Every Thursday I get off work around 11:30 am so I walk into town to run any necessary errands. Usually within an hour I am mysteriously desmayada de hambre (so hungry that I’m about to pass out) so instead of getting something sweet and delicious from the panaderia (the bakery - which always sounds like a good idea) I pop into my favorite fruteria! It is a hole in the wall, long and narrow like a closet, packed full of the freshest locally grown fruits, vegetables, homemade olives, and preserves. And all that is adorable, but what really makes it my favorite is the verdulero, the guy selling the fruits and vegetables. The man seems to live and breathe vegetables. I imagine him as one of those people who early in the morning before any of his clientele arrives brings in his produce from the delivery truck and lovingly smells, caresses, listens to each pear, apple, and celery stalk as he carefully places them in their respective display crates. His eyes are full of deep satisfaction as he helps customers choose the best of the selection. He is glad to see it come, glad to see it go, glad to see us come, glad to see us come back. His work must give him so much pleasure and I deduce this by the way he is absolutely, one hundred percent present. It is comparable to going to the ballet and being able to notice the difference between the dancers who are going through the steps they repeatedly even tediously rehearsed and which dancers have truly become the characters they are portraying. The latter have all stage presence. He has fruteria presence, a love for his job and art. To me, the grateful buyer of one Ambrosia apple, it is as beautiful and more as the ballet.
Christmas has come and gone and for the first time in my 23 years I spent it away from my home and family. But don’t you even start to feel sorry for me. I had such a wonderful sweet Christmas here with the Leon-Salinas family, my church family, and the family of the students I tutor. Every year for Christmas Day breakfast, my mother prepares a heavenly casserole which my uncle Bret has ironically nicknamed “eggs-erroneous” (first coined by Earnest P. World in “Earnest Goes to Camp”). I say ironically because it is anything but erroneous. Start with one fat layer of buttery, southern-style grits. Top that with ground sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs, and finally cheese, but just beneath that a sneaky thin layer of savory cream of mushroom soup. Oh, yes. This is Christmas. Needless to say, I was obligated to learn how to make this celestial plate not only to be able to enjoy it myself but more importantly to share it with the poor deprived people around me who have never before this moment had the pleasure of a helping of Mom’s eggs-erroneous casserole. They did love it indeed!
Moreover (and you are simply not allowed to feel anything resembling sorrow for me because of this) my family came to visit me in Spain for the New Year! They were introduced to my “home town” of Huercal-Overa, Granada, Lanjaron in the Sierra Nevada National Park, and Almeria city. We spent New Year’s Eve in Granada where we rang in the New Year Spanish style, minus the grapes. The tradition is that each person brings twelve grapes to the square. As the bell rings out its twelve chimes everyone eats his share of grapes bringing luck for the New Year. Meanwhile the square is almost silent except for the sound of the bells. Lord save us, we could not encounter a single grape in all of our last minute shopping. Nevertheless, here we are in 2011, alive and well and having spent very well our holidays together as a family in Andalucia.
