brevera blanca figs from the tree around the corner...
The summer heat of Toledo is beyond words. The skin pulsates and the mind spins – all ‘to do’s’ are lost, the memory becomes blank. Blogging is a long forgotten activity. Typing on a keyboard, far too strenuous.
If you dare to venture out in the heat of the mid-day, it’s what I would imagine walking into a blow dryer to be like. The streets are quiet, you can hear only the symphony of crickets. This heat is ancient. Indeed, Toledo has experienced more than 3000 years of this quiet, intense heat.
figs and baby pears for breakfast
The month of August is a time of respite in Toledo – and all over Spain. Signs display Cerrado por el mes de agosto in shop windows and cafes. I admire this, they take their time seriously. Or maybe it’s sheer survival. For me, this month was all about learning. Learning to take siesta seriously, because you might not be able to sleep through the night when the temperature dips to lows of, oh my goodness, about 33′C. I was also learning to just move through the days, allowing my body to adjust and my mind to deal with the dreaded fact that I might not feel productive or efficient until September. That’s just the way it is.
So, dear friends, all month since moving to Toledo – I too, have been cerrado por el mes. Closed for the month. But now, is September 2nd, and I did a rain dance last night. I awoke from siesta to the sound of rain, buckets pouring down – and instantly I felt rejuvenated. You must understand that I grew up in Vancouver, BC. Rain is a part of my DNA. My nanny taught me to open my mouth to the raindrops when I was 3, and dance in the puddles. So, after months of dry heat, the rain washed over my soul. Cooling and cleansing. The storm lasted the entire evening, nourishing not only me, but the miles of olives groves and pomegranate trees.
pan, higos y queso de cabra. Bread, figs, and fresh goat cheese
But, for all the intense heat, this land serves up stunning gifts of figs, melons, pomegranates, aubergines, miniature blushing pears, crisp green peppers and sweet, sweet pumpkin. Foods brought to this land by the Moors. Those Moors, they really had it together – if it wasn’t for them, there would be no pastry or spices or exquisite water gardens.
I have been enjoying these gifts with unabashed simplicity. Higos or figs, other than eating whole go perfectly on my favourite pan de pueblo, with honey and goat cheese. The most perfect summer breakfast ever. And although not captured here, you must try these figs, topped wtih greek yogurt seasoned with cardamom, drizzled (or doused) in honey spiced with ginger and cinnamon. I could imagine the Moors enjoying this type of treat, lazing across mountains of pillows and exquisite fabrics, in the ever so slight breeze of a late summer´s eve.
berenjenas toledanas, aubergines of Toledo
just back from our local organic farm
water fountains and gardens surrounding Toledo
outlines of Toledo through the park
a flock of happy birds in the Rio Tajo
I am sitting in my living room surrounded by boxes and a packed up kitchen. Although I’ve managed to clear off the kitchen table and to scrounge together a cup of Earl Grey. I have a little something to tell you, and begins with a conversation…
‘I can’t move THERE’, I exclaimed when my husband first suggested that we move closer to his work. Forget how long he has to drive every day. ‘What about my blog? I won’t be a girl in Madrid anymore. If anyone’s actually out there reading, they’ll be disappointed! ‘
After moving beyond my self-centered blog brain, I realized, of course, this was the only practical thing to do. To move, again. But this time, we are moving to a truly magical Medieval city. And to tell you the truth, it’s only 25 minutes south (by train) of Madrid. But yes, my friends. This ‘girl in Madrid‘ will no longer be actually living in Madrid. This ‘girl 25 minutes (by train) south of Madrid’ will be moving to the city of Toledo. As in ‘Holy Toledo’!
So, in a few days we will be driving down to the region of Castilla-La Mancha. We will say hello to our new neighbours Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, and settle into our brand new digs. I must admit, that I am thrilled that my kitchen size will be quadrupled, and that we will have plenty of room for guests. ‘It will be expansive’, says one of our spiritual friends. Indeed.
The fact that we get to live and walk everyday on roads that hold so many centuries of history is exciting. A whole new chapter. So, friend, come along with me on a new chapter of this little story. Who knows where the fork may lead…
They sit there staring at me everyday as I pass by the Pescaderia. I admit, I’ve felt intimidated for some time now..
Madrid, they say, is the second largest port in the world next to Tokyo. Of course, there’s no actual port to be had, but they truck in such a vast amount of seafood daily, this allows them the title.
Refreshed and back in Spain after a stay in Canada, I return with new eyes, and a list of things that I wish I’d done earlier. One of which is to take on the seafood. Grab the fish by the gills, and stuff them with herbs. How hard can it be?
I am a lover of simplicity, and in food is no exception. As long as the ingredients are fresh, and of the best quality possible, it doesn’t take much to thrill the taste buds. A few herbs, fine olive oil, wine and voilà…or I mean, um..¡Listo!
So, for my first whole baked fish ever, I chose to use a Dorada (or Gilthead, Dourade, Orato, depending on which language you speak) from the Spanish Atlantic. Up near the region of the famous culinary metropolis of San Sebastián.
“¿La quieres entera o sin cabeza?” (do you want the fish whole or without the head?) With hesitation, ‘entera por favor‘. I can’t cave now. Our fishmonger, with the capable hands of someone who’s been slinging fish for a hundred years, wrapped it up with the recommendation to cook it en papillote.
With the fishmongers advice in mind I washed the fish again, and placed it carefully in a deep rectangular baking tray lined with papel de horno. I washed up and peeled one big zucchini, 3 diced cloves of garlic, two purple onions and a few sprigs of fresh thyme. Happily, I grated generous amounts of salt and pepper with my freshly unpacked Peugeot mills, a few douses of extra virgin olive oil and finally (I tell you using my ever-so-specific recipe format) two, maybe three glugs of white wine. In this case, we had a bottle of Albariño in the fridge.
I covered the nicely dressed Dorada and company with another layer of parchment and knotted all the corners, so as to create a papillote. For your reference, here is a great little slideshow of en papillote.
The preheated oven of 375′F (190′C) will finish this off in a mere 15-20 minutes. Once ready, the parchment puff will unearth a delicate aroma of wine and herbs and olive oil. Open, remove the skin if you like, and serve immediately. The fish should be moist and tender.
On a warm summer day, this is the perfect simple lunch for 2 or 3 people. With a chilled bottle of Albariño and a wedge of peasant bread, perfection.
We lunched happily at our little table with our open windows shaded by rows of trees. It was a very hot, yet slightly breezy afternoon, where the air feels the same temperature as your skin. Delicious.
‘It wasn’t difficult at all‘, the first step in many a delicious Spanish baked fish. And with that, I floated off to siesta.
So glad to be home in Spain.
‘The butter to my bread, the breath to my life…’
One year ago, just before we hopped over the divide between certainty and creating a new life from scratch in Spain, there was our wedding on an urban farm in Vancouver.
It was a beautiful day, with our family and friends, amazing food and Spanish wines. It was the perfect picnic under rows of poplar trees.
Feliz anniversario, mi vida.
Photography by Carmen Schmid
After 36 hours of travel, I happily have arrived back home to Spain. The heat, the sunshine, my little family and of course, the food have welcomed me home. Not to mention the incredible ever-lasting World Cup celebrations!
The last few days in Vancouver were a whirlwind of trying to pack up things to bring across the pond. My cookbooks (sadly, not all, they are so heavy), a few treasured kitchen gadgets- like our adored Peugeot salt and pepper mills, and my Guan Yin to preside and protect our new home. Anyways, there was a lot of packing, re-packing and dragging the heavy suitcases over my parents bathroom scale…which, or course, is not so accurate.
The time was also filled with many a sushi feast, while getting my fill of wild salmon and family visits.
I spent a lovely overnight visit to see my Aunties on Vancouver Island, with their beautiful gardens, bright fiestaware dishes and mutual adoration of exquisite gelato. I even managed to find a little piece of Spain..a creamy, subtle and delicate saffron gelato.
The gardens at my parents house were also abound with west coast beauty. My final week was sunshine-filled and I sat out in their little pagoda, sharing yet another delicious slice of my lavender olive oil cake and deeply inhaling the pristine, salty ocean air.
My heart now lives on both sides of the ocean. The home where I was raised, and this new place I now call home. Both places have become so dear, though they could not be more different. I suppose I am destined to always be a little bit homesick…but I am somehow happy to be so, as this journey continues to transform me.
Now…the morning sun filters through our kitchen windows. It’s time for café and a wedge of pan de pueblo dressed in tomatoes and olive oil.
The story continues, hasta pronto amigo mio…
Bright reds and deep greens, dragons and signage reminiscent of Fred Herzog photographs. Some scents a little more desirable than others. The textures, and the shapes, and (oh, my goodness) the piles of poor little dehydrated seahorses.
Vancouver’s Chinatown was a part of my childhood and growing up in Canada. I was always drawn to the rawness and vibrance of this now not-so-little corner of the city. When I was a little girl, my nanny Lola (means Grandmother in Tagalog) would bring me Siopao. Doughy steamed buns with sweet chicken or pork inside. Yum, delicious.
Siopao or Baozi, delicious steamed pork buns, keeping warm
succulent Peking ducks, quite the window display.
steaming noodles
textured bamboo Dim Sum baskets
colour and texture
a dragon, maybe in celebration?
Ohh, and the egg tarts. The creamy, eggy exquisitely warm and flaky egg tart. If the Madrileños came to Vancouver, they would love these!
At home in Madrid, there’s not much of a Chinatown. And I must say, that I have spent the past 9 months craving Dim Sum. So, a trip to Chinatown with my family last week was just delightful. The signature Vancouver rains were also with us.
a lunch of noodles, vegetables, tofu
saucy and delicious
silk road in Vancouver's Chinatown
A few more days of the Canadian west coast before jumping over the pond to my love, our little dog, and the intense dry heat of summer in Spain. I can almost taste the gazpacho and the gentle sweet effervescence of a chilled Albariño.
So sweet is our simple life in Spain. It has transformed me, and even more so since I now have had the time to look at it from afar. Only 5 more sleeps before I say, I am going home to Spain. I am going home to Spain..(thrilling!)
It’s been a few weeks now that I’ve been immersed back into West Coast Canadian culture. The weather, unfortunately has been shockingly grey and wet. But the soils are rich and fertile and full of the lettuces and chards that I miss in Spain.
One of my first visits upon arriving back in Canada was to the local organic farm, just down the road from my parents home.
I have a weakness for beautiful farm produce. Bushels and bunches of chard, and green onions. Baskets of lavender and thyme. Crisp pea shoots, standing tall. I get a thrill out of washing and carefully plucking the dirt from tender leaves of spinach.
So, I was excited to visit The Hazelmere organic farm, hidden away in the Fraser Valley. It’s been awhile since I have been allowed to touch the produce. In Spain , you see, you must not touch the produce. There are dashing Spanish men, whose livelihoods in the fruterias de España, it is to pick for you the best produce of the day. But that’s a whole other post…
I wandered the farm, with it’s lush soils and rows of jewels ready to be plucked and taken to someone’s kitchen. I often feel a sense of peace on a farm. It can be a place of such purity. The cycle of sowing and harvesting, like dreams…
Sunday morning waffles
After hours upon hours at Madrid and NYC airports, I was so relieved to finally arrive at my parents place relatively intact. With the rain falling outside, I nestled myself into a soft fluffy bed and drifted into a deep Canadian slumber.
the ingredients for an excellent post-travel slumber
The next morning I awoke to the delicious and familiar scent of my dad’s Sunday morning waffles with strawberries. Heavy pours of a rich amber maple syrup, of course.
Waking up to Sunday morning waffles
A perfect thing to arrive home to in Canada.
T.S. Eliot proposed the idea that at the end of our voyages out, we return to our origins and understand the place for the first time.
One of my favourite authors once wrote about the riddle of home, and writes that after exploration, one returns home to their origins and transforms them.
Today I will return to Canada for a month’s visit. I am going solo to tie loose ends, and finally ship our boxes of books..oh, my books!
I will be staying with my parents, in my old room. Painted blue, with it’s little windows looking out onto beds of tulips. The thick cotton, amish country comforter draping the bed. My old antique recovered desk, and little stool with ‘katherine’ painted on the side. I dreamt many a dream, sitting at my little desk. Ever a romantic, I dreamt of the voyages and discoveries and love that I would meet.
Now, I return to my old home, from my new home. It’s been not quite a year since we left, but I can say that this experience has transformed me, and will continue to do so. My parents home by the frigid Pacific ocean is now just as romantic as the villas of Spain, and the countryside filled with bodegas and molinos.
What about the food, you ask? Of course, I will continue to post over the next month. The foods that I grew up with, and the west coast fare that I miss. The salmon, oh the salmon. I am dreaming of the beautiful organic farm just down the road where I will forage for lettuces, and carrots and rhubarb. Oh, the rhubarb.
I must admit though, I am genuinely concerned. Will there be enough olive oil?
bread and olive oil, is there anything better?
Do you think we could pick-up a 5L bottle of aceite de oliva on the way to the airport? I said to my husband this morning. What if there’s not enough? What if I can’t make my olive oil cakes, and am forced to buy an inferior olive oil for 5 times the price? Oh, goodness. May the olive oil Gods be with me. I promise though, I will not hang chorizo from my mother’s kitchen hooks.
Until very soon, my dear friends.
This is part I of my little report from the rustic and rich region of Castilla-La Mancha.
Last week, we packed up the car including our furry friend, and headed south a few hours. The flat planes of poppies stretched out before us like massive red carpets. The earth turned a rich red, and rows upon rows of olive trees appeared.
a red carpet of poppies
Our destination was the town of Consuegra, on the route of Don Quijote. Quiet streets, as if every villager was taking siesta – well, probably, yes. Behind those charming patterned curtains blowing in the breeze. Even so, it seemed as if the towering molinos were their well-kept secret. We met few people on our circular drive up and up, until we reached those friendly giants in the sky. They seemed almost lonely, with their wooden arms having been dormant for centuries.
a charming town, and a curtain covered door
friendly giants in the sky
los molinos de La Mancha
We wandered, and circled and admired the views below. We met a curious herd of cabras, goats. Their sheppard, with cane in one hand and mobile phone in the other, moved them up the mountain. He stopped and chatted with us and told us of his huerta, and of his loads of tomates, pepinos and cebollitas. Heirloom tomatoes, cucumbers and spring onions. He pointed down into the medieval street of the town where his home was, and assured us that his daughter was home and would happily sell us as much as we could carry.
las cabras curiosas, curious goats
The tomatoes were sweet, the cucumbers crisp and the cebollitas sweet. After filling our bellies with tapas in the town square, we drove home in the sunset with our car smelling of fresh produce. A lovely day.
tomates raf, an heirloom variety
a tomato galette with goat cheese + thyme