Pictures of stuff I've been cooking

Feast at La Oliva

The night before last Harry and I had dinner with a few people at Francisco's shop. We had:

regañas (little sesame crackers)

wafers with hemp seed (tortas de cañamones)

oil cured black olives

gazpacho with garnishes

tortilla de patatas (slightly runny on the interior)

chorizo blanca in Montilla wine

cogollas with white anchovies in vinegar

gambas al pil pil - shrimp in garlic sauce

hake roe with lemon oil

jamon serrano with baby fava beans

asparagus en ajopollo (this is in a sauce made of bread, garlic, vinegar, oil and pimenton)

chicken al ajillo

rice with artichokes, peas, peppers and pork ribs

cheese: aged sheep; blended cow n' goat; Aged goat; soft goat cheese with peppercorn (this is the best goat cheese I have ever had, literally. A lovely lady named Luz makes it nearby. Fransisco took Harry and I to visit her farm and cheesemaking facility a few weeks ago.)

torrija with rosemary honey (like delicious french toast, but eaten chilled. A typical treat served during Semana Santa.)

palitos de leche (little hard cinnamon cookies)

empanaditas de boniato (turnovers stuffed with sweetened sweet potato)

rosco de vino (A thick donut)

It was a good time.

On Repeat (once I finish listening): The Kills

An album that fills you up with the understanding that you can only hear an album for the first time for the first couple listens before it becomes familiar. You want time to stop, or to read a book page by page slowly, forcing yourself to stop mid chapter to prolong the enjoyment. Chewing very slowly.

I am halfway through the new Kills album, "Midnight Boom" and am filled with a sort of giddiness that can only come from a new classic. Now she's singing about dead ponies. Or a bed pony. Both suit me well. Ah delight!

Double Plus Good! Massive!

Los Italianos

Today I saw two cocacolos (teeny boppers, often with bad frosted hair and the following piercing (s): jeweled stud in between nose and upper lip; huge blinged out cubic zircons in each ear (boys only); pierced eyebrow with or without Vanilla Ice style shaved in dashes (also usually boys).) eating ice cream. That minute I knew that something had changed in Granada. Spring had come. Los Italianos had opened.

Los Italianos is a super on-the-money gelato shop that is only open half the year. The other half the owners pack up and head to Italy, obviously I suppose. Taken after a kufta (beef/lamb kebab cooked on the griddle and rolled up with tomaters and iceberg lettuce, also yogurt, harissa. Harry and I are addicted to them) a two scoop cone is the perfect meal, also economic. It is the gelato ideal, soft and light, not too sweet. They have all the classic flavors, including turron, yogurt and pistachio that is not bright green.

I am slightly afraid of the implications this brings on my "average" living schedule.

In other news, last night I made jello in layers: blood orange; cucumber with basil.

A dialogue

Harry: I don't like it that your Oscar Wilde T-shirt says "dandyism's not dead."

Jason: You don't think a dandy would use contractions?

Harry: Exactly.

"Vienen manolas comiendo

semillas de girasoles,
los culos grandes y ocultos
como planetas de cobre."

"[Working gals] come eating
sunflowers seed, their
big, hidden asses
like copper planets." -Federico Garcia Lorca

In Madrid, Harry and I stayed on San Bernardo, very near Chuecas (the queer district), right off Gran Via which is one of the main streets in the center. Every night about 10ish, after the shops closed, groups of putas would appear along Gran Via along with Chinese men who sold beer by the can and half sandwiches wrapped in cling wrap. To call your attention the gals make this kind of hiss, which made me think of angry geese. Or, as happened to me once, they would address you in English in a slightly pleading tone ("excuse me") and then, in a wondefully vulgar bait and switch ("Vamos a follar" i.e. "Let's fuck") This gave me great happiness. I also got hit up by a desperate looking and potentially, probably strung out tranny who called from a dark stoop on a backstreet. This also made me happy. A short distance away we found this graffiti, so I took it as a sign.

In Chuecas we walked by a bar/sex club which had a paper sign posted on the door upon which, written in permanent marker, was a proclamation that translates approximately [isn't all translation an approximation?] to "If you didn't come to fuck, this isn't your place."

Pretty Pony

Today I accidentally bought horse meat. For lunch. Harry, on looking at the label, refused to eat it and I admit a certain awkwardness and betrayal at not realizing what it was before I brought it home. I should be honest and say I also feel a certain squeamishness after I understood what I was dealing with. Before this knowledge I was excited about the potential of the meat. The [horse] meat sat on the counter to come up to room temperature for maximum flavor. I wanted to consume it with celery bits and yummy olive oil. I had already cut the celery into little bits. My intention was that we eat the meat raw.

I feel halfheartedly lame.