Es verano. Come paella. Sea feliz.

A while back, a friend of mine asked if I had a good recipe for paella.

My brain flashed back to every amazing paella I’d eaten in Spain: that first one in Valencia with my family, the one in Barcelona that came as the third course after pan con tomate and a baroque tower of glorious shellfish, the one at the hostel in Granada that was the diameter of a wagon wheel and perched on one tiny burner, the other Barcelona one enjoyed in the sun with a friend from home after an icy trip to Belgium and before an icier trip to Vienna, the opulent one I treated myself to on Easter day in Zaragoza, the one that was a sight for empty stomachs on a jaunt to Granada, and the only homemade one, in Aracena, with two of the best families in the world teaching me how to prepare the dish outside on their farm, just before I left for the states.

Despite my best efforts to pay attention, I don’t completely remember all I was taught on that last paella session. Being my final day in town, surrounded by friends who had become second family, I was too busy being a sap instead of taking diligent notes. And as a general rule, I don’t ever think of my last trip to Spain as my last trip to Spain– I’ll get another tutorial at some point.

So, in short, the answer to the recipe question was surprisingly, no. (Although I did talk a good deal about finding an amazing abuela to adopt me and teach me how to make all Spanish food that has ever existed.. somehow that plan fell through.)

What I can offer, however, are my notes.
These are by no means exhaustive: the very nature of this dish is to improvise with whatever you have available, so these notes are simply some guidelines that I’ve field collected over the years. Paella changes from region to region in Spain; mine is just another variation, Paella Californiana.

Create yours.

Sueños, verde sueños…

… Proost! (part 2)

I don’t think I’ve done a good, solid Food Post in a while. Not sure how that’s happened.
Here, some visuals of the foods I mentioned in my last; a more in-depth look at just how many sweets a person can eat in a week.
And by “a person,” I mean me.*

And for good measure, a cautionary tale…

* I promise I did eat and thoroughly enjoy non-sacchirine foods during my journey as well: those photos just lacked the sugarcoating.

Siete sensacional

Alright, I’ll let you all take a break from my scribblings for a bit…

My good friend, Kelly Holland, of a moment in the sun recently threw down the gauntlet for me on this one.  The challenge: post my seven supershots.  “Challenge” being the choice word here.  As my hard drive can verify, I could have easily filled up about 1000 more categories, but for for the sake of not boring you to tears, here’s the final seven…

7.  The “takes my breath away” photo:

Big Sur, California.

The coast of California usually conjures up images of bikini-clad rollerbladers, hideously rad 80’s tank tops, and swarms of sunbathers.  Sure, you could find that, but the other 98% of the coastline is absolutely sublime and never ceases to surprise and inspire me.  This past summer’s discovery: Andrew Molera State Park.  Here, a hidden beach cove that we had almost entirely to ourselves for as long as the sun was warm.

6. The “makes me smile” photo:

Aracena, Spain.

Cow, pondering moon jump: “This grass bores me.  I’m not like the rest of these sheepcows.  I have ambition.  I have moon dreams.  Alright, yeah it looks far, but I’ve heard it can be done… Just a quick jump.  Over and back.  I got this.”

5. The “dreamy” photo:

Burano, Italy.

Dream in color.  Grab an ore, pack plenty of purse cake, and cast off.  Bob along the tiny canals of huge chroma in Burano, towards the Venice lagoon.  Squint to catch Piazza San Marco float by, hulking and dark.  Drift off from the Grand Canal, only balconies and bridges to count.  Lose count.

4.  The “makes me think” photo:

Marrakech, Morocco.

He’s thinking.  I’m thinking, “What’s he thinking?”  It’s a whole thinking situation.

This was one of many stifled-camera shots that I blindly took in Marrakech, trying to keep a low profile to avoid the hovering boys hunting for gullible tourists.  Maybe this man is thinking about his next dye project, maybe he’s scheming a new crochet granny square pattern, or maybe he’s just basking in the red-orange success that surrounds him.  Or, most likely, he’s thinking, “Man, that girl is really not good at covertly taking pictures… I’ll humor her for now.  But in five minutes, I’m asking for dirhams.”

3. The “drool” photo:

S’morelandia.

Between adventures in home baking, new foods in foreign places, and fresh market stall colors, I have an un-kosher amount drool pictures.  So why the blurry s’more?  Because it’s an honest campfire s’more.  The kind that was fully ablaze five seconds ago, at the end of a stick, then hastily mashed between two honey-graham crackers and four squares of dark Hershey’s chocolate.  The oozy ‘mallow sticks to your hands and face and tastes a little bit like firepit… You know the kind.

2.  The photo that tells a story:

Echo Park, California.

This cat and I have come a long, long way since this picture was taken.  Her be-casted leg no longer exists, and the two of us are blissfully happy about it.  This photo has since appeared on the website animalswithcasts.com, as well as in their first published book of “favorites” from the site, Feel Better Little Buddy.  Available for purchase from Amazon.com, although proceeds in no way go to my cat nor me, so we’re not offended if you don’t buy it.  She prefers proceeds in the form of tiny treats that smell like fish, anyway.

1.  The photo I’m proud of:

Torla, Spain.

This shot was the genesis of my spring break suicide-bus mission across the northeast of Spain last year, or as I prefer to call it: Semana Santastico.  I was listless and plan-less before spring break (Semana santa); leafing through a guidebook of Spain, I saw a picture of this view.

So it’s smack in the middle of the Pyrenees, you say?  With slim to no access by public transit and few accommodations for a cautious single female traveler without a sleeping bag and tent, eh?  … It still baffles me why I determine to do things like this, but that week of rambling through País Vasco, random Pyrenees towns, and ultimately Zaragoza, was by far one of the most brilliant insanities I’ve ever put myself through.

———————————————————————————————————

I figure this is as good a place to leave you as any: today is the first day of spring break/semana santa 2012, and I am about to head off on a new week-long journey of unknowns.  This year, the destination is Holland (and a hot second in Germany).  Tulips and Van Gogh, printen and Charlemagne.  And more insanely long street names whosepronunciationIwillcertainlybutcher than I’d like to think about.

Prettige paasdagen!! 

(…or is it Gelukkig paaschfeest??  Zalig pasen?  … oh, the butchering begins.  Happy spring break, all!)

Masa madre

As promised, the tale of the post-carnival cake (also known as bizcocho carmelitas descalzas)…

Salsa blanca

Jarabe inalcanzable

Don José

que pavo que asco