1. I wrote this in January of 2020 before we knew what the year would bring. The visual memories the photos bring feel distant to me. I have to add the colors myself. Like all memories I add color at will.
2. What I missed most about dining out was the ambiance. The food has to be good, but the people around you create the experience. Donna and I can cook. No one is likely to break into song though. In these memories song, and the addition of color, are always possibilities. 

Campo de’ Fiori, Rome

Tucked into back alleys and narrow streets you’ll find the places making the food Rome is famous for. Around major tourist sites and plazas you will find high prices, indifferent service, and food that’s seen the inside of a microwave. Some cooks never had an Italian Grandmother to show them how it’s really done.

It is possible to find delicious overpriced surprises, but that’s not why you are seated at a table in one of these establishments. You are there to watch people. You are there for the ambiance, and the experience.

Street musicians play and the woman at the table in front of you starts rubbing her partner’s balding head. The hip oldsters have a front row seat. They were there when you got there. They’ll be there long after you leave. The young girl is having lunch with her grandfather. As he listens to the music he moves his hands like a conductor.  He’s correcting the beat the musicians are hanging on to. “Crisper! More fluid!! Like this!!! 

Gandia, Spain

In Gandia there are two similarly named restaurants within blocks of each other. One is the time tested Casa Sanchis La Tulipa. The other is Restaurante Sancho’s. The first time we wandered into Sancho’s there was no signage, and no printed menu. The passion in the kitchen was evident from the moment we peeked inside. Energy flowed and the dining room hummed. Every time we’ve returned the crowd is bigger. The buzz has been sustained. Couples, work colleagues, and families are all gathered to experience a meal that verges on an event.

On a return trip we found Sancho’s closed for the day. A short walk away we found a crowded Casa Sanchis La Tulipa winding down its lunch service. We were seated at an outdoor table in the sun. Out came platters filled with traditional versions of traditional dishes.

Out back was where restaurant workers from Casa Sanchis La Tulipa and adjacent restaurants took breathers. I was reminded that serving a crowd is intense work. It’s rewarding, but intense nonetheless. 

Mercat de Santa Caterina, Barcelona, Spain

If you ask me where I want to eat tomorrow, my answer will be Barestaurant L’Univers in Barcelona’s Santa Caterina Market. Give me a stool where I can watch cooks turn market fresh products into my lunch. I’ll be happy!

The Santa Caterina Market is in the Born District. It’s not the easily found and famous St. Josef Market off the Rambla, but it’s my favorite. If Donna and I are in Barcelona, we head to Santa Caterina Market and eat at Barestaurant L’Univers.

L’Univers is where my attempts to capture the essence of a restaurant began. Pictures of food don’t really capture a place’s “vibe”. Black and white photos of diners seem to capture something closer to that. At L’Univers there is a lot to capture.

Ask me where I want to have lunch tomorrow. The answer is always the same. “L’Univers!”

Sometimes curiosity kicks in though. A few steps away from L’Univers is the restaurant La Torno. It’s the same basic bar stools and open kitchen affair. La Torno has a small table, and there’s a bakery connected to the restaurant. The action is still in the kitchen, and at the stools. If you ask me to choose between these two neighbors, I’ll say, “Go to the place where Grandma is cooking!”

This is where we left off in 2020. The return trip has been sweeter for the waiting! Live Well!

UPDATE: Campó de Fiori, Rome, Italy, Many restaurants around the square are currently open.

Restaurante Sancho’s, gastroranking 9/10, Calle Rausell, 17, Plaza del Prado, Gandía, Spain. (Open)

Casa Sanchis La Tulipa, #67 of 348 restaurants in Gandía, TripAdvisor 4/5, Carrer del Forno, 9, Gandia, (Open)

Barestaurant L’Univers, Mercat de Santa Caterina, TripAdvisor 4/5, (Open)

La Torna, Mercat de Santa Caterina, four square rating 7.8/19 (Open)

Note: Covid19 has been tough on the restaurant business. Support your local restaurants! Tip the staff generously!

Once our Residencia was approved getting back to Spain meant navigating the Hunger Games lottery system established during the early days of vaccination. Countless hours were spent searching for appointments that disappeared as soon as you found them. Finding two appointments at the same time at the same place was impossible. We eventually found appointments two weeks apart. One was an hour south of Seattle. The other was an hour and a half to the north. The northern version came with its own snafus. Fifty two phone calls and hours of being put on hold sorted them out. We were fully vaxxed.

I haven’t said anything new here. The point is once we had our vaccination cards filled out no one at the airports in SeaTac, Amsterdam, or Valencia cared to see them. Getting on a jet to anywhere was dependent upon having a negative Covid19 test that hadn’t expired. No one took our temperatures. We didn’t have to take our shoes off. Short lines and damn near empty planes await as long as you have your test results in hand.

Your travel window starts dwindling the minute someone swabs your nose. We had 72 hours. This is important. If you get your PCR test done the day before flying, results aren’t promised until midnight the following day. That is too damn late. No one is going to let you board a plane unless you have test results to show them.

If you get the test done two days before you travel, you are burning up your travel window. I did some quick calculations in line at the testing site. We could have easily been one flight delay away from being stuck at the airport in Valencia. We opted for the RT-PCR test that delivers results in an hour.

Getting tests that promise rapid turnaround seems like common sense. They cost more, but frustrated travelers in Seattle and Amsterdam were stopped at the gate over and over again. People who relied on emailed results were scrambling too. They were also responsible for holding lines up. A paper copy of results was more reliable.

Once we arrived in Valencia a survey we filled out and printed at home was presented. Our QR codes were scanned. We picked up our luggage and headed out the doors. Two security guards directed us to the proper line. In twenty feet we were officially back in Spain!

Weber

Steve Weber died on February 7, 2020. His obituary appeared in the New York Times almost a month later. Weber wasn’t a musical luminary. His contributions to the music scene don’t put him in the company of Bill Withers, or John Prine. Weber resided deep in the weeds, an accidental hallucinogenic pulled up and ingested. Following his path would get mere mortals killed. Steve Weber lived to be 76.

Steve Weber was a member of The Holy Modal Rounders, and for a time a member of The Fugs. His musical career was a product of The Village in New York City. I was introduced to The Rounders by some freight train hopping hippies in 1969. A scratchy piece of vinyl was played on a portable record player. The songs recalled a distant backwoods porch, and captured the spirit of an amphetamine fueled anti-war protest. Peter Stampfel and Steve Weber were The Holy Modal Rounders, and by any reasonable musical standards they provided a horrible, but somehow bright, moment.

Stampfels’ vocals were enthusiastically nasal. His fiddle squawked and squealed. His banjo playing threatened to veer off track. Weber on the other hand was a proficient guitar player.  The songs Weber contributed were brief tossed off gems. The Rounders were a folky psychedelic version of Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin. Stampfel displayed the hyper attention seeking neediness that might earn you genius status in France. Weber had the easy charisma that comes with good looks and being comfortable in the briar patch.

The Rounders’ high point was having The Bird Song appear in Easy Rider. Fugs fans might recall Weber’s Boobs A-lot. A careful listen to The Fugs First Album and Virgin Fugs reveals The Rounders musical contributions to those early excursions. At one point playwright Sam Shepard played drums in an incarnation of The Holy Modal Rounders. There was a television appearance on Laugh-In. The Rounders were a band on the verge. Soon enough brushes with notoriety had Weber taking a dive. Artistic differences and lifestyle choices had accusations of sabotage flying around. Stampfel  stayed in New York. Weber headed to Portland, Oregon. The heroin was cheaper.

In Portland an electric folk rock version of The Holy Modal Rounders flourished as a touring bar band. I was lucky enough to see them a couple of times in Seattle. Here’s the thing. I’ve seen Dylan, The Stones, Neil Young, McCoy Tyner, Dave Brubeck, The Talking Heads, Prince, Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell, Janis Joplin, and Jimi. The list doesn’t stop there. Steve Weber’s West Coast Holy Modal Rounders were hands down the most fun.

The Show

We headed up to the Hill to see The Holy Modal Rounders. We were stuffed into the back of my ex-mother-in-law’s pink Cadillac. It must have been in ‘73, or ‘74. Viv was freshly separated from her husband, and on a tear. She could veer from 1950’s rigidity to hippy chick with alarming speed. She was channeling a beatnik vibe. Her passengers were suitably stoned.

I was expecting the Stampfel and Weber version of the band. What we saw was pure Weber. It was a hybrid folk rock ragtime jug band with a fiddle, acoustic bass, mandolin, full drum kit, electric guitars, and a guy who played two saxophones at the same time. The spirit was stuck between improvisational jazz and punk rock. Weber was more ringmaster than band leader. A nod of his head might unleash a mandolin solo, saxophone break, or a strangely melodic drum solo. It was seamless chaotic fun.

Weber was simultaneously flirting with five women. Everyone in the bar bought their own pitcher of beer. We were linking arms in a drunken folk dance. Couples danced on tables. Pitchers clinked in mid-air. A few of them shattered. By the end of the evening we were splashing around in big puddles of beer while barmaids swept up glass. Sure, there was probably a contact high, but even the barmaids were grinning. We were in on an outrageous secret. All I remember about coming home is how close Viv came to sideswiping parked cars as the pink Caddy swooped down Madison Street from Broadway.

The Lesson

Weber was onto something Bill Withers discovered when he walked away from the music business in 1985. A lot of professional musicians say they “play” music. They don’t. They “work” it. It becomes a factory job. The bass player is never good enough. The lead guitarist is too temperamental. Someone is under the influence. Someone else is fighting to maintain control. Record companies have pre-set notions about product. Withers walked away. Stampfel says Weber did the same. Until a bitter attempt to document a reunion in 2003 (Bound to Lose) that just wasn’t true.

After leaving New York Weber played. He embodied a lot of the traits that break bands apart, but fought to keep things loose enough to create magic. He kept playing until it stopped being fun. Until his habits got in his way. At his best he could stand off to the side and make chaos dance. Steve Weber was comfortable in the briar patch.

You’ve probably never heard of Steve Weber. His recorded legacy is sparse and spotty. I’ve seen legends perform. The only thing they had that Weber didn’t was the burden of fame. Somewhere in the afterlife there’s a glorious ruckus going on. It’s probably not in Heaven.  There’s beer on the floor, and everyone’s dancing!  RIP, Steve Weber!

 

 

 

 

 

In ancient times people made pilgrimages to Rome. We flew here, but logged in three 8 mile days in a row. The Christmas Market in Piazza Navona was a daily destination. We saw the official opening being filmed by a television crew, and shared a glass of celebratory champagne. That was on Monday morning. Electrical problems delayed the opening. We made the trek again on Christmas morning. It was gloriously open. We strolled through. Then we visited small churches and shops for the rest of the day. By the time Christmas dinner rolled around we were hungry.

The Fork gives Casa Coppelle 9.1 points out of 10. It’s easy to see why. It’s probably the most elegant restaurant Donna and I have ever eaten in. We were tucked into a romantic corner featuring a black velvet settee, black and gold fabric wall coverings, classic portraits, and a black leather table cover. A glass of champagne was in order.

While we sipped champagne we decided to order the fish based Christmas Dinner with wine pairings. Eating  in Rome is about the food and the hospitality.  Casa Coppelle’s wait staff is charming, engaging, and comfortably attentive. You feel like a guest instead of a customer. Within minutes after ordering we were served a mini portion of thinly sliced veal with micro pea vines. We were hungry and inhaled it without taking a photo.

A generous pour of dark pink rosato was served next. Then out came the octopus served with a leek purée, and what was by my count five peas. We were hungry and sopped up every last bit of that purée with deliciously crunchy crusted Italian bread.

At Casa Coppelle when it comes to the food it’s quality over quantity. When it comes to the wine parings it’s quality and quantity. I really would have liked five more peas with my octopus.

The next course was mussels served with bean filled ravioli and a bean based sauce. Donna thought the sauce was delicious. I remarked that it tasted like Heinz Pork ‘n Beans, or Beanie Weenies in the vernacular of the day. I could have easily counted the mussels, but knew crunchy crusted Italian bread does an admirable job of pairing with Beanie Weenie sauce.

The wine kept flowing, and we were having fun. I banished thoughts of the photo of lasagna stuffed with Italian meatballs Emily Hudon taunted me with. I sipped a delicious white wine while waiting for the main course. It was a bouillabaisse served in a cooking bag. The sauce was as rich and delicious as any I’ve tried. Thank goodness for that Italian bread.

Dessert was served with a generous pour of sweet wine. The Christmas menu offered a choice of Mont Blanc, or Mont Blanc. The chef was offering to go off menu and make substitutions. We ordered a Mont Blanc and the wild card. Donna thought the plate the wild card was served on contained a pool of dark chocolate. It was a hole in the plate. We laughed!

The meal was rounded out with strong Italian espressos and an excellent limoncello. It had more zest and less Lemon Pledge I think. The server gave Donna a handwritten list of the wines we’d been served, and we strolled back to Trastevere. Seconds after Donna hung up her coat she was pulling off a big piece of Panatone declaring, “I’m still hungry!” We laughed again! It was a very Merry Christmas!!!

 

 

As bucket list items go returning to Rome and Romulas “luxury suite in Trastevere” was right up there at the top of the list. At Christmas with tickets to the Basilica Vaticana with Santo Padre Francesco presiding??? This wasn’t even in our wildest dreams.

Our hosts in Rome, Romula and Claudio, moved Heaven and Earth to find tickets for us. Their efforts alone were blessings. This is Rome and great cities are first of all made by great people. The history, the architecture, and the food are all products of human endeavors. Ahhh! The food!!!

The first bite of the mussels at Osteria Der Belli had me saying, “This is Italy!!!” right out loud. The broth was a perfect balance of sharp saltiness backed by heat and rounded off with garlic. The signature dish at Der Belli, tagliarini of sea bass and cherry tomatoes, was as good as the sample we had the first time we were in Rome. The pasta is homemade and in Donna’s opinion, “The best I’ve ever had!” The proprietor’s sisters make it in a nearby shop.

Rome is a city to consume on your feet. The French couple we shared a table with at Enzo’s agreed. “I walked 9 kilometers yesterday, and 8 today. I can no longer feel my feet!” We use a different measurement system, but my body feels every step of the 126 floors we climbed in two days.

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Window shopping and visiting neighborhood churches consumed most of our time. Well, that and trying to choose which beautifully atmospheric cafe was most likely to serve the best food. The one with thick steaks displayed in a refrigerated case and candles on every table got Donna’s vote.

I had always known the Pope held a Christmas Eve service in front of The Basilica. That communal experience was attractive to me. To experience Christmas Eve mass inside The Basilica with Pope Francis presiding was never a consideration. Donna, with the kind assistance of Romula and Claudio, had other ideas.

Having experienced this mass I can only tell you I was surrounded by overwhelming beauty. To hear what is a very simple and universal story in that setting will take time to sort out. I arrived and left with the same thoughts.

Every mother deserves to hold her child for the first time with joy in her heart, and eyes full of hope. Every father who looks upon his child’s face deserves to know the pride he feels will extend into a limitless future. If we close the door on Joy, Hope, and Potential, it really doesn’t matter what beliefs we profess.

I heard the sounds of many languages being spoken inside The Basilica. Within that vast lavish testament to faith Pope Francis carried a newborn Jesus through the throngs and placed him in a manger. The wonder was undeniable.

Every night a child is born. Mothers and fathers experience that primal joy. They hope, often against all odds. They dream of an unlimited future. They pray for safety.  If we have any sort of faith in anything at all, we should join them.

We are almost a year into our Spanish home adventures. With the New Year coming up it’s time to review what we’ve been up to. We’ve been busy!

The first time we viewed our house in Oliva I knew the mop water white tiles and stained grout in the living and dining room wouldn’t survive. They were the first thing on our to do list. I tried to resurrect the grout, but it wasn’t grout. The stuff wouldn’t budge. A conference with my daughter, Alyssa, a former flooring estimator, convinced me starting over was the best option. The other option was buying a skill saw and a special blade and grinding between every sickly white tile. My knees, back, and Donna thought that was a stupid idea!

Malcom Burt was hired to put new tile over the old stuff. A trip to Manises to buy decorative tiles was all that was needed. Our living and dining room are completely out of square. Putting in a tile floor that looked right would be a challenge. Malcom surveyed the room and knew exactly how to proceed. The results exceeded expectations.

In the middle of installing the tile in the living and dining room Malcom discovered a leak in our main bathroom. The leak was repairable, but the lead pipe was old. Leaks could spring up anywhere. The lines were buried beneath tiles and plaster. The cold water line was near the floor. The hot water line was waist high. Replacing the lines without gutting the bathroom was the challenge.

Google searches brought up photos of externally mounted copper pipe. We decided to copy the best examples we found. Copper would become a design element. From there replacing damaged tiles with large copper toned tiles started to make sense. The trick was to make the repair solutions look intentional.

We came back to Spain with a suitcase full of secondhand store copper objects. It’s either our new awareness, or copper is making a comeback. Keeping the copper bright will require making a paste out of salt and vinegar, or investing in a commercial copper cleaner.

An added bonus of exterior mounted copper plumbing is that it retains some heat after you take a shower. It’s just enough to take the edge off, or give you warm socks on chilly mornings.

Painting the exterior of the house presented the biggest challenges. Permits took forever to go through Oliva’s idiosyncratic system. A long history of water intrusion problems created blowouts in the plaster. We thought it was confined to the lower portion of the front of the house. The entire front of the house was compromised. The plaster on the side of the house looked solid. It wasn’t. Scraping the house down to bricks revealed doors that were no longer doors, the house’s original roof line, and windows that had been hastily filled in. Everything, including a roof drain that was connected to air, had to be repaired.

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Turning a 150 year old former horse stable into habitable living quarters has involved three owners so far. Finding a highly skilled crew was a blessing. The work that’s been done has given the building a new lease on life. There’s a lot of satisfaction in that. It’s also made a house feel like home! It’s been a wonderful year!!!

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In 2013 pickpockets got me in Cinque Terra. I was confident my leather coin purse was safely protected by a zipper and Velcro. What I experienced were the moves of a classic pickpocket team. There was a distractor, a cannon, and a handoff man. The crowd might as well have tossed their valuables in the air. I didn’t discover the lift until we were back in Vernazza.

My discovery earned me a big, “I Told You So!”  This was true. So, the rest of the lecture was unnecessary, but thoroughly enjoyed by the person delivering it.Back at Rooms Elisabetta I constructed a decoy wallet out of feminine hygiene products.  I carried it in my back pocket for the rest of the trip.  It was never snagged, and I still have it.

For our adventures in Spain and Italy in 2016 I constructed a new decoy.  It lacked the illustrative passion of the first one.  My initial experience as an easy mark inspired a certain artistic fervor. It sent me to the Italian/English dictionary to invent insults.

My current decoy was hastily constructed and illustrated.  It’s thicker than the first one.  It’s modeled after the leather coin purse I lost in Cinque Terra.  It’s stuffed with random business cards, a Canadian dollar, and a U.S. penny.

I’ve done some research on pickpockets.  It’s research I should have done before our trip to Cinque Terra.  The key piece of advice is, “Never keep anything in your back pocket!”  The only thing that will ever go in my back pocket again is the decoy.

My fake wallet made it through Spain, Portugal, Italy, Ireland, the canals of France, Ecuador, and back again without incident. Now veteran vagabonds tell me to beware of The Vatican.

The thought of thieves on Holy Ground during the Christmas season didn’t spring readily to mind. It makes perfect sense though. Where there are crowds there will be nimble fingers. Perhaps Jesus tossed the money changers out of the temple to save thieves from themselves.

I fully expect to be in possession of my decoy wallet at the end of our trip.  It will probably only fool rank amateurs. That’s OK!  It means if I become a victim, it will be at the hands of a true artist. You have to respect the kind of skills that can get past Velcro and zippers without a single tug.  If someone is going to take money out of your pocket, you don’t want them to be a snatch and dash street punk.  You want them to be the best, and only the best!

 

My Thanksgivings are always inspired by childhood memories of Uncle George and Aunt Bobbie’s house. I think that’s true for my siblings as well. Mother was not an extravagant cook. She prided herself on how cheaply she could feed a family of five. Her beef stroganoff might include a piece of meat that expanded as you chewed it. This could lead to two impolite options. A single Cornish game hen stewed in orange juice was not a surprising family meal. In comparison Thanksgiving at Uncle George and Aunt Bobbie’s was a sumptuous no-holds-barred feast.

In my memory there is a Thanksgiving when a turkey, a goose, and a honey glazed ham graced the table. Vienna sausages, cocktail onions, sweet pickles, pickled watermelon, jumbo black olives, candied walnuts, hard candy, several kinds of cranberry sauce, stuffing with sausage, another one with oysters, and whatever was popular in Good Housekeeping filled in all the nooks and crannies on the table. Uncle George made his baked beans with ham hocks. Rich with molasses they were nearly black. For dessert their was mincemeat pie with apricot brandy, and a pumpkin chiffon pie with peanut brittle folded into the whipped cream topping. It was a kid’s dream, and a diabetics nightmare.

At breakfast two days before Thanksgiving Donna and I planned a Spanish Thanksgiving feast for two. The menu was traditional, but limited by our knowledge of what is available in Spanish markets. Donna’s clam dip is an essential holiday item. Cottage cheese is difficult to find. The canned clams that are available in Oliva’s markets are not recognizable. Cream cheese isn’t where you might expect it to be. Poultry seasoning will have to be made from scratch. Spanish celery is woody and hairy. The turkey breast was a special order.

Donna’s idea of a feast involves cooking for an army. My idea is to cook for two and avoid leftovers. The discussion is as follows: Donna says,  “But…leftovers are my favorite part!” I say, “Very few things are improved by reheating them!” The final word is Donna’s, “I like leftovers!” There will be leftovers.

We hit the Mercadona with a shopping list that was in our heads. An hour later we found almost everything we were looking for. We never shop side by side, but there was only one duplication this time. A pack of mushrooms was put back. Regular hairless celery was found. Two bottles of Spanish wine and a bottle of whiskey were put into the basket. The total bill was €63. In Spain that’s a splurge. We shopped for an army of two.

Politics will not be avoided at our Thanksgiving table. The sad history of the occasion will be cause for serious contemplation. Thanksgiving is a time for looking back.  We are blessed that our seasonal nostalgia comes swathed in privilege. All the more fortunate that we grew up surrounded by love, hard work, and strong values. Values that made questioning the world around us as natural as breathing. Silence about important issues isn’t celebrated at our table.  Most of all we will reflect upon our families’ blessings. We miss them. We celebrate as they create traditions of their own.

Ah, but the feast! There will be a turkey breast, cranberry and mushroom stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, baked yams, an excellent €5 bottle of Grenache, and a bargain Rioja. There will also be clam dip and Lays potato chips, pickles, olives, and dilled green beans, butternut squash pie filling for dessert, and Irish coffee. There will be leftovers!

Friday morning Donna will roll up her sleeves and make lefse for breakfast. They will be served with a side of sass. “I’m not sure you should be eating any of these. You do know they are leftovers. Hey! Go easy on that jam! I can’t believe you!” Blessed!!!

 

As a rule second thoughts should be resolved before any commitments are made. You ponder, soul search, research, and then go over it all again. Well, that’s my process. Donna’s process involves gut instincts and a clear sense of possibilities.  It’s, “We can do this!” “Should we do this?”  That comes later.

Donna tends to suffer from buyer’s remorse. I don’t. My role is to assure her, quite accurately, that her instincts have always served us well.

No one has ever created a house that is maintenance free. Frank Lloyd Wright’s houses are considered architectural masterpieces. They leak. Water, bugs, shifting ground, basic wear and tear, deferred maintenance, design flaws, and shoddy work all conspire to bring a house down. New, old, newly renovated it doesn’t matter.

When you put all of this in a foreign country the rent vs buy debate looms large. The generic advice is always to rent for a year, and then buy. There is merit in that advice, but very little romance.

Any discussion Donna and I had about renting was short lived. We knew we loved Spain and wanted to be there. We knew constantly rearranging furniture, something Donna has done in every VRBO we’ve ever stayed in, would get old. “If you rent a house, it’s never really yours! You adapt to it. It never adapts to you!”

It’s true. You wind up trying to ignore an ugly couch sized painting that acquires an obscene nickname within the first week. The fridge is inadequate, and poorly placed. The rug looks like a dog blanket, and the drawer pulls look like clowns’ noses. So, we bought our house, its problems, and it’s surprises.

Without really understanding the torrential rains that come with Spain’s Gota Fria I knew the catwalk at the bottom of a run of roof tiles was problematic. The drain was too small. It was easily clogged, and difficult to get to. The plaster blowouts in the living room, and  leakage in Donna’s dressing room, were evidence of water infiltration problems. The exterior of the house needed painting.  There were blowouts on the front exterior wall that needed to be addressed. A crew was retained to repair the blowouts and paint the house.

While the tile in the living and dining room was being replaced a bathroom pipe sprung a leak. To address the leak fragile antique tiles had to be removed. This revealed lead pipes, and left a hole in the wall. Donna’s response was, “The pipes are lead? Did my grandbabies drink the water???”

Exterior mounted copper pipe was ordered and installed. Copper tile replaced the irreplaceable and irretrievably damaged blue tiles. The bank account took at hit. The end result is pleasing. Without the help of our neighbor, Kirsteen, the project  would have been a nightmare.

The house was scheduled to be painted before we arrived in October. Bureaucratic sludge put our project on hold. October came and went. Promises of “tomorrow” became promises of “next week”. Permission to occupy the street and put up a scaffold appeared to be the holdup. Permission was an unnecessary formality. Our house is set back. The scaffolding was never going to block the street.

The project started on November 20th. There was no fanfare. The crew rolled up, erected the scaffold, and started banging on the front of the house.

It’s rumored that houses in Oliva’s historic old town are constructed with “God Knows What”, and repaired with whatever is on hand. Paint doesn’t appear to want to stick to any of it. A short walk down Calle Antonio Maura reveals a dozen failed attempts.

Our house was built with bricks, rocks, blocks, and boulders. Paint prep requires scraping the walls down to solid material, filling the bigger holes with honeycombed bricks, creating a solid concrete base, and then applying architectural plaster. We hoped most of this work would be limited to the bottom half of the front wall. That was wishful thinking.

The drain on the catwalk below the roof tiles was the culprit. It was a decorative feature.  Moving up from the street there was a new plastic pipe. It was connected to a metal pipe. The metal pipe was connected to a clay pipe, and the clay pipe wasn’t connected to anything. There was a large gap between the drain and the rest of the downspout. Water flowed into the catwalk drain and from there seeped to the ground between “God Knows What” and the plaster. The blowouts were inevitable, and more extensive than anyone figured.

“So, any second thoughts?” The new floortile Malcom installed is perfect.  It’s just as Donna imagined it. The exterior mounted copper plumbing has decorative appeal and isn’t toxic. The copper tile covering the hole in the bathroom looks almost intentional. That I insisted on addressing the catwalk drain and having the house painted pleases Donna. It also makes my insistence look reasonable. Anything that makes a Taurus look reasonable instead of just plain stubborn is a good thing.

Rent or buy? Wrestling with a house’s problems and surprises is what makes it yours. You come to understand and appreciate what previous owners tried to accomplish. The house acquires a personality of its own. Sometimes you come to despise a house. Sometimes a house is just a way station. When gut instincts and best laid plans come together you wind up loving a house. In this case it’s not just cosmetic surgery that’s been accomplished. A house that has always felt like home has been given a longer life. At our age we can see the beauty in that.

Twenty-two professional chefs took on Spanish cuisine during the second episode of the Netflix series The Final Table. The contestants were asked to make Spain’s most emblematic dish…paella. The winners of this challenge made a textbook Valencian version. The middle tier contestants didn’t stray too far from that template. They made close to the earth versions informed by hunting and gathering. The chefs on the bottom created dishes that were deemed undone, not authentic, or too spicy. The chefs who got sent home brought their Mexican and Jamaican influences to the task. A decorative rock and too much kick were their downfalls. Judge Miguel Bose spat out a fierce declaration, “Paella is not spicy!”

Donna and I have eaten in some celebrated Valencian restaurants. They are known for their paella. The best of these was just down the hill from our place in Oliva. It was a traditional interpretation with the requisite rabbit, and chicken. Snails were gratefully left out. According to Bible de la Paella ditching the snails is perfectly acceptable. Snails, or not, paella hasn’t managed to become a dish we are likely to seek out.

We are not alone in this. In many cases what paella lacks in spice is made up for with the addition of feet swelling quantities of salt. One traditional recipe included instructions to make the broth a little too salty. I don’t use much salt when I cook. So, “a little too salty” quickly becomes “too damn salty” for me. The consensus view is that paella lacks a balance of flavors. I love the earthy smokiness the paprika brings out, but there is a brightness that is missing.

The spicy Mexican/Jamaican version of paella that sent two chefs home on The Final Table looked and sounded delicious. What I am looking for when I am eating paella is not paella. The flavor profile I am looking for is closer to paella’s Louisiana cousin, jambalaya, or maybe even gumbo. A little bit of heat may be heresy if you are Miguel Bose, but I’ve always wished I brought a good bottle of hot sauce with me whenever I’ve ordered paella.

What happens when you create a paella/gumbo/jambalaya hybrid? It won’t be paella, and it won’t be gumbo, or jambalaya. It will be a rice dish. A gumbo is served over rice. Jambalaya tends to be soupy. A paella is skillfully cooked, rice and all, in one specially designed pan. Cooking a New Orleans style paella isn’t a big culinary leap. The ingredients are similar, and they share a similar heritage. You just can’t call the results ”paella”.

“It’s Not Paella” Recipe

Ingredients: 2 lbs boneless chicken thighs, 1/4 lb flat beans, 1 lb tomatoes peeled and seeded, 8 oz of spicy sausage (chorizo, andouille, or linguica), 1 1/2 lbs of clams scrubbed with a brush and lightly salted water, 1 small red pepper skin removed, 2 minced garlic cloves, 1 medium sweet onion chopped, 1/2 tsp cayenne, 1 tsp smoked paprika, 1/2 tsp saffron, 1 cup Bomba rice, olive oil (I never measure olive oil. I watch the absorption rate and add more as needed.  I also want the oil hot, but not smoking.), 1 cup chicken broth, or clam nectar, 1 cup water, 1/2 tsp salt, Italian parsley, 1 lemon, hot sauce

Other stuff: 1/2 cup fresh peas, 1/2 cup white beans, 1 lb clams, 1/2 tsp thyme, 1/2 tsp lemon zest, substitute 1/4 cup of sherry vinegar for 1/4 cup of water, 1 bay leaf, or 1 sprig of rosemary. If you want to confuse your guests use okra instead of broad beans.

Cooking Instructions: Where jambalaya and paella really differ is in the cooking method. No one is looking for that crunchy goodness the Spanish call socarrat when they are eating jambalaya. Maybe they should. That comes down to closely timed changes in cooking temperature.

Cut the chicken into uniform pieces. Place the pieces in a bowl and add a pinch of salt, and lightly coat with the salt and some cayenne. Chop the onions and reserve. Clean and cut beans. Slice sausage into 1/2”slices. Mince the garlic. Blister the red pepper over a flame, or in a cast iron frying pan. Place the pepper in a plastic bag. When the pepper has cooled peel the skin. Cut the pepper into strips. Remove the skin from the tomatoes by briefly placing them in boiling water. Cut the tomatoes into quarters and remove the seeds. Roughly grate the tomatoes and reserve.

Heat the oil in a 14 inch pan until it shimmers. Fry the chicken. Move the meat to the outside of the pan. Gently fry the beans (okra) in the meat juice. Fry the onions, garlic, and sausage. You are sweating the sausage in order to color and flavor the onion. Move the onion and sausage mixture to the outside of the pan.

Add the grated tomato. Reduce it until the tomato water has evaporated. Gently mix in the ingredients that are on the outside of the pan.

Add the water and the chicken stock, or clam nectar. Add the saffron, and the paprika. Gently stir the last two ingredients into the broth. Add the rice when the water is rapidly boiling. No more stirring.

There are three stages in cooking the rice. Cook on high heat for the first 7 to 8 minutes. When you can see the rice go on to the second stage. Reduce the heat to medium or low for 8 to 10 minutes. During the last 4 minutes of the second stage add the clams by pushing them lightly into the rice. Arrange the red pepper on top of the rice. Cover the pan with a lid, or foil. Take the lid off the pan once the clams have opened. Discard any unopened clams. At the end crank the heat for 1 to 2 minutes to create the socarrat. (Note: Check the water absorption at every stage of cooking the rice. Adjust the timings accordingly.)

Garnish with Italian parsley, and serve with lemon wedges. Several bottles of good hot sauce should be on the table. It isn’t paella!