the crocus - til she rises

The crocus is a brave, fragile god of a flower on the frontier of Spring, usually trampled by dogs before it has lived more than a few days, or frozen back into submission by a return frost or snowstorm. In many parts of the United States, it is the crocus – not that undependable marmot – whose rise (thank you ED) signals that winter might actually, graciously, be coming to an end. Alas, I have never seen a crocus in Madrid.  And this month I have been practically looking under rocks for them, so consumed I am for any sign that the cold weather will soon leave us in Spain alone.

All that was required of me, however, was a bit of people watching.  I would have seen the signs of spring earlier if I had just looked around.

The streets of Madrid reveal all.  Women are wearing the odd bit of color – I’ve even bits of last year’s horrific neon trend peeking out from winter coats.  And shop windows, of course, have warm weather clothing on display.

Restaurants and bars along plazas have begun to stake their claim on terrace dining, positioning tables and chairs in the sun. (How odd to think that in just a few months time, they will be wooing customers with the same tables but on the shady side of the plaza.)

But for the biggest hint that Spring is near, I just had to look around at a crosswalk.  (Everything happens while attempting to cross the street.)  Waiting for the light to turn, all the Madrileños are stock still, eyes closed, bodies turned in the direction of the sun.  Faces tilted upwards like sunflowers.  We’ve been missing the sun these past months and it is a vital nutrient to Spanish life.

If the light never changed, I imagine everyone would remain, standing still, soaking in the sun.  Slowly rotating to receive maximum exposure.

But the light always changes and we are always on our way.  Spring will come.

Notes from a Pastry Shop

Pomme Sucre on calle Barquillo has some of the most beautifully subtle pastries in Madrid.  The layout of the shop, with its sleek, back-lit display cases lining the store’s interior, implies that it was intended to do nothing more than sell delicious sweets. Reality (as is often the case) tells a different story.  It seems that Pomme Sucre patrons did not want to -- could not -- wait to leave the shop before biting into their freshly baked croissant or caracol or napoleon, that they also wanted coffee to complement it, and to sit down.  For the shop looks as if the customers themselves simply dragged in tables and chairs off the street and put them unevenly into the corner of the shop.  The delightfully mismatched coffee cups and saucers, forks, and plates, only strengthen this theory.

Even if it was never intended to be a sit-down, eat-in shop, Pomme Sucre was always destined to become one.

--- x --- x ---

I found myself in this sweet sweet shop for my second coffee of the day – the first having been drunk in an unsatisfying environment and thus in need of a rewrite. I’m at a small table near the door, so not only is it impossible to open my newspaper in any kind of comfortable fashion, but I get the full distraction of people walking in and out of the shop.  No matter.  For this particular morning, this crowded spot – complete with a distinct electrical hum from the dessert display cases – is where my mind is at ease.

The table on my left is only slightly bigger than my own, yet holds one grandmother, two parents and two adult children – all dressed in perfected Sunday morning Madrileño attire.  (The grandmother’s chair – although rickety – is draped with a fur coat.) In the corner is a couple who are in the beauty of a morning that follows a night.  A young woman sits alone with a book directly in front of me.  I immediately like her though can’t understand how or why she insists on reading while a pan de chocolate sits untouched before her.

We are like birds on rocks along the coastline, and each time someone enters the shop they cast a furtive glance towards us to see if a table might be open.

--- x --- x ---

A man shuffles in. He’s frail, and walking with a cane.  He’s wearing a big black coat with a faux fur collar and his legs are skinny in green pants – green green: not the color of moss but of a new leaf.  One of the young girls behind the counter comes around to join him as he looks intently into the dessert cases.  She greets him in a comfortable, friendly way that implies routine and begins to describe each sugary offering as they slide down the length of the case together.

--- x --- x ---

I hadn’t noticed he’d left until the draft from the door opening makes me look up.  It’s a cold day in February and I see the back of his shaved head as he walks up to the counter.  I am reminded of the color grey. (But with an a: gray.)

He grabs hold of the cane he’d left at the counter while paying.  The girl smiles at him from her position with another customer as he turns and walks, once again, out of the shop. The pastry bag swings in his left hand and the cane in the other bangs on the glass door as he opens it to leave.

 Pomme Sucre Madrid, c/ Barquillo 49

Your Fortune Is in Another Cookie

The proper way – the only way – to eat a fortune cookie is to eat the cookie first, and then read the slip of paper. Otherwise, the fortune couldn’t possibly be true or come true.

How terrible when other people don't know this golden rule -- and to watch them happily tear into a cookie and read aloud Someone you know will give you money or True love is around the third corner or Something lost will turn up soon while the broken halves of the cookie lie on the place-mat alongside dirty chopsticks.  Or, worse yet, your dining companion eats the cookie and reads the fortune at the same time, crumbs tumbling out of his or her mouth along with the lucky phrase.

If a fortune is never to come true, does that mean that, in fact, it’s opposite will? These are dangerous times.

When faced with such an unaware dining companion, a person who does indeed understand fortune cookie etiquette has two options: sit quietly and let the other person mistakenly believe that Happy events will soon take place at home or 2) tell them the truth: that their good luck will not arrive because they rushed to read the fortune before eating the cookie.

This is the marshmallow test come to a Chinese restaurant near you.  But this time: eat the cookie first and delay the gratification of learning that Beauty surrounds you because you create it.

Is the fortune cookie the best part of the meal?  Possibly.  What is absolutely clear, though, is that it is an essential part of the meal.

There is a Chinese restaurant here in Madrid which is good enough for takeout.  Delivery isn’t quite their thing so if you want to eat Chinese food at home, you must walk to the restaurant on calle Horteleza, choose from the menu, and wait.  They always forget to include the fortune cookies with the takeout so this last visit, I checked the bags before leaving.   Nope, no shiny little wrappers filled with fortune cookies.  I’d have to ask for them:  ¿Podria tener las galletas de fortuna?

-- Que? -- Galletas de fortuna? -- COMO? -- Galletas? -- No. No entiendo. Lo siento. No entiendo.

At this point, the kind Spanish-speaking Chinese waiter didn’t seem to care any longer if I paid or not.  He wanted me out of there.   I tried one more time:

-- Perdona. Sabes galletas?  Fortune cookies?? Cuando las abres, hay una frase de suerte?

Blank stare.  I was getting nothing.  In fact I was being ushered out the door.  Quickly.

The next day at work, I relay the story to my colleague from China and ask What was up with that crazy waiter?  

But it was me, not him.  Apparently, fortune cookies are an American thing and the Chinese waiter honestly had no clue what I was going on about. I was the crazy one: demanding free cookies filled with fortune.

Homesick Foods

Despite the hilarious legitimacy of this Huffington Post article about Surviving Whole Foods, I love the place.  And since we don’t have the likes of it in Spain, every time I travel to the US, I must also make a trip to Whole Foods. Once inside, I am - mustbemustbe - selective.  Airlines have weight policies for luggage, after all, and so does my bank account.  The items that do make it into the shopping cart reveal my homesick foods, the likes of which are nowhere to be found in Madrid:

• Peanut butter.  Good, old fashioned, organic stuff made from nothing but peanuts.  Spaniards don't pay much attention to peanut butter and, really, it's no wonder: the most available brand is Peter Pan peanut butter and it costs a small fortune at Cortes Inglés.
• Maple Syrup. Once you are used to the taste of pure Maple Syrup, nothing compares – and it simply does not make sense to me to pour honey on my pancakes as is commonly done here in Spain, or caramel sauce, or even Aunt Jemima for that matter.
• Toothpaste.  Like Crest?  Good luck to ya.  Outside of North America, it's a Colgate world.  But at Whole Foods, there is a whole other realm of toothpastes that taste like chomping on evergreens, delicious spindly branches and all.
• Granola bars.  Cascadian Farms chocolate chip granola bars to be exact.
• Spaghetti O’s and boxed Mac & Cheese.  No kidding.  I love this stuff and I miss it – but only Annie's Homegrown all-natural fare.
• Cereal.  Nobody does breakfast cereal like the U.S. of A.  Rows upon rows upon rows in every grocery store.  Whole Foods happens to keep it good for you too.  (Sorry, Fruit Loops lovers.)
• Tea. In Madrid, land of good coffee, there is a decent loose leaf franchise called the Tea Shop and entrepreneurs are popping up like Cómo Té Encuentras, from whom I bought delicious tea recently at Mercado la Buena Vida.  Yet, there is nothing quite like Whole Foods’ endless possibility of beautifully packaged teas.  How could anyone pass up The Republic of Tea's “Get Happy” or Steven Smith Teamaker's "Fez No. 39"?
• Hot sauce and spices.  Only good can be said about Spanish food. But, let's be clear: nothing is spicy.  You will never reach for a glass of milk except for a hankering.  The Spanish palette just doesn't handle spicy food.  (Tip: don't give your Spanish teacher Altoids Curiously Strong Cinnamon Mints.)  And sure, some spices abound at their best in Spain (paprika, saffron, parsley) but others are frustrating to find. Thus, my JFK->MAD suitcase often includes a handle of hot sauces and good quality cayenne, turmeric, all-spice, cumin, and, clove.  (Vanilla and almond extract are also good buys.)

A most recent trip included Crushed Jalapeño Chili and Crushed Chipotle Chili.  Life was so incomplete before.  And these new chili flakes are particularly good on pan con tomate and tosta con aguacate – two things I could never leave Spain without.

So, if you're visiting Spain and can't quite figure out what to bring as a gift, try packing some of the above in your suitcase (throw in a bagel or egg and cheese sandwich if you're coming from NY?)  Surely you'll find a way to use that extra space when flying home from Spain...

Hoping for the Fat One

This holiday season, I have succumbed to FOMO.  That’s right.  At the precipice of my fourth Spanish Navidad – the fear of missing out has finally won. Now, this is not the new wave of FOMO induced by our addiction to technology and social media, but a real, old-fashioned fear of not doing what everyone else is doing.

And that would be the lottery.

The Spanish Christmas lottery is considered the largest and one of the oldest pots in the world – and tickets can be purchased in three ways: a series, a single ticket (€200), or in tenths (€20) of a ticket.  The best thing: there are multiple prizes and multiple winners.

Most often, people go in on tickets together.  A family will divide a €200 euro ticket amongst themselves.  Various groups of friends purchase portions together (friends from university, friends from work, friends from spinning class, friends from whatever imaginable.)

People tend to buy anywhere between 4-10 tickets each Christmas.  (This determined by my highly scientific method of asking people at random.)

And the "tenths" tickets are often given as gifts, a sign of friendship and goodwill.  And even more often, someone will give half of their ticket to another person so that the one-tenth ticket is shared between the two.  Thus, lottery buyers catch a bit more luck with (partial) ownership of more numbers.

Much conversation can be made out of what will be done with the money if your shared ticket (whether the series or partial number) is a winner.  People who go in on a ticket together usually decide to do something together with at least part of the money – that is, after all, a reason to go in on… well, anything… together.

Of course, not all turns out well with shared wins.  Stories abound about couples who have split over the money, siblings who no longer speak to one another, disagreements among friends.  It is only one ticket, after all, and possession is nine tenths of the law.

The announcement of the winning numbers is no less magical than the idea of a winning ticket.  A crowd gathers in Madrid’s Teatro Real, where wooden balls are pulled from two vessels.  Then small, magical children sing the numbers out to the crowd.

Companies commonly buy the big priced series, and sells portions to employees.  Such is my case.  Every.single.person where I work buys a company ticket (or two or three or four.) And if our series wins, every.single.person will get a piece of the prize.  Imagine those three years I did not buy a ticket.  If my company had won, I’d be the single poor soul still working for the money in the New Year.

Perhaps, you have just shrugged. Bah! Humbug! to the chance of winning the lottery. Bah! Humbug! to giving lottery tickets to others as gifts. Bah! Humbug! to idealistic talk of how to share the winnings.  But mostly: Bah! Humbug! to the possibility of winning.  Why  bother?

Consider poor Costis Mitsotakis, the only man in the small town of Sodeto, Spain who did not buy a lottery ticket last year.  The series selling in that town last year was a winner and the residents each garnered a share of €700 million.  Every.single.person – except Costis, who says he didn’t mind.  In fact, Costis is a filmmaker, so at least he was able to get some work out of it all, with a film about how the lottery win affected the town.  But this year, he knows better.  This year he is buying a ticket.

It’s not just about winning the lottery, though; it’s about tradition in Spain.

This year’s drawing is on Sunday, December 22^nd.  I’m hoping for the big “El Gordo” win.  So, in the tradition of Navidad, think of me kindly and when I win, I’ll think of you kindly too.