Sara played us back to the days of yore.  This means they played the stuff Hale’s Angels listened to back in high school.  Old pop songs have become folk music. After Jerome and Sara were done for the night I borrowed a guitar from a local folkster.  Richard and I played a couple of tunes.  In the following lull the folkster belted out Me and Bobby McGee.  Donna belted out Mercedes Benz and Sara joined in.  The Methow Valley Ciderhouse then experienced an impromptu flash mob Hootenanny.  Magic happens up at the end of Highway 20!

We took the route through Wenatchee on the way home.  Traveling to far off places during the autumn still has its appeal, but there are plenty slices of heaven closer to home.

Thanks to Richard and Lynne, and the folks up at the Methow Valley Ciderhouse! methowvalleyciderhouse.com

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A Place in Spain: A New Chapter Begins

IMG_9169On the final day of our property search in Oliva, Spain we were back looking at properties with OlivaCasas’ intrepid Jane.  This was a nod to my expressed preference for apartments.  The apartments we saw were grand dowagers.  They were only in need of a little lipstick to bring them back to a sort of well-worn elegance.

One of my favorite books, Algonquin, is the sad telling of the end of a distinct Southern era.  It contains this gem of wisdom, “The young belles were always intimidated by my Grandmother.  She was truly beautiful, and they were merely young.”  This gem applies to real estate as well.  Walking up four flights of stairs to the best of these apartments reminded me I am no longer merely young.  The apartments were intriguing impossibilities.

We then visited a spacious townhouse at the bottom of the hill close to our VRBO.  I didn’t notice the sump pump in the living room until we were leaving.  It would have been a shorter visit if I had.

We called this property “The Blank Slate”.  It needed liberal doses of elbow grease, a couple hundred gallons of paint, a new kitchen, a gut job in the bathroom, and a ceiling repair in one of the bedrooms.  All of this could only occur after the source of the BIG leak was found.  There is a difference between putting lipstick on a grand dame, and putting lipstick on a pig. The pump was primed and ready to go!

Our Top Three List was down to the Top Two.  We returned for a second look at what we were calling “Almost Arabian”.  I was taking a casual approach.  Donna was documenting every defect.  Cracked tiles, patches of crumbling plaster, broken window latches, and delaminated wooden doors were all photographed.  I was off taking pictures of zebra print linoleum floors, and the view from the terrace.  If this place was a contender, visualizing the finished project was critical.  Then there was the five thousand dollar rewire that had to be factored in.  There was a lot of going backward to be done before you could start going forward.  I hate spending money on things that don’t show!

This brought us back to the “Stable House”.  It was always quietly on the top of Donna’s list.  It was also at the very upper end of our budget.  Every bit of our looking had been to find a suitable substitute for this house.  Donna hit the place with a vengeance.  Rugs were peeled back, damaged tiles were photographed.  Every question that kept her tossing and turning the night before was asked and answered.  Outside water spigots were located.  An outdoor kitchen was envisioned.  Donna’s wheels were spinning.

I was off taking photos of views, and trying to capture the color of the walls and tiles.  The “Stable House” needed tweaks. The Under the Sea bathroom could still be considered sumptuously gaudy.  I saw candles on black pillars in its future.  I saw scraping candle wax off the floor in mine.

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Like all old couples, Donna and I have worked out our own real estate buying process.  We go off in our own directions.  We set narrower and narrower parameters for the search.  Most of our communication is in practiced shorthand.  This time I kept repeating the bit about not wanting to travel half-way around the world to engage in endless projects.  Donna kept reminding me that she knows what she is looking for.  Neither repetition was necessary.  Eventually Donna firmly stated she was ready to make an offer.  I firmly replied, “We need to talk!”  The casual thumbs up I flashed was not a starting pistol.  Then we went off to formalize what we had been communicating through shorthand.

Our process is probably crap, and fraught with all sorts of relationship damaging pitfalls.  It’s always a matter of her speeding me up, and me slowing her down until we are in sync.  In this case the end result was an offer on the “Stable House”.  We waited for acceptance.  Made a counter offer, and finally agreed to a price with the furniture thrown in.  A chilled bottle of Cava was uncorked and we toasted the beginning of a new adventure!  It may not matter what our process is.  The shared goal is always another  adventure!!!

 

A Place in Spain: Part Two

 

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After viewing the first 18 properties we started whittling our list down to the Top Three.  This meant factoring in new information about houses in Oliva.  They are subject to the whims of the climate.  Oliva is humid, and when it rains it pours.  A recent weather forecast predicted 7 inches of rain within a 24 hour period.  Few houses have foundations.  They are solidly built, but slowly suck up ground water.  Until you get higher than your waist chances are the paint isn’t sticking to the walls. It comes off in fist sized flakes, or turns into powder.  Roof terraces and tile roofs are susceptible to leaks.  The water from above and the water from below conspire to meet in the middle. Many of the houses we looked at told this tale.

You could scrape the paint on the back wall of a cute compact townhouse down to concrete with a bare fingernail.  The culprit was the next door neighbor’s roof terrace.  The lowest room of a mountain goat’s paradise of precarious stairs was tinged with pink powder.  It was either red tiles leaching through, or mold. A fixer with stunning tiles was dotted here and there with obvious damp spots and paint in various states of decay. It’s entryway was crumbling.  A little patch of powdery paint near the floor started looking like a good sign.  Occasionly you’d find a house where the paint had been meticulously maintained and was actually sticking to the walls.

Whittling down a list of 18 houses down to the Top Three could have been a daunting task.  Our focus on the amount of work a house would require made it a lot easier.  The Top Three were a reformed horse stable, a house we were calling Almost Arabian, and a generic townhouse we found through Oliva’s  ex-pat Facebook page.

The Stable had been reformed with attention to detail.  It would require tweaks, but it was mostly done.  Bold tiles in the bath and kitchen either overwhelmed, or wowed! The front room and dining room were graced with Valencian ceilings.  The roof terraces had been meticulously resealed.  The view was promising. Paint was sticking to walls.  The price tag underscored this.  The Stable was charming.

Almost Arabian earned that moniker because of its half-assed decorating scheme.  Someone aimed for hookah lounge sophistication, but only managed to execute shared student housing. When it came to naming the place, Bongwater Flats was definitely in the running. The house had good bones, a candy apple red IKEA kitchen, and a top floor with a snug and roof terrace that could host one Hell of a party.  We were mentally redecorating the place.  We were also weighing the time, effort, and expense it would take to make the place look like it didn’t need a stray dog to complete its vibe.

Casa Generic was comfortable in a spiffy late ’70’s way.  Spanish features were hinted at, but what do you do with floors that look like a rockhound’s Saturday afternoon project? The bathroom and kitchen were tiny and utilitarian. Casa Generic did have three stunning terraces. One right off the kitchen, one off the master bedroom, and a roof terrace with views over the town to the sea.  The terraces alone sold the place.  The bland interior created second thoughts.  The floors were something you’d have to get used to. Uck, but the price was right and the paint was sticking to the walls.

Donna and I don’t do the House Hunter’s International visit to the local cafe for a discussion thing.  We do our talking on the fly.  There were several more places to look at, and we were going to look at them. The 35,263 steps walked and 6 floors climbed finding the Top Three weren’t going to deter us!

A Place in Spain: Part One

IMG_8964The fantasy was always to buy a place in Italy, or maybe in Spain.  That kind of fantasy is always more romantic than practical.  We looked at this notion a thousand different ways.  Hours were spent researching countries, regions, cities, properties, and foreign real estate laws and procedures.  Research is critical because once you start looking at properties it is possible to fall in love with the wrong house, in the wrong city, at the wrong time, and possibly in the wrong country.

Common sense kicks in and tells you it’s better to rent.  There are always counter arguments when it comes to common sense.  You do your research to let you know how impractical you are being, and just how deep the water is.

Like a strong current pushing a boat into a shipping lane we were eventually guided to Spain.  There is no accounting for that exactly.  It is possible to get into the intricacies of food, coffee, hospitality, weather, the cost of living, and how it feels to sit on a terrace in the afternoon sun.  It is possible to talk about the price of real estate.  Pinning it down as an individual is tough enough.  Pinning it down as a couple is an exercise in futility. Donna will talk about the light.  I will talk about sunsets and night noises.  In the end it comes down to feeling at home in a distant place, and everything else lining up to turn a fantasy into reality.

We narrowed our search down to the area in and around Oliva, Spain.  It’s on the coast forty minutes from Valencia.  The closest cities are Denia and Gandia.  Unlike most coastal cities Oliva is not strictly a tourist destination.  It’s a working Spanish town.  It doesn’t pull up stakes and disappear during off seasons.  The beach is long, beautiful, and relatively uncrowded.  Real estate prices are attractive.  We knew all of this because we had done the research. We had actually never set foot in Oliva.

Within an hour of arriving in Oliva we were doing neighborhood reviews.  Donna had lined up 32 properties to look at.  We narrowed it down to an agreed upon Top 10 list.  It felt like we were doing a House Hunter’s International marathon.  This wasn’t couch surfing though.  This was feet on the ground, bring the tape measure and paint chips stuff.  Thankfully, we’ve had lots of experience doing this kind of thing.  Donna and I moved at least eight times the first twelve years we were together.  My youngest daughter, Marleigh, knew the drill by heart.  “Dad, everytime you guys buy a new refrigerator you move!” 

The Top 3 houses on our list were visited. None of them had signs in the windows anymore.  The apartment across the street from San Maria de Major Cathedral had already been decorated in our minds. The townhouse with a small yard was only grudgingly on my Top 10 list. To me it looked like a car had driven through its fence.  Donna disputed this.  After all it had a lemon tree in the backyard.  Similarly, the apartment next to the Municipal Market was not one of Donna’s favorites.  Location, location, location had her expressing a little more interest.  It was skeptical interest, but that was an improvement. Again, we weren’t seeing any signs in the windows.

A walk through town on a Sunday afternoon doesn’t really tell you much.  It tells you if they roll up the streets after Sunday Mass, but that’s about it.  Oliva was pretty dead.  A few locals were drinking in a small bar.  A “kebap” and pizza joint was open. So was a little bakery.  Other than small groups of kids riding bikes and scooters the streets were unoccupied.  Adults were sticking close to home.

Oliva could have been a small town anywhere in the world.  It was difficult to tell if we were actually going to like it.  Standing on the rooftop terrace of our VRBO provided a strong positive clue.  The view was outstanding!

Festival Med 2018

Over the years our travels have brought us close to some pretty impressive concerts. We missed the Stones in Dublin, and in Barcelona. We missed Sinead O’Connor in Rome. She dressed up like a priest on that occasion. Manu Chao played Lisbon a week after we flew home. John Cale, of Velvet Underground fame, played Dublin on June 16th this year. Shoulda, coulda, woulda!

In 2014 we looked for festivals that coincided with our travel plans. Festival Med in Portugal fit the bill. I didn’t recognize any of the artists who were booked. Donna and I came away as fans of Fado artist, Gisela Jao. We saw her again last year in Seville. Nour Eddine and his  international crew electrified the crowd. Cabo Verde musician, Dino Santiago seduced the crowd with tropical rhythms. Returning to Festival Med became a bucket list item.

Donna and I have seen quite a few of our generation’s musical icons. Jimi, Janis, Joni, Dylan, The Beatles, The Stones, Prince, and the list goes on. All of these were memorable experiences. None of them were quite as much fun as Festival Med.

We have tried to explain the allure of Festival Med. The musicians are world class, the setting is magical, but it’s the interaction between the audience and the musicians that is unique. In Portugal it’s not a concert. It’s a party! The crowd claps and sings along. Grandparents  and toddlers are dancing. You start moving to the beat and it’s met with genuine smiles! Any bit of reserve melts away. You are in a crowd of joyful people dancing!

Festival Med also features costumed people on stilts, fire breathers, ragtime bands, retired gentlemen’s choirs, marching bands, and small cafes where local Fado singers perform. If there is singing , someone is singing along. The  historic center of Loule is alive with multiple formal and impromptu entertainment spaces.

This year Donna and I made time for wandering. This brought us to a cafe where Fado was being performed. An excellent guitar trio played tangos while we ate paella, fish soup, and octopus salad. We sampled a few headliners as we threaded our way through the crowd. That last bit sounds terrible, but it was fun.

Then there were the acts I researched and didn’t want to miss.

Vurro

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Vurro is a keyboard playing one man band from Spain. He wears a cow skull on his head and uses the horns to crash the cymbals. He plays dazzling versions of classic old time rock and roll tunes. You could say Vurro is a novelty act. The thing is, just when you start wondering what kind of physical damage he is doing to himself by crashing into those cymbals he launches into a blazing version of Chubby Checker’s “Let’s Twist Again”! You’re too busy dancing to worry about Vurro’s vertebrae.

Los Mirlos 

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My brother, Leland, introduced me to Los Mirlos. We were playing our “Do you have any…” music collection game. Peru’s legendary Los Mirlos are credited with inventing the musical form known as Chicha. It’s a combination of traditional South American musical forms and surf guitar. Move over Eric Clapton and make room for Danny Jhonston! The guy plays mind bending licks, and hits rhythmic shifts I’ve never heard anyone pull off before. Los Mirlos had people dancing from the first note until the last. Danny Jhonston raised the Guitar God bar up a couple of notches! (Donna’s assessment? “You wouldn’t expect old men wearing green pants and white patent leather shoes to be so good!”)

Sara Tavares

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I knew Sara Tavares from my time hosting a radio show on Everett’s Independent Radio Station KSER. Tavares stands on Cabo Verde’s incredibly rich musical tradition. That means she knows she has to expand upon that tradition and make it her own. For my money (a twelve Euro entry fee) Tavares and her razor sharp band did exactly that. The stage craft we witnessed put the audience completely in Tavares’ capable hands. You knew she was going to take you somewhere, and she did!

My favorite image of the Festival came from this show. A tiny formally dressed white haired Portuguese woman stood swaying in the middle of the crowd. She was singing with a look of complete joy on her face! It doesn’t get better than that!

Morgane Ji

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Reunion Island’s Morgane Ji is what I’d call an artist to watch. The lyrics from her song “Time Bomb” say it all. “Come back to me. Don’t turn your back on me. By the way…I’m a time bomb!” Mix Eartha Kitt with a dash of Jimi Hendrix, throw in a post apocalyptic electric banjo, some electronic effects, and a voice that can recall Tracy Chapman’s and you have started to approximate Ji. She also made the only openly political statement I heard during Festival Med. “This song is for the migrants, the people who have nothing. We must keep them in our hearts always!” That a simple call to recognize the humanity of those who are fleeing violence in their homelands has become political is telling. Morgane Ji, tough and vulnerable at the same time, delivered fierce musical statements one after the other. She’s an artist on a mission. You will hear about her!

The acts we missed were numerous. We didn’t see them, but our apartment was only a three minute walk away. With the door to the balcony open we could hear them even as we drifted off to sleep.

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First World Amusements

 

IMG_7467The sun was shining in Nerja. The waters were as aquamarine and inviting as we remembered. Carrabeo Beach was just down the stairs. Our daughter, Maresa, is a beach bunny. There was no question about how long it would take us to hit the beach.

Somehow the sunscreen didn’t make it into our beach bag. Donna decided to go back and get it. When she returned she was lugging the dilapidated umbrella from our rental’s patio. Putting it up required assembly, and catching a lizard. This attracted a small crowd who watched with amusement.

I was of the “leave the lizard alone” school of thought. Donna was in “catch and release” mode. I joined the crowd of watchers and enjoyed the show. With a look of triumph Donna caught the lizard, and returned it to its natural habitat. “Now it has rocks, shade, and a small pool of water!”

Donna was the first one into the Mediterranean. Then she convinced a skeptical Maresa to get in. It was clear that the water wasn’t warm. I eventually edged towards the waves. “The water is fine after the first five minutes. Really!!!” Not the strongest words of encouragement I have ever heard. It was an accurate assessment though. The water was eventually fine.

While we were swimming I watched a woman entering the water with a dip net. Whatever she was catching was being deposited in a blue bucket. Interesting!

I watched an elderly Irish woman make the sign of the cross before entering the water. In a beautiful brogue she said, “Ah, he’s laughing at me now for making the sign of the cross!?!”  In a short space of time we learned the beach had just reopened. The day before thousands of jellyfish called Mauve Stingers had filled the bay. That’s what was being deposited in the blue bucket. Mauve Stingers can cause a nasty case of burning, nausea, and muscle cramps!

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Donna didn’t go into catch and release mode this time. She jumped out of the water and started scanning the surface. Maresa pointed out a Mauve Stinger. Donna borrowed the net. In short order there was another jellyfish in the blue bucket. Swim time was over.

Later that night I fell asleep while Donna and Maresa watched a television show about dictators. The focus was on North Korea. The show was broadcast in English. That was a first.

I woke up to three waves of shrieking! I figured a lizard must have made its way in from the patio. Given the increasing volume of the shrieks I figured it must be a big one.

After the show about dictators was over Donna started channel surfing. She found the Disney Channel, but the show wasn’t capturing their attention. She hit the clicker again…“Porn!” “Porn!!!” “Gay Porn!!!” 

There right next to the Disney Channel were three channels of gay porn! The giggling continued into the night.

I am grateful for first world amusements, and first world problems. Not everyone is able to enjoy life’s simple pleasures.  Not everyone has moments they can laugh about, or change the channel on. We keep these fellow humans in our hearts!

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Tortilla Espanola & Utah Fry Sauce

IMG_7344This is the recipe you wish you had when you were courting.  At the courting stage the goal is to convince the object of your desire that you aren’t a complete idiot. Whipping up a delicious and exotic sounding omelette using potato chips and eggs is an excellent start. Of course they’ll figure it out soon enough. “Complete…total idiot!!! What was I thinking??? Well, there is that thing with potato chips and eggs.”

I didn’t invent this version of Tortilla Espanola. Full credit goes to Chef Jose Andres. He extolls the virtues of small batch Spanish potato chips. Potatoes, oil, and salt are their only ingredients.  The thickness to crunch factor is perfectly balanced.  In an omelette the chips are reconstituted during the cooking process.  They become tender and impossibly thin slices of potato.

Andres has also discovered flavored kettle chips. So, using Sea Salt and Vinegar chips, or whatever else is on hand, works. Pour some beer into a couple of jelly glasses and you have created a romantic little meal.

In Spain potatoes are frequently served with Salsa Brava. It’s a spicy tomato based sauce. It is usually accompanied by aioli. In Seville, Valencia, Córdoba, and Grenada most bars mix the Salsa Brava and aioli together. The grocery store in the Albaycin carries Hellmann’s mayonnaise based Brava Sauce. It’s good, but you aren’t going to find it in the states.

In trying to come up with a stateside equivalent to Salsa Brava I could only come up with Utah Fry Sauce. My youngest daughter, Marleigh, turned me on to this stuff. She took us to a drive-in in Utah that serves burgers the size of your head, baskets of fries, and tubs of fry sauce. We are talking seriously big portions! When it’s below freezing and your clientele is wearing Arctic parkas with coyote trim, cargo shorts, and flip flops your portions better be big!

Utah Fry Sauce and a Tortilla Espanola are a match made in heaven. I’d be remiss not to include Alabama White Sauce though. Every refrigerator should contain a squeeze bottle full of it at the ready. It’s addictive, and you can put it on everything except pancakes.

Tortilla Espanola

Ingredients: A fist full of potato chips, five thin slices of spring onion, three eggs, a dash of salt, a dash of smoked paprika, a drizzle of olive oil.

Fry the onion slices in olive oil and reserve.  Stir the eggs until slightly frothy. Mix the onions into the eggs. Grab a handful of potato chips and place them on top of the egg and onion mixture. If no one is watching use the palm of your hand to flatten the chips. Otherwise use a spatula, but it’s not as satisfying. Drizzle a small amount of olive oil into an omelette pan. When the oil begins to spread out in the pan dump in the egg mixture.  When the bottom of the omelette is golden brown invert it onto a plate. Then slide it back into the pan uncooked side down. (If you mess up that step, the object of your desire will reach an undesirable conclusion immediately.) When the bottom is brown, and no egg bubbles up when you pierce the omelette with a fork, slide it onto a clean plate. Dust it with some salt, and smoked paprika. It isn’t necessary to eat it right away. The Spanish serve it at room temperature.

Utah Fry Sauce

Ingredients: 1 cup mayonnaise, 1/2 cup ketchup, 1/2 tsp onion powder, 3 to 4 teaspoons pickle juice ( add one tsp at a time & taste)…

Options: Substitute 1/4 cup chili sauce & 1/4 cup ketchup instead of using straight ketchup. If you go with straight ketchup add cayenne pepper 1/4 tsp at a time for some kick.

Whisk the ingredients together in a mixing bowl. Chill and serve. Refrigerate up to two weeks. (You will be tempted to use a blender, or food processor. Don’t! Hand processed is better!)

Alabama White Sauce

There are more complicated recipes for this sauce.  I have tried them. I prefer this stripped down version.

Ingredients: 2 cups mayonnaise, 1cup apple cider vinegar, 1 tablespoon agave syrup, 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice, 2 teaspoons black pepper, a dash of salt, add cayenne pepper 1/4 tsp at a time to taste.

Whisk the ingredients together in a mixing bowl, cover, and refrigerate overnight. Put the sauce in a squeeze bottle and keep it refrigerated. After two weeks mix up a new batch! Salut!!!

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Anthony Bourdain: The Journey Extends

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We wandered through unfamiliar streets in the dark to find a restaurant in Jaen, Spain. It kept popping up on our radar. Finding it had become our mission. Nothing about the street Casa Antonio is on promised greatness. Jaen isn’t a city that stands on appearances. It has it’s own business to do. Casa Antonio’s business is creating startlingly delicious food. Food you’ll wake up in the morning and want more of.

That walk in Jaen, when you strip it of its city clothes and put it in a t-shirt, was inspired by Anthony Bourdain. He had the gift of making the pursuit of the sublime look badass. Bourdain had a handle on the transitory nature of our singular journeys. The bright moments when all your senses collide around a perfect bite of food in the perfect moment, that’s the territory he owned.

So, our journeys now become a tribute to Anthony. The Art Deco grandeur of Hotel Hidalgo in Martos, Spain with its balconies overlooking the bull ring, the tour of tumbledown working people’s homes on the hillsides of a white village, watching a home health worker cook mussels and bacalao in a kitchen the size of a coat closet…these things will forever be touched by our irreverent host, Anthony Bourdain.

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Here of course I am obliged to mention the journey’s end. There is a darkness that pulls at us all. Our journeys all wind up in the same place. It’s the memories we collect on the way that matter.

John Cale, of Velvet Underground fame, wrote, “Home is living like a man on the run. Trails leading nowhere, where to my son? We’re already dead, not yet in the ground. Take my helping hand, I’ll show you around.” Despite the darkness, and perhaps because of it, Anthony Bourdain took our hand and showed us around. He did it in grand badass style. He will be missed!

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Grenada: Can Lightning Strike Twice?

We dropped the rental car off at Central Hotel in Grenada. The Opel Mokka was one of the best cars I’ve ever rented. The built in GPS still couldn’t count exits from roundabouts though. Taking the sixth exit on a roundabout that only has four exits requires ignoring the polite English manners of Ms. GPS. Donna’s directions were more accurate. “Don’t listen to her! We’re going straight!!!” 

Dropping rental cars off always feels good. What felt even better was the taxi driver dropping us off at Plaza Largo in the Albaicin. There was a sudden rush of exhilaration from our toes to the crowns of our heads!  We were home!

Our produce lady was still working her stand. She even tossed a free tomato into our bag. The swirl of tourists, locals, and feral hippies hadn’t lost its lively step! The familiar was still familiar.

We took the short cut we discovered two years ago to the house on San Luis. The caretaker, Ana, rode up on her motorcycle the moment we arrived. The house with its fairytale views was pretty much as we left it in October of 2016.

They say familiarity can breed contempt. It can also build contentment. Our month in Grenada two years ago gave us a solid base to explore from.

We found a new restaurant in the Albaicin. El Picoteo had only been open a few months. There is no menu. The waitress tells you what is fresh, and the chef takes it from there.  The veal tenderloin Donna ordered was epic. It was as big as her plate, and so tender you could cut it with a spoon. My squid could have come from one of the best beach shacks on the coast.

Everything seems to have fallen into place. Bar Tana was as good as we remembered.  Around the corner in the Realejo, I found a new barber, my new travel guitar/ukulele, and some excellent hole-in-the-wall cafes.  Off the Bib-Rambla we found a shop that specializes in fresh Italian pasta, an antique shop that had the ring we’ve been looking for, and shop that had a tabletop BBQ grill. Little things that once would have required the poor guidance of Google Maps to find.

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Our abbreviated process has given us time to delve into the intricacies of Spainish olive oils. There are something like 260 varieties of olives grown in Spain. The favored type is the Picual. It produces a characteristic kick at the back of the throat. It’s bitter. In truth, we prefer smooth buttery olive oils. On the counter in the kitchen we now have five bottles of olive oil. A Picual, two blends, a rare Ocal, and an Arbequina. Tonight I’ll mix some smoked paprika, salt, and the Arbequina. I’ll smear it on the tuna, and then BBQ out on the patio.

Our restless search for a home base in Spain may be coming closer to an end. Sometimes starting back at the beginning makes sense. Sometimes lightning strikes in the same place twice!