Under Deep Cover

I am proud to report that I have infiltrated the deepest levels of Mallorcan living. Yesterday Marga, Josep, Toby, and I loaded up and drove out to their country house to meet with a big group of other families. Here is photo-documentation of my recon mission: (FYI- Spanish people are very enthusiastic about having their photos taken)

We arrived at about 9 am and the sun had not summited the hills we were settled into and it was quite chilly. Marga's parents had been there since the day before and had the fire burning in the hearth already. We unpacked and began to settle in. Josep and I tucked in by the fireplace and broke out the beautiful old chess table that a man from Africa had given to a Valent great-grandfather for undetermined reasons.

I spent the morning journaling and playing chess, then wandered down to the torrent with Marga and her father. Mallorca does not have rivers, only these little seasonal streams. This one was about 3 feet wide and not a foot deep but they were impressed with how much water it had. Marga told stories of playing down here as a little girl and pointed out what had been her favorite spot to lay in the shade and read. Marga's father led the expedition with a small hand saw to cut back the plants and undergrowth which had appropriated the trail over years. From the torrent we hacked our way over to the pozo (well) which had been found by divining rod a few decades ago. The cement block shaft plummeted about 30 feet before reaching the water which, unlike in most wells, was moving and periodically would produce large, roiling bubble-splosions. They had tapped a sub-terranian water table which, some people hypothesize, networks all the way to the mainland.
Marga and I left her father with his wrench, 3 lengths of pipe, a saw, and some WD-40 to tend to his land and satiate his country-bred-boy need to be productive. Back up at the house there were tended fires burning everywhere. in the outdoor kitchen one little stove warmed up coffee, another was beginning to boil the arroz brut we were going to eat for lunch while the brick bread oven was piled with brush, waiting to be lit. The warm fire inside continued to crackle and I curled up to write a story and take a nap.

I ambled back outside and I found Marga's mother and Josep popping almonds out of their skins. The nuts had already been shelled and she had boiled them for a few minutes to loosen the skin. All we had to do was squeeze on them and the white flesh jettisoned right out. Then she offered to show me how to make guirlache (in Mallorquin, Tambo d'ametlla). She roasted the nuts until they were dry and then began to mix in sugar, constantly stirring so it would not burn. Then she coated a round metal pan with lemon juice (squeezed from the lemons we had picked from one of the trees) and put the whole concoction in. She topped it off with another good squeeze of lemon and then popped it into one of the fire ovens. The result was a delicious, brittle-ish dessert.

Around 11 am, everyone showed up. There were 3 other couples and their droves of children. They unloaded, bearing foods and games of all varieties. A round of introductions was fired off and everyone was incredibly friendly. Our first order of business was to merendar on any variety of meats and breads which we spread out. Then Josep requested that we go tree climbing again. He and I wandered out and found ourselves being followed by four other kids. The 3 year old, Tony, took his perch on my shoulders and we meandered out, single file, to find a suitable tree.
I am not sure what the deal with these kids is but they don't know how to climb trees. We found a prime one and they all just stood there and looked at it. After a few minutes I asked who was going to climb first and they volunteered me. As soon as I was up, I turned around and three of them were packed around the trunk, climbing over the top of each other. One of the girls, Ava, practiced her English by asking if this wasn't dangerous and I informed her that it was, especially when they tried to climb in a mob. I recognized the skill level I was working with and opted to talk them all back off of the trunk and we went in search of something more suitable. We found it.

We headed back toward the house at the sound of the horn. It was time to start making the bread. We (I was in the kid group for this one) were each given a plastic tub in which to mix the flour, yeast, water, salt, etc. and began mixing. Then we covered the tubs and set them aside. It was time for lunch. The kids ate first while we adults stood around outside and toothpicked little sea-food looking things floating in platters filled with fresh, fruity tasting liquids. I can still, a day later, taste the saltiness on my tongue.
Then the kids wandered off to play in the house and we (adults) commandeered the table. A huge wok looking pot filled with yellow rice, snails (still in their shells), and a variety of other meats was served. Meals are one of the most significant differences I have noticed between their culture and ours. When Matt was here he noted that no one eats while walking on the streets. This, I believe, can be attributed to the fact that, for them, food is always something worth making the time to enjoy. Meals are not just about filling your body with the food necessary to sustain it but also to indulge in companionship and conversation. 2 hours of conversation and snail-shell-sucking later and we were on to dessert and coffees.

We got out our dough balls and kneaded them before letting them set some more. Then we patted them, and pricked them, and I marked mine with a B and put it in the over for baby and me.

Then everyone pitched in with cleaning up and eventually everything was done and cleaned up and by 6 pm our lunch date was coming to a conclusion.

Another good day in the Mallorcan country.