Fall is the time for feasting, for people and also for a few lucky pigs! Across Spain people are celebrating the harvest of nature’s bounty, from wheat to almonds to wine. At the same time, small herds of black pigs are wandering the rangelands of western Spain feasting on sweet acorns which fall from cork and holm oak trees.

This magical rangeland is called the dehesa, and it has remained unchanged for thousands of years. Depending on the year, the quantity of acorns can be such that the black Ibérico pigs gain an astonishing two pounds per day. On that note, I hope our friends in Spain are seeing as many acorns as we are in Virginia! Every year I pay my daughters a penny an acorn to remove them from our garden, and I am worried I will go bankrupt at this rate.

A wonderful coincidence for our family is that we live just a stone’s throw from the historic capital of artisan cured ham in America – the town of Smithfield. It is amazing how similar the traditions of pig raising and curing in the Smithfield region are to those in Spain - or at least they were until recently. A few generations ago it was typical for small herds of pigs to be set loose in the famous Virginia peanut fields just after the harvest was gathered. The pigs trotted around the fields with their farm-mates, rooting out the rich, sweet peanuts that were missed by the farmers. While I have never tried a ham made from peanut-fed pork, I imagine it added a level of flavor that we can only wish for nowadays.

Sadly, most of the artisan producers of Virginia country ham have been bought up by the big pork conglomerates. And the ones that remain mostly use factory-raised pork that is genetically altered to grow fast and lean. (Have you ever heard of a bigger contradiction in terms than "lean pig"?) But there is one notable exception – a third generation, family owned company in Surry (just down the road from Smithfield) called S. Wallace Edwards and Sons.

In 2001 we received a couple of visitors at our store in Williamsburg. Mr. Edwards Sr. and his son, Sam, wanted to meet the people who were offering cured country hams from the other side of the Atlantic, and at five times the price of a Virginia ham! Of course they meant Serrano ham, which we had just brought to the American shores a few years earlier.

This was the beginning of a friendship between the two families that has affected each of our companies to this day. We found that both of our families cared deeply about the quality of traditional hams - not only in how the hams are cured, but also the quality, breed and treatment of the animals that produce them.

Soon after their visit to our store, Sam Edwards began a project to create a Virginia ham borrowing from the Spanish method of curing. In so doing he hoped to rediscover the origins of the famous Virginia ham and bring to the market a domestically produced ham that was on par with the excellent hams of Europe. In fact, he accompanied my brother, Tim, on a trip to Spain to visit the countryside and tour some ham plants. Sam learned that to replicate this traditional Spanish way of curing, he needed a ham with a lot of intra-muscular fat that would age for well over a year, therefore he did not want to use industrial pork. Instead he sought out heritage breeds, like Berkshire, that have more fat and better marbling. He then had to find farmers that would allow their animals to freely range in the pasture and provide them with the exercise needed to work all that delicious fat into the muscles.

After a few years of experimentation Sam introduced his "Surryano ham," lightly salted like Jamón Serrano, but with a delicious smokiness following the Surry tradition. This wonderful marriage of Virginia and Spanish traditions is now served at fine restaurants across the country, and Sam is rightly lauded as a pioneer in the world of artisan ham making.

We decided to return the compliment a couple of years ago: Smoked, baked ham is rare in Spain, and though common in America, they are not usually made from the best pork, so why not combine the best of both ham traditions? We worked with Sam Edwards to create the first smoked Ibérico de Bellota ham in America, somewhat similar to lacón, the traditional cooked ham of Northern Spain. Using fresh acorn-fed Ibérico pork from Spain, he created a juicy, marbled, hickory-smoked masterpiece that can be baked and served for dinner. We named it our Tender Smoked Ibérico Ham.

As our relationship continues, and our involvement with Spain deepens even more, we dream of new ways to cross-pollinate the traditions of Spain and Virginia. Together we created a smoky artisan cooking chorizo that is now a favorite of customers across the country. Another project we are working on is close to my heart – Cecina de León, the delicious smoked cured beef typical of northern Spain. This delicacy cannot be imported into the US, so why not begin a new tradition here?

I am always amazed at the lasting traditions of classic Spanish foods, best represented by the people who make Jamón Ibérico de Bellota. They are committed to preserving their heritage, from the exceptional Ibérico breed to the ancient dehesa rangeland. Their commitment to quality is abundantly clear when you taste the resulting ham.

And we are excited to be working with a partner here in Virginia who has that same passion and enables us to share the bounty of both traditions with our customers. Our family wishes you a warm gathering and a delicious harvest feast this Thanksgiving.

- Jonathan Harris

Dr. James Fernández, a professor at New York University, and his colleague and friend Luís Argeo have devoted much of their professional lives to chronicling the lives of overlooked Spanish emigrants - most likely some of whom are parents or grandparents of the La Tienda family!

They have been traveling all over the U.S. and Spain, conducting research in libraries and archives, visiting cemeteries, interviewing descendants of immigrants, and, whenever possible, scanning family archives. I have asked Jim Fernández to tell us about these 'invisible immigrants' and about his lifetime work:

It is a real honor to be able to address the readers of Don Harris’s admirable Reflections at latienda.com, and to share with you some of the research I have been conducting about Spanish immigrants in the US.

“Spaniards in the US” for most people in this country, these words will probably conjure up images of the explorers, friars and conquistadores who, in the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, explored, conquered and settled large swaths of territory, from Florida to northern California; lands that would eventually form part of the United States. Spanish heritage in the US, when considered at all, is often thought about exclusively in terms of a handful of figures we might have learned about in our grade school history classes: Juan Ponce de León, Francisco Vásquez de Coronado, or Junipero Serra, for example.

Very few people in the United States know that tens of thousands of Spaniards came to this country as immigrants in the last decades of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth. These Spaniards were part and parcel of the vast diaspora of Europeans who crossed the Atlantic in those same years in search of opportunity. In fact, in the fifty years between 1880 and 1930, more Spaniards came to the Americas – North, Central and South – than in the entire previous period of almost four centuries, from Columbus’s first voyage in 1492 until 1880.

Naturally enough, the vast majority of those roughly four million Spaniards emigrated to points in Spanish-speaking America – Buenos Aires alone received about 2 million of them! But a significant number of Spaniards would end up in the United States as well, many having re-emigrated to this country after stints in Spanish-speaking America, others coming directly from Spain, in some cases having been recruited by agents representing specific trades or industries.

When compared to other national groups – Irish, Germans, Italians or Poles, for example — the Spaniards were just a drop in the vast bucket of US immigration. And like many members of those other larger groups, the Spaniards and their descendants were pretty much assimilated into mainstream US culture in a generation or two. And their stories might have been lost to us forever, had it not been for a most unfortunate event that occurred just before that assimilation began in earnest.

The outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in July of 1936 galvanized the Spanish emigrant community in the United States. This galvanization took place on two levels: within each of the small Spanish enclaves that were spread all over the country, the immigrants bonded ever more closely together in solidarity and mobilized to support the legitimately elected government of Spain; and, at the same time, a nation-wide federation of Spanish clubs and societies was established – the Sociedades Hispanas Confederadas [SHC] — aimed at coordinating on a national level the fundraising efforts of the local associations.

The war brought a certain amount of notoriety to these somewhat invisible immigrants. The lists of local Spanish organizations published by the SHC during the war allow us to reconstruct an extensive archipelago of Spanish enclaves scatter shot across the US map from coast to coast in the mid 1930′s. Some of these communities are better known and more studied than others. There is an abundant bibliography, for example, about Spanish cigar workers in Tampa, Florida, or the Basque sheepherders and inn-keepers of the Western states (eg. California, Idaho, Nevada).

Other enclaves, though no less interesting, are much less known and studied: the thousands of stone cutters who were brought from Cantabria to work in the stone sheds and granite quarries of Vermont, for example; or the miners and workers who were recruited from both Andalucía and Asturias to work in the coal fields and zinc plants of West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Kansas; or the roughly eight thousand Spaniards – many Andalusians among them — who, between 1907 and 1912, accepted jobs on the sugar-cane plantations of the Hawaiian Islands. Many of those sugar-workers re-emigrated from Hawaii to California, and, by the time the war breaks out in Spain, we will find their immigrant associations organizing fundraising dances and picnics in places like Hollister, Monterey, Vacaville, Winters, and Rocklin.

As is the case with all immigrants, the “foodways” of Spaniards in the United States are extremely interesting. Food and cuisine are crucial components of the cultural identity of all immigrant groups, and it turns out that the negotiation between adapting to the ingredients that are available in your adopted country (there was, alas, no “tienda.com” in 1920!) and preserving a recognizable and transmittable culinary tradition, is often front and center in the tales told by Spanish immigrants and their descendants throughout the United States.

Let’s listen in to a couple of these tales from California.

Gloria López - Winters, California
My grandfather, Rafael Ramos Lopez, came from Lubrin [Almería] to Providence, RI in May of 1920 with my grandmother, Filomena Invernon Lopez (from Pilar). From there, they quickly made their way to Winters to join relatives. He brought with him pepper seeds. Every year he planted his peppers and saved the seed for the next year. As he aged, my father took over the responsibility of planting the peppers and saving the seed, year after year. As he aged, my brothers and I have kept up the role of “keeper of the seeds.” I plant about 400 seeds every year around the first of February. By the end of April, the plants are ready to put in the ground. This year I planted about 75 plants for my own consumption, eating them fresh or roasted and peeled and freezing the excess. All of the rest of the plants, I gave away. I posted on Facebook that I had the Spanish pepper plants to give away and I had a tremendous response from Spanish descendants that were elated to find the same peppers that they remembered their parents and grandparents growing. I already have my seeds drying for next year. During the season, you let some of the “perfect” peppers that are long, straight, and plump mature on the plant until they are red. Then, pick, cut away the flesh, and let the seeds dry. Put the seeds away until next year…and the cycle continues and memories remain alive.

Dan Albert - Monterey, California
Dan’s parents were born in the province of Alicante, Spain. They were just children when their families were recruited to work on the sugar-cane plantations of the Hawaiian Islands. Like many of the roughly 8,000 Spaniards who left for Hawaii between the years 1907 and 1912, Dan’s grandparents re-emigrated to California in the teens, and that is where his parents met. They married in San Francisco and settled in Monterey to raise a family.

After working for almost thirty years as coach of the Monterey High School football team, Dan served for twenty years (1986-2006) as Mayor of the city of Monterey, which had been the capital of California under Spanish, Mexican and US rule. One of the highlights of his two decades as Mayor was hosting the King of Spain, who visited Monterey and Carmel in 1987; co-hosting the visit of Don Juan Carlos was the then-mayor of the neighboring town, Mr. Clint Eastwood of Carmel.

Dan remembers with particular relish the meeting he was able to orchestrate between the King and his mother. Caridad was born into extreme poverty in a town called Casas del Señor; in Monterey she worked as a maid in the Delmonte Hotel during the summers, and in the San Xavier fish cannery in the winters. When Dan tells the story of arranging the meeting, one gets the sense that he wanted to give the King the pleasure of meeting a woman as extraordinary as his mother.

Professor Fernandez is currently collaborating with the Spanish writer and filmmaker, Luís Argeo, to produce Invisible Immigrants, a deluxe book of photographs that will document, celebrate and honor the lives of tens of thousands of Spanish immigrants who came to the U.S. in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Nearly all the photographs in the book have been shared with them by families or individuals. If you would like to learn more about the book, search online for INVISIBLE IMMIGRANTS. If you have family stories to share, I am sure Jim would enjoy hearing from you: James D. Fernández, New York University - jf2@nyu.com.edu.

When he released the falcon it flapped into the blue sky, circling higher and higher until it was just a dot in the heavens. When it spotted the dove below flying across the rolling fields, we could see the falcon tuck in its wings and plunge head first towards the ground. It honed in on the dove, and with a puff of feathers, the hunt was over. The owner of Faúndez Gourmet then returned with his prized falcon and us to his village.

Another hunt was going on in the forests around the tiny village of Rabanales de Aliste, outside of Zamora. In the evenings during the fall, local folk head out to groves of trees to harvest one of the most sought after mushrooms in the world, Boletus edulis. The location of each of these fruitful areas is a carefully guarded secret kept within each family. At night, the Faúndez family drives their truck from house to house, picking up baskets of these wild harvested mushrooms. They then return with the harvest to their amazingly modern facilities back in the village. There they are jarred or cryogenically frozen and distributed to top restaurants across Europe.

Our visit with the Faúndez family is a great example of the amazing transformation Spain has experienced in the last few decades. After awakening from the isolation of the Franco years, the country has surged ahead in cultural and economic prosperity, even taking into account the recent crisis. This rapid change means that there are still striking examples of old Spain living shoulder to shoulder with the modern Spain of bullet trains, smartphones and molecular gastronomy.

In many ways this is a beautiful thing. Because the modern economy burst onto the scene fairly recently, many of the old ways and traditional products did not fade into obscurity in the middle of last century. Instead they are treasured and preserved.

When I leaf through my parents’ photo albums from the 1970s, it is always startling to see how ancient Spain was still a part of daily life, at least in the countryside. A photo of oxen with rabbit pelts draped over their foreheads pulling a rustic cart recalls medieval times, as do the ancient Celtic huts of O Cebreiro, which are basically stone circles covered with a thatch roof. These dwellings were still used as homes and animal shelters just a few decades ago.

At Rabanales de Aliste, where Faúndez is located, my brother Tim and I witnessed old and new Spain living side by side. The townspeople showed us a tiny museum that held tools and clothing of their past – wooden shoes to keep the farmers’ feet out of the manure and mud of the streets, clothing made from woven grass, medieval-looking wood and metal tools. Slowly it dawned on me that these were not relics from centuries ago. In fact, some of the local people had used these tools in their lifetimes. This was a commemoration of a way of life that had barely passed into history.

On our way to lunch we plucked a ripe quince from a farmyard tree, an ancient fruit that predates the apple. At the local restaurant it seemed the whole town was feasting together at rustic wooden tables. We enjoyed roasted lamb cooked over a wood fire and grilled local vegetables, and wild Boletus mushrooms cooked in olive oil. I imagine townspeople from two hundred years ago would feel right at home.

The Boletus mushrooms we ate were meaty with an enticing truffle flavor, and we could see why chefs across the world seek out this delicacy. And this is where the magic of modern Spain comes into the picture. After lunch we crossed the cobblestone street to the modern Faúndez Gourmet facility. There the workers clean, sort and prepare the wild mushrooms. In one corner sat a gleaming stainless steel machine that uses liquid nitrogen to flash freeze the precious mushrooms in perfect condition. Then they are bagged and shipped by frozen truck or by airplane to restaurants in France, Germany and beyond.

Within one day we made an astonishing journey from the medieval to the modern! Foragers venture into an ancient forest to seek out a treasured mushroom, just as their families have for countless generations. Hours later it is spirited away by flying machines to distant nations.

This partnership between ancient and modern Spain should be celebrated. Proud Spanish farmers and townspeople now have a way to share their heritage with the rest of the world, and at the same time preserve the traditions and way of life that might otherwise be lost. We are honored to be part this effort, and we thank you for supporting all of the families and communities in Spain who create exceptional products like the falcon hunters’ mushrooms.

Don HarrisIn the era in which we live there is a tendency to blur gender distinctions. But there is one important event in the life of a boy that is crucial: his rite of passage into manhood. For thousands of years, boys have gone to great lengths to achieve this rite of passage, even to the point of risking their lives. In modern times most boys experience something less drastic, but no less important.

One of my fondest memories as a young chaplain was when I was serving at the Coast Guard Recruit Center in Alameda, California. Each week I would meet with a new rag-tag collection of teenage recruits. Anxious and hopeful, they had signed up for multiple reasons, but I would suspect the main one was they hoped to graduate from boyhood to manhood. Quite a few came from troubled backgrounds and for them this was their chance to shake off their old ways and begin anew.

Twelve weeks later I would see them march by, standing tall and filled with pride as they were greeted by grateful parents, and impressed younger brothers and sisters. They had succeeded, and they were changed. For them the modern day rite of passage had worked, they now felt like men.

As we travel around Spain, I enjoy seeing remnants of ancient rites of passage. These traditions, often dangerous, are a way of testing youth to prove their courage and bonding them to the community. In an earlier essay I wrote about the youth of Ciudad Rodrigo who bravely confronted bulls in the main square of the village to the delight of their family and neighbors.

The mountaintop town of Arcos de la Frontera has a running of the bulls on Easter Sunday. There the 'Hallelujah Bull' runs down the narrow main street with daring boys and men defying death and goring. This is not exactly my idea of an Easter celebration, which usually includes church and an Easter egg hunt! And you all know about the running of the bulls during the feast of San Fermín in Pamplona.

My friend Pablo Vasquez informed me of another amazing example of courageous man against beast, in this case a wild horse. He told me of a centuries-old ritual in the mountain towns of Galicia called Rapa das Bestas, in the Galician language. It takes place throughout the summer in the autonomous province of Galicia - a green and lush Celtic enclave situated above Portugal in far northwest Spain.

Each year hundreds of wild horses are rounded up and herded to the villages in the valley in order to crop their tails and manes. Perhaps the best known of the Rapa das Bestas occurs in the village of Sabucedo at the beginning of July. Sabucedo is a tiny village in Pontevedra with a population of 150 souls, part of the municipality of A Estrada located some 15 miles southeast of Santiago de Compostela.

The name comes from the Latin word strata, meaning 'a place of well-trodden earth.' Appropriately, two ancient paths cross in the main square: from the south is a path originating in Orense and Portugal, where the pilgrims going to Santiago de Compostela have passed for a thousand years; from the east the path leads to the interior of Galicia, used through the ages by herdsmen headed to the coast.

According to tradition, in the mid-16th century two elderly sisters prayed to San Lorenzo, the patron saint of Sabucedo, to rescue his people from the plague sweeping through the villages in the valleys. The sisters’ prayers were answered and the village was saved. As an act of gratitude, the sisters offered a pair of handsome horses to be set free in the mountains. These two horses were the forebears of the magnificent herds that now enjoy a free life in the forests above the village.

The Rapa das Bestas commences on the first weekend of July, starting with the local priest celebrating a mass at dawn in the village church on Saturday. One of their prayers asks for protection of the many young men and their elders who with great bravado commit to this highly risky event.

After mass, the eager herders set off to the mountains, as they have for centuries. The area of forest they are canvassing stretches for over 100 miles and is home to more than four herds of wild horses, over 500 of them. When they locate one of the herds of wild horses, they surround them and drive them back to the village. It can take the best part of the morning to bring these handsome animals down from the hills to the local corral, a centuries-old stone amphitheater with seating for almost a thousand people.

Aspiring youth dive onto the backs of the wild horses that are closely packed in the corral in the center of town. Demonstrating their courage and valor, they wrestle one untamed horse at a time to the ground. Together with the men of the town (who are often their uncles and cousins) the youths clip the wild horses’ manes and tails, and brand the foals born in the past year.

The men of Sabucedo employ no ropes or other tools to wrestle the spirited horses to the ground. They depend upon nothing but their bare hands, the raw muscles of the youth and the experience of elders who have been involved with this annual ritual since they were young. The horse wrestlers, called aloitadores, work in teams of three to subdue each animal.

It’s a risky business and can take a number of hours to work through the 200 or so beasts that are clipped on each of the three days of the Rapa das Bestas.

Records show that the annual task of taking a census of the wild horses, checking the health of the herd and branding the young foals evolved into a village-wide celebration at the beginning of the 18th century.

Each day’s work ends with partying and dancing into the night, and at the end of the third curro on the Sunday, the horses are herded up to the mountains again, where they are set free until the following year’s Rapa das Bestas.

Every society has their versions of a rite of passage. I find it remarkable that in these modern times, the age-old traditions in Spain continue to draw communities together to celebrate the coming of a new generation.

Don

P.S. I want to thank Pablo Vasquez for telling me about Rapa das Bestas and I also am indebted to online articles from Wikipedia, Marca Espana and Typically Spanish, which were excellent sources of detail on the history of the Rapa das Bestas.

July 25th is one of the most important holidays in the Spanish calendar. It is the day set aside to honor Santiago: St. James, the patron saint of Spain. His remains are believed to rest in the ancient Romanesque cathedral located in Santiago de Compostela, a pilgrimage city of great significance in the history of Europe.

The saint’s tomb is located in the far northwestern region of Galicia, distant from the commercial hubs of Madrid and Barcelona, Valencia and Sevilla, yet that is no barrier for the pilgrims. They come from all corners of Spain to venerate the man whose mythical presence inspired the Christians in their almost 800 year long struggle against the Moors.

To this day, people from all over Europe stream from France through the mountain passes of the rugged Pyrenees on their quest. At one time Santiago de Compostela was the primary spiritual destination for European pilgrims, when Jerusalem was in the hands of the Muslims and Rome was ravaged by barbarians.

Pilgrims came from all over – Paris, Amsterdam, Scandinavia, Italy (St. Francis traveled the Camino from Assisi). In The Canterbury Tales, Chaucer talks of the faithful people heading for this distant city in the farthermost corner of Spain.

The reasons for pilgrimage were many. The most obvious was the renewal of religious faith. For centuries the Catholic Church said that anyone who made the journey would have his or her sins forgiven. Some walked the arduous road because they were ill and looking for healing, others as a journey of celebration when a family member recovered from sickness or misfortune. Some pilgrims were even minor criminals who were sentenced to make the pilgrimage so that they would come back as better people – or perhaps the locals hoped they would never come home at all!

The practical result was the many cultures of Europe and even the Middle East mingled in the most intimate of ways, from a broad array of foods from all corners of the world, to an exceptional melding of various kinds of music - both through the sharing of many new instruments, and most of all because of the wandering minstrels singing about life’s travails along the Camino.

Stonemasons were in great demand to build the monasteries which served as way stations serving the transient pilgrims. I have seen their intricate carvings in dozens of cities and hamlets along the way. There is evidence that some of these artisans came from as far away as Asia Minor, modern day Turkey, Armenia and even Lebanon. At its peak, the largely Benedictine and Cistercian religious communities came from France and erected a chain of establishments to serve the needs of the pilgrims.

The fascinating thing for me to observe is that 700 years later the Camino de Santiago still flourishes. Particularly in the past 20 years there has been an explosion of interest in the Camino. It was not long ago that the pilgrimage route was a historical curiosity. When my wife Ruth and I started exploring Spain, we found the road to Santiago to be an unexplored treasure. I happened to pick up a brochure when visiting Toledo.

The modern surge of interest in the Camino de Santiago has attracted travelers whose motivation is spiritual, but not specifically religious. They find the challenge of the hike of several hundred miles to be cleansing in and of itself, and along the way they are nourished by contact with others on their own individual journeys. But I suspect there have always been mixed motivations in the heart of the pilgrim traveler.

The appeal of making a pilgrimage is not just confined to Europe. Throughout the world, seekers of spiritual wholeness embark on similar journeys. Embarking on a pilgrimage is one of the foundational events in many human cultures, some far removed from Christian Europe.

In India, 20 million people each year seek spiritual cleansing by bathing in the mystical waters of the vast Ganges River. Every year 13 million Muslim faithful make the obligatory haj to Mecca in Saudi Arabia – one of the great goals of their lives. Machu Picchu was the pilgrimage site of the ancient Inca culture in Peru; and along the Silk Road is the Turkish city of Kunya, sacred to the Sufi whirling dervishes. Then there is Jerusalem, sacred to Jew, Christian and Muslim alike. In North America, 10 million people visit the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico each year.

Each of these pilgrimages is a unique experience that is defined by the culture and geography of each part of the world. But what most defines each pilgrimage, including the Camino de Santiago, are the millions of pilgrims who put their lives on hold to journey to a distant land. Whether they seek religious renewal, personal peace or just a grand adventure, the spirit of each pilgrim in some way contributes to the culture and history of this ancient tradition and beautiful city.

The tradition has touched my family’s life in many ways. I have traveled the route by car many times visiting the beautiful towns along the way. These villages prospered in the Middle Ages because they were within one day’s walk of one another, and were good resting stops for pilgrims. My son Jonathan walked the entire Camino from the French Pyrenees Mountains, and a shorter route on his honeymoon. The La Tienda shell is based on the symbol for Santiago, and our house brand is Peregrino, which means pilgrim.

Imagine putting on a pack, walking out the door and heading through the beautiful countryside of Spain with no appointments, deadlines or responsibilities other than reaching the next town for the night. Imagine meeting fellow travelers from all over the world, sharing stories and creating friendships that would be unlikely in normal life. If you ever take that first step down the Camino de Santiago you will find out what a challenging, renewing adventure it can be!

Every time we travel to Spain many of our friends ask us whether the trip is for business or pleasure, and the reply is always "Yes!" Whether we are mingling with the revelers in Carnaval de Cádiz, or sampling the artisan sauces that Lola and her ladies prepare in rural Córdoba or meeting with our supplier of Wild olive oil at a medieval–style olive press, how do you draw the line? When you are among friends, it is an artificial distinction.

This year Ruth and I are celebrating our 50th wedding anniversary. We contemplated an appropriate way to include Spain in our festivities. At first we thought it would be romantic to celebrate our anniversary by taking a wine-tasting cruise on a four-masted sailing ship that would embark from Lisbon, and make ports of call around the Mediterranean coastline of Spain - all this under the guidance of our adventurous friend and wine expert, Jorge Ordoñez. (I wrote about Jorge: “A Shepherd of Wine” in my book, The Heart of Spain).

But then, we thought, why not instead celebrate 50 years of marriage by including our extended family and Spanish friends who are so much a part of our lives? Besides, our grandchildren (not to mention their parents) were so looking forward to returning to Spain, and spring school vacation would be a perfect time. So that is what we did.

First we invited our extended family to join us at Hacienda La Vereda, a remote rural hotel/finca an hour or so south of Córdoba and west of Granada. Cousins, aunts, nephews and nieces as well as Ruth’s sisters and their families were all invited to join us.

It was quite a family gathering. They came from Virginia and Vermont, Denmark and Morocco, Madrid and Galicia. There were about thirty of us who gathered for a few days of relaxation while renewing our bonds as a family. The highlight was when I had the privilege of baptizing 10-month old Cleo, daughter of our son Chris and his wife Rian, who are now stationed at the U.S. Embassy in Madrid after a tour in Pakistan.

Some friends we included in the family gathering were actually little children when we first met them in the 1970s in Rota. We even included a new friend, Pablo, whom we first met when he joined us on a “wild goose chase” to discover what was claimed to be the world’s most perfect bread! The young man is a gifted amateur photographer from Vigo, Galicia, just north of the Portuguese border.

The grandkids and cousins and their new friends loved the swimming pool (brr, it was a little chilly), and playing on what became a fútbol/wiffle ball field. There were hikes around the neighboring olive groves, horses to ride and ruins from another era to visit. In addition, some went on a few short excursions to the white towns of Andalucía. It was blissful: we were on a hacienda in rural Spain with no time constraints, no TV, minimal Internet.

One typical day we started with a breakfast of toast and café con leche at about ten in the morning. We spent the entire day on the patio, chatting around the table until a little before midnight! We just sat under the pomegranate trees and visited with each other, enjoying fresh simple fare and lots of good Spanish wine.

The manager of the hacienda, Juan Luque Serrano, and our waiter Edgar Berm Fernández, could not have been more attentive and caring. Juan and Edgar were there solely to be of service to our gathered family and friends, and soon they were included in our circle, too. Before we left, Edgar proudly introduced to us his wife and young family. The cordial cook in the kitchen served one fresh delight after another - she was very skilled with her seasonings.

Then on Saturday morning all of us headed to our friend Felipe’s classic Casa de Carmona hotel (built in 1561), in an ancient white town situated between Sevilla and Córdoba. In that beautiful setting Ruth and I invited many of the Spanish friends we have met over the years as La Tienda grew. Felipe provided wave after wave of delicious tapas and wine in the courtyard; and later a flamenco couple from Triana played in the bar to the delight of us all. (North Americans, I freely admit, are not as adept at dancing the Sevillanas as are our local friends!)

We welcomed our old friends Hans and Daida from Cataluña who provide La Tienda with amazing Arbequina olive oil. Our friend Aixa arrived with a Berber flair from Priego de Córdoba - her husband Fermín brings us the popular Señorío de Vizcántar olive oil. Warm and dignified, Carmen and Juan Carlos joined us from their boutique Colosia sherry bodega in El Puerto de Santa María, and got to meet other sherry family members from the Domecq and Osborne families.

We were so pleased that young Jorge and Sonya drove all the way from Extremadura where he with his father produce exquisite Jamón Ibérico de Bellota. Antonio Alvarez, our first employee in Williamsburg back in 1997, joined us with his family. He now works for an excellent bodega in Spain, and shared some cava at the gathering.

Our good friend Abel Rodríguez generously provided the best of his company’s Jamón Ibérico de Bellota for the celebration. He joined us with his gracious wife Mari del Mar and two of their three handsome sons. Their eldest son, Alejandro, who joined our family in Virginia for a while, is now a student in Paris so could not be there. But it was a delight to see their two younger boys, Abel and Alvaro. Our grandsons Sam and Ben remember with glee a battle of ripe oranges the four boys launched together a few years ago.

But perhaps the most poignant was the presence of Isabella Díaz with daughters Olga and Eva and family members. She has been a widow for many years now - I worked with her husband Pedro at the Base Naval de Rota. He was a real brother as he helped set up my retreat program for sailors in the seaside town of Chipiona.

Our two families have kept close contact for the last thirty years! I wrote a chapter about Pedro and Isabella: “The Shoemaker’s Son and the Carpenter’s Daughter” in my book, The Heart of Spain). Surrounded by our two families, Isabella’s eyes sparkled with joy as she met infant Cleo, the youngest of our Harris family. It does not get much better than this!

Ruth and I didn’t give our proposed cruise on a four master a second thought, because we were among loving family and friends in a land which is close to our hearts. The Spaniards call this type of celebration a Boda Dorada, a Golden Wedding, and indeed it was for us. We are so grateful.

Best wishes to all in the La Tienda Family.

Su amigo,
Don

One of my most satisfying everyday experiences in Spain is to visit the many local food markets, where I marvel at the fresh produce and chat with knowledgeable vendors. The local markets come in all kinds of shapes and sizes, from a little group of stands in a small village to the huge festive markets of Barcelona and Madrid.

My first exposure to local food markets in Spain was during my first Navy Mediterranean cruise back in 1965. While walking along the amazing Ramblas esplanade in Barcelona, with all its attractions and distractions, I happened upon the Mercat de Sant Josep de la Boqueri, commonly called La Boquería. I guess the only word I can think of is that the market is "astonishing" in the depth and breadth of food of all sorts, and the welcoming community of vendors and customers.

I am sure many of you who read this have visited there yourselves. One lasting image for me is when I was sitting next to a shellfish counter with a shipmate enjoying a cup of café con leche, I was startled to see that a few cigalas lobsters were crawling toward me. Fresh indeed!

In many people's eyes, La Boquería is the granddaddy of all food markets in Spain, but my personal choice is found many miles away in Andalucía, in the ancient and evocative city of Cádiz, located on a thin spit of land reaching into the Atlantic Ocean. Many times I have boarded a ferry from my former "hometown" of El Puerto de Santa María to take a beautiful 20 minute ride across the Bay of Cádiz. When you get off along the waterfront, it is just a 10 minute walk past the cathedral and the flower stalls to enter an amazing display of all the creatures of the sea which are fit to eat. There are curious animals of the ocean that I never even thought about, but the Spaniards know how to enjoy them. I have taken dozens of pictures of these denizens of the deep which you can view on our Flickr page. My favorite is a snapshot of a cheerful fishmonger who burst out in operatic song as he sold his beautiful seafood.

La Boquería and Cádiz are two of the big markets with vast displays. But often I prefer the smaller cities with more modest markets and friendly vendors who have the time to chat and show you their amazing offerings. Long ago when we were a young family, we would make short trips around Spain with our children and customarily we would stop by a random market to gather the ingredients for our picnic lunch. We would get a crusty loaf of locally baked bread, a chunk of Manchego cheese, perhaps slices of Jamón Serrano, a few juicy fresh oranges, peaches and pears or strawberries – whatever was in season. So we visited markets everywhere.

I recall that forty years ago, when I was a young father with my family at the Naval Base in Spain, I would get up early on Saturday morning and head for the Mercado Municipal in El Puerto de Santa María. The market was essentially the same concept as my local farmers market here in the USA, except that it had vastly more variety - two floors full of local vendors offering fresh vegetables, meat and fish, cheeses, herbs and spices - not to mention the adjacent Buen Pastor bakery and Charro Salgero Veniga that provided us sizzling hot churros.

In those days I regularly visited my favorite “spinach lady" who always had the crunchiest greens; then there was the fisherman who would offer truly fresh shellfish and shrimp direct from the Atlantic Ocean (which was almost within eyesight). I remember one day he carved me some steaks from an immense swordfish, only for me to discover that I had left my wallet at home. He said, “Don’t worry about it, you can pay me later when you come back.” Then he paused, reached into his pocket and gave me a Mil, a thousand peseta bill, and said, “Here, take this so you can finish your shopping for your family.” What an honest and trusting neighbor!

Another favorite image is the lady at the entrance to the market in Sanlucar de Barrameda who, in the spring, is often tending a huge bowl of tiny land snails. The snails are delicious with a little garlic and parsley, but they are also quite frisky. So the ever vigilant lady constantly swept them back as they tried to crawl out of the bowl!

Last year while wandering about the countryside of Castilla-León, we stumbled across a real treasure: the medieval of the village of Ayllón, where vendors gather every Wednesday morning as they have for centuries. I have never seen such gorgeous heads of cauliflower, greens and vegetables of all sorts, along with homemade sausages, cheeses and other treasures. We stopped at the rustic hotel in town and were served roast suckling pig.

These fresh markets are a major reason why dining in Spain is so enjoyable. Many people grow up visiting the markets where the food could not be fresher. Therefore, high quality fresh food is expected at the humble truck stop, as well as at the fine restaurant. The other week I was in rural Córdoba at a Hacienda with my extended family for several days. Each morning the chef would ask what we would like to eat that day. Three or four hours later fresh merluza or huge rodaballo (sole) would be on our platters.

Traditional Spanish cuisine is straightforward and not dependent on sauces and other means to mask the original product. We try to capture this elusive freshness for you both directly and indirectly. We work with small farmers to provide fresh calçots for you to grill every spring; in the summer, we get shipments of Padrón and other peppers you can sauté; and even fresh judias verdes broad beans (especially tasty sautéed with sliced jamón).

Similarly, we work closely with small family companies in Spain to provide our preserved vegetables and seafood. Spanish farmers form by hand the mounds that guarantee that the emerging asparagus spears are white. We assure that the piquillo peppers are roasted and placed in bottles the same day - very much like home preserves that you might make. Anchovies and shellfish are hand prepared within hours of harvest.

The United States is another country and another culture. But in the last few years many people are trying to recapture the country market virtues via the farmers market movement. I am especially looking forward to the beginning of the season of our local farmers market where I can greet some of the local vendors who over the years have provided me with some amazingly fresh Boston lettuce, delicate spinach, deep red beets and, of course, carrots with their greens still attached – so my guinea pigs (the delight of my grandchildren) can feast with this special treat.

Setting community virtues aside, surely the goal of going to a farmers market is so that you can bring home fresh natural food to serve at your table - produce which was just recently plucked from the vine or tree. Part of the problem of food delivery in the United States is that we live in a huge continent, and furthermore, we are serving 300+ million people. So from a logistical standpoint, it makes sense to grow most of our celery in California, grapefruits in Texas and tomatoes in Florida. That being said, two or three-week old celery or last week’s eggs are not the same.

Our local farmers market started modestly twelve years ago – each Saturday a few gardeners began to locate their stands of local produce in the center of Market Square. Today there are three dozen vendors bringing the best of local Virginia grown products including oysters, fresh chickens, apple or bumbleberry pies. I have to get there no later than 8:30 in the morning to get my local strawberries and peaches in season.

Most of all I enjoy the community feeling of being amongst my neighbors from all walks of life (many of whom bring their dogs along for a stroll). I enjoy seeing children playing together and the proud parents with their babies in their immense strollers. I think that is why so very many people flock to the farmers market on Saturday morning. It is not just the fresh food and the flowers; it is an opportunity to experience neighborliness.

I hope our Spanish friends appreciate what they have. With the availability of huge international grocery stores such as Carrefour, and the pressure of working families that need two incomes, it is faster and more convenient to eschew the experience of absolute freshness and a leisurely community feeling and succumb to the supermarket. Then comes the necessity of preservatives and additives. There is no shelf life problem with produce bought daily from the "spinach lady"! May our farmers markets prosper in America, and may the Spanish people continue to value their centuries old treasure: the local markets of Spain.

I find it fascinating that such a pure and simple product as the natural juice of an olive has been central to the diet of all civilizations of the Mediterranean. The Egyptians, Palestinians, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Greeks and Romans all knew how vital it was and planted olive groves throughout the known world. Those of us who live outside of the Mediterranean are now just rediscovering how vital olive oil can be to our general health.

Modern nutritional studies confirm what our forbearers always knew: olive oil is an essential part of a balanced diet. It is easily digested, and quickly and completely absorbed by the system. It is high in vitamins A, D, K and E and it has an anti-oxidant effect on the human body. Studies have shown that extra virgin olive oil also stimulates bone growth and calcium absorption. It aids the circulatory system, thereby reducing the risk of arteriosclerosis.

A Harvard scientist wrote: "An olive-oil-rich diet is more effective than a low-fat diet in controlling and treating obesity. Moreover, it leads to longer-lasting weight loss and it is easier to keep to because it tastes good." I am sure that all of this is true, but somehow chemical analysis doesn’t even begin to address the beauty of olive oil that I enjoy every time I use it in cooking, in salads or even as a salve for my hands.

One of the lasting images I have from when I first visited rural Spain almost 50 years ago was watching the people working in the groves to harvest olives. As my wife and I were driving our tiny Seat 600 rental car through one of the myriad olive groves in Spain, we paused to watch a group of villagers working together to obtain olives to make olive oil.

We saw fathers and sons spreading tarpaulins under the trees, and then striking the olive-laden branches with sticks in order for the ripe fruit to fall into the waiting cloths. They would then take their carts full of fruit to the neighboring mill where the plump olives would be cleaned of twigs, thoroughly washed and then fed into the granite millstone that turned the oil laden ripe olives fruit into a mash that was then pressed between esparto mats to extract the extra virgin olive oil.

What I found remarkable about the scene of the men striking the trees with poles, is that we could have been witnessing this same event hundreds of years earlier. Essentially the same process is used then and now to harvest the ripe olives to produce premium extra virgin olive oil. For the estate-bottled artisan product, there are no huge machines or ravaged trees, just regular people gathering the right fruit as they always have done with only a modicum of change.

I am sure you know that extra virgin olive oil is the backbone of the healthy Mediterranean diet, but you may not realize that Spain produces nearly as much olive oil as the rest of the world combined. During the time of the Caesars in Rome, Spain was the preferred source for olive oil. Ships crammed to the gunnels with large terra cotta amphorae delivered extraordinary amounts of Spanish olive oil to Rome. Recently archaeologists discovered to their amazement that some of the rolling hills near Rome were actually a landfill for thousands of broken terracotta containers, now centuries later covered with accumulated soil!

One of the ironies of history is that Spain still dispatches much of her olive oil to Italy in massive tanker ships. But this time it is not for the enjoyment of the Caesars. Believe it or not, the olive oil from Spain is rebottled and rebranded for the unsuspecting consumer who is convinced that the only quality olive oil comes from Italy.

So you can see that you need to be careful to discern what you think you are buying when it comes to extra virgin olive oil. Read the label carefully. The seemingly Italian-looking label might inform you (in fine print) that it is a combination of oils of varying quality from Tunisia, Spain, Italy or Greece. The situation is reported in great detail in a fascinating new book entitled Extra Virginity: The Sublime and Scandalous World of Olive Oil by Tom Mueller. He provides a historical overview of olive oil from ancient times and authoritatively documents the shenanigans that are typical in today’s marketplace. It is an entertaining and eye-opening read.

Since it is so costly to produce extra virgin olive oil, it is tempting for an unscrupulous merchant to cut the oil with less expensive processed oil, figuring that you will never notice the difference. If you see a liter of Spanish extra virgin olive oil priced at $7.50, don’t expect it to be a fine, estate-bottled oil. That price would barely cover the expense of the bottle and delivery to the store. Extra virgin oil is not just another cooking oil for your kitchen - interchangeable with oil mechanically extracted from corn, canola, safflower or sunflower, any more than oleomargarine is equivalent to fresh butter.

If price is your major concern, there are adequate olive oils available in the market whose price point is lower because it is produced in great volume, similar to bulk wine. The producer gathers olive oils from random sources - whatever is available at a lower price. Because the bottler cannot vouch for the integrity of his original source, there is no quality control as you would find with an estate-bottled oil.

Fine, hand-harvested, estate-bottled extra virgin olive oil made by individual artisans is essentially another product, in the same way that Jamón Ibérico de Bellota is a different product from ordinary ham, or a fine Rioja from family-tended vineyards is not the same as a boxed wine. Supermarket olive oil is a different product. So many times, when in our store in Williamsburg, I offer a crust of bread dipped in one of these quality olive oils, the customer exclaims, “So that’s what the excitement about extra virgin olive oil is all about. I would never have dreamed there would be such a difference.”

If this is the quality of olive oil you are seeking to garnish green salads, dipping with crusty bread and general gourmet cooking, how can you be sure of the quality of extra virgin olive oil on the store shelf?

The fail-safe way is to know the producer personally. But for most of you this is not an option. As an alternative, we propose that you trust our family who has done your homework for you. To tell you what I mean I’d like to recount for you the story of three representative artisans we have selected to supply us with their fine extra virgin olive oil. As with any interchanges in Spain, there is no substitute for personal relationships to assure that what you receive is the best in Spain.

For each of these three families, olive oil is central to their consciousness: their view of the olive groves and the oil they produce almost borders on the sacred. Creating extra virgin olive oil is an art, much like producing fine wines. To offer quality olive oil is a commitment of a lifetime.

One of my most enjoyable and significant visits in Spain was when my wife Ruth and I met Hans and Daida de Roos, a Dutch couple with family ties to Cataluña. He retired from the commercial world of shipping to his XII Century finca named Can Solivera to produce the finest olive oil from arbequina olives. For Hans compromise is unthought-of and purity is a given.

One time he and his wife Daida took my son Jonathan and me to an olive mill close to the stone village of Mequinenza in rural Aragón, where he wanted to introduce us to his friend Antonio Rey who presses Hans’s Wild Olive Oil using medieval methods. The olives from the local trees are cold pressed the old fashioned way - with a massive granite millstone. The resultant mash is sandwiched between discs and hydraulically pressed rather than using the modern and efficient centrifuge process of 99% of the other producers.

Hans was almost as excited as the miller, Antonio, as they explained the age-old way of making olive oil - even carried to the extent of filtering the fresh juice by gravity as the Romans used to do. It has turned out well. His Can Solivera Wild Olive Oil is now used by El Celler de Can Roca, named the best restaurant in the world in 2013.

Another quite different experience was when Ruth and I visited the stylish and dynamic Rosa Vañó at her family’s castle. The ancient structure dominates the village of Canena, located in the vicinity of Jaén, the center of olive oil production in Andalucía.

We walked across the moat on a heavy wooden drawbridge leading into the castle, where we were met by Rosa, a remarkable young woman who left a major commercial position in Madrid in order to devote all her energies to producing the finest olive oil in the world. After we chatted before a huge stone fireplace, Rosa ushered us into a dining room where we had an elegant lunch, followed by a tour of the castle.

But what was most remarkable of all was the tour of their olive oil production area. She explained that they had spared no expense to acquire the finest precision equipment and were clearly committed to the achievement of the highest level of quality. Again, as with Hans, her focus was on creating the very best. Nothing less would suffice. Particularly amazing were the oils we sampled from the first day of harvest. The oils were so green they almost glowed and the immediacy of the freshness and piquant flavor were truly inimitable.

We also often visit our friend Fermín Rodriguez, his wife Aixa and little Sofía in the dramatic white town of Priego de Córdoba. His family's dedication to olive oil stretches back as long as he can remember. Fermín proudly showed us the vast expanse of olive trees owned by his family for generations. He likes to point out one of the gnarled trees on his property, which is over a thousand years old. Nearby is another ancient tree where, within its hollowed trunk, he used to play hide and seek as a child.

Fermín is an official taster for the Priego de Córdoba Denomination of Origin. He and a handful of others guarantee quality control for the oils produced in this ancient town. Using his amazing palate and years of experience he has created a bright and fragrant coupage, or blend, named Señorío de Vizcántar, which is a favorite of La Tienda customers. Each year the proportion of different types of olives he chooses is different yet because of his artistry, the balance of flavors remains constant, year after year.

His wife Aixa is delightful. She is from Tunisia and jokingly refers to herself as a ‘Jewish Muslim Catholic,’ since her family origin reflects all of the rich cultures which make up Andalucía. The pride of their life is Sofía, their very frisky four-year-old daughter. She is already fluent in two languages. What fun it is to sit out in the Plaza under the palm trees with Fermín and his warm and welcoming family and enjoy hours of tapas and conversation.

Just about every time we visit Spain we renew our wonderful friendships with these small artisan producers. We have also introduced Fermín and his family to some La Tienda friends who were traveling in Andalucía. Several have dropped by Priego de Córdoba, where they are treated to an olive oil tasting and even a visit to the olive groves. Let me know if you would like to visit them as well. But most of all I hope that I have helped you to have confidence to purchase the finest extra virgin olive oil. There really is a vast difference, and as you pour the golden green oil that is the best in Spain, I am sure your family and your guests will enjoy the magic of this pure unadorned treasure whose roots run deep in history.

Bleating sheep and clanging bells replace the roar of traffic every October in Madrid. A bearded shepherd in medieval dress and wooden clogs whistles to his dogs to keep the herd on the street and out of the high-end shops and restaurants to the left and right.

Madrid is on the route of the trashumancia, the ancient migration of livestock from the fields of Castilla y León in the north down to their winter grazing in sun-drenched Andalucía in the south. It is a reminder of the rhythms of pastoral life that punctuated Spain’s culture until not too long ago.

In the Middle Ages, the soft wool of the Merino sheep was the source of much of Spain’s wealth. The wool trade was so valuable that the trashumancia migration was given the right of way through villages, towns and even cities. There were dozens of routes across almost every region of the country.

When our father, Don Harris, first visited Spain in the 1960s, he delighted in the living history he observed in the countrysides of Galicia, Andalucía and Castilla y León. He told me of meeting a farmer who covered the heads of his oxen with rabbit pelts to protect them from the sun while they plowed the fields. He showed us photos of farmers threshing their wheat with ingeniously hinged sticks, and tossing the chaff into the air with pitchforks made from sapling trees carefully grown so that their branches could be formed into tines.

As much as this rustic way of life delighted him as a visitor, Don always acknowledged that it was a hard way to live. And he was excited and proud of the Spanish people when they transitioned to democracy and opened to the world in the 1970s and 1980s. In more recent years, he was astonished at the prosperity and modernity that had arrived, from lightning-fast trains to modern gastro markets like Mercado de San Miguel in Madrid.

The trashumancia in Madrid is an example of the massive changes that Spain has experienced. In fact, the tradition had all but died in the 20th century as cars and trucks barreling down asphalt streets replaced cobblestone and earth paths across the region.

In 1994, the people of Madrid realized that they had lost part of their history and culture. They inaugurated an annual Fiesta de la Trashumancia, after the Spanish parliament acknowledged the traditional routes used to herd livestock through the city.

Every October, the shepherds drive their sheep to city hall. There they pay the mayor 50 maravedís al millar, or 50 coins per thousand head, which was the payment established in 1418 for crossing the city.

Nowadays Spain’s pastoral traditions are nearly gone. It is getting harder and harder to preserve some of the incredible food ways of the country. We have witnessed it ourselves as some of our artisan suppliers have struggled. Who wants to bend over and pick crocus flowers for saffron anymore? Who will tend to the cows and goats in the steep valleys where Cabrales is made?

Celebrating the ancient traditions of Spain is crucial to saving them from extinction. The boisterous Fiesta de la Trashumancia is one example, a way to remind us of the beautiful heritage that could be lost. And as a Spanish teenager looks up from his cellphone to witness a flock of sheep strolling through bustling Madrid, maybe it will inspire him to support these traditions - or even become a shepherd!

¡Hola! I'm Jonathan Harris, one of the owners of La Tienda. I love sharing insights about Spain's amazing food culture. Learn more >

I feel very strongly that history and tradition serve as important keys to the understanding of a person or a culture. A person's roots to a great extent shape who they are and what they value. For example, I was raised in Boston (one of the oldest cities in America, founded in 1630), went to the College of William and Mary in Virginia (the second oldest university in the country, founded in 1693) and currently live less than a mile from Jamestown, the site of the oldest permanent English settlement in America (1607). I did not deliberately plan my life this way, it turned out to be a natural progression.

So it is no surprise that history forms one of the most enjoyable aspects of my lifetime visits to Spain. I try to make the personal connections that focus on the roots of this ancient land, one in which the events of 17th century Virginia are at most a footnote. In particular, I find it fascinating to trace back hundreds, even thousands of years, to participate today in a little of that past.

In this regard, perhaps my favorite city is Cádiz, one of the oldest cities in Europe. Its original settlement, the casco antiguo, is still protected by a medieval wall. The locals, many of whose families have been there for centuries, say that the city was founded by Hercules. You might think this farfetched, but in Greek mythology Hercules was credited with founding Cádiz after performing his tenth labor, the slaying of Geryon, a three headed monster with three sets of legs all joined at the torso. In antiquity, the settlement had a temple dedicated to the Phoenician god Melqart, known as Hercules by the Greeks. His temple even was the site of an oracle.

On the outskirts of Cadiz I enjoy standing by the ancient salt flats of the Bay of Cádiz, while talking with Manolo. He and his wife Reglín work with their five children to produce gourmet sea salt from the Atlantic Ocean. Civilizations as old as the Phoenicians and later the Romans constructed small salt flats of about 60 acres in diameter in the Bay of Cádiz. They were designed to greatly facilitate the evaporation of seawater by taking advantage of the constant and strong Levante winds. Their business is one of the last remnants of an activity that stretches back almost three thousand years.

Over in Chipiona, a seaside town where I led retreats for American sailors, we would stand on the beach next to a lighthouse built on the same site as its Roman predecessor. The lighthouse was built to warn Roman ships of the perilous rock formation which remains close to the shore even today. At low tide we saw the outlines of submerged stone fish corrals used by fisherman for hundreds of years.

Shifting my gaze from the sea to the shore, I also value the history of products whose use stretches back to antiquity. One of those is esparto grass. It is a tough, coarse, spiky reed native to southern Spain and northern Africa. The slender tough grass has been used to make baskets, ropes and floor mats since ancient times. It is not too far a stretch of the imagination to say that a pharaoh's daughter could have discovered an esparto grass basket amongst the reeds of the Nile in biblical times, as there are records of esparto use in the everyday commerce of ancient Egypt.

But that is nothing compared to the 1881 discoveries near Granada in the Alpujarra Mountains. In the back of a cave filled with thousands of bats, a farmer uncovered the skeletons of three men clothed in esparto tunics and sandals, wearing diadems of pure gold. They lived in the Bronze Age.

Esparto is one of the products that was an essential for thousands of years and yet has almost disappeared from use today. One time my wife Ruth and I paid a call on Joaquin Torres, one of the few remaining producers of this timeless product. When I looked at the scarred hands of the esparto weaver in his shop I could see why this is a vanishing craft. Joaquin's assistant told me that they find it very difficult to teach any new people this ancient craft because the sharp tough reeds are merciless on the hands of the weavers.

I remember seeing farmers and field hands in the 1960s and 1970s riding out to the fields on their 2-cycle engine motos straddled by strong durable saddlebags made of esparto. The tough woven baskets held clay bottles of cool water to slake the thirst of the laborers during the long day. Even today I see woven esparto shades loosely covering the ventilating windows of the sherry bodegas as a way to control the amount of heat entering their vast buildings - especially from the scorching winds of the Levante. Here at home we prize the esparto shades made for the La Tienda Retail Store in Williamsburg.

Many years ago, while visiting those amazing bodegas in Jumilla that produce exquisite Monastrell wine in the most difficult of terrains, I met an impressive young man named José María who was deeply committed to renewable organic farming of his many acres of olive trees. He showed me the antique olive press which was used by his family for decades, and the office where his father and grandfather supervised their olive oil business from behind a gorgeous hand carved desk made of olive wood. As I was preparing to leave he gave me one of my most prized treasures: an esparto filter disk used in the traditional olive oil press.

You may know that until very recently the production of olive oil involved the fruit being ground on a granite millstone, with the resultant mash distributed over a series of esparto discs, perhaps a dozen at a time, that were layered horizontally on a pole. Then through a screw type mechanism the esparto sandwiches of olive mulch were pressed or squashed, originally by animals but then hydraulically, and out would come the fresh juice of the olive. That is what is meant when you read the label and it says it is ‘cold pressed.’

Nowadays, virtually all the olive oil is separated from mash by a centrifuge, which separates the oil from the water from the residue. Your first cold pressed olive oil is actually centrifuged. In many ways this is a technological advance, but it was not long ago that esparto grass was integral to the making of olive oil.

The problem with the esparto process was that perhaps 10% of the oil remained within the fibers of the esparto discs. In addition to the loss of juice, the remaining olive particles made it very difficult to clean the discs completely - an absolute necessity to avoid producing oil that would be rancid.

I have told you of Greek gods, Phoenician salt flats and Bronze Age bat caves, but I will leave you with a story about the most delicious of breakfast breads: the mollete. I am sure that most of you have never heard of these little oval rolls, even though they have been enjoyed in Andalucía for hundreds of years. But then again, it is not that long ago that some of you discovered the joys of delicious Galician bread.

Every time we return to our ‘hometown’ of El Puerto de Santa María, our family heads for the traditional municipal market where many years ago Ruth and I would take our little boys every Saturday. There we would enjoy being among the hustle and bustle of local people as they filled their shopping bags with an amazing cornucopia of truly fresh vegetables, fruits and fish. We became friends with the ‘spinach lady,’ the ‘swordfish man’ and of course Charo Salguero, the legendary churro lady, who for a peseta or two, would give us a newsprint cone brimming with sizzling hot churros.

Even though forty years may have passed by, we find it still just as satisfying to sit at one of the familiar cafés next to the market and enjoy a leisurely breakfast of orange juice, toast and coffee. It sounds like something most of you do every morning - except there is a difference: the juice is freshly squeezed from local oranges, the café con leche is prepared by the bartender using an amazing machine which periodically punctuates the atmosphere with the hiss of a steam jet frothing another pitcher of milk.

I suppose you think you can approximate this elsewhere, such as Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts, but it is only in Andalucía that you will be served this unique toasted bread called a mollete, which has been prepared by bakers in this land for centuries, first by the Moors and now by the Christians.

To prepare individual loaves, the baristas partially slice the molletes horizontally and pop the whole mollete in the oven for about ten minutes. When the thin crust becomes firm they open the sliced mollete and bring it to your table. Many people drizzle the soft steaming interior with a fruity extra virgin olive oil, or spread with fresh tomato puree and garlic (pan con tomate). Personally I am just as happy to have the two halves spread with melted butter or marmalade. I think it is better than any English muffin I have even dreamed of - and I am an English muffin aficionado of long standing!

The city of Antequera is universally known as the home of molletes - remember that these oval loaves probably originated during the time of the Moors, who did not finally leave the city until 1454! When Ruth and I said that we would like to visit one of the best bakeries in Antequera, the town fathers could not have provided a more cordial welcome. The city officials greeted us in the mayor’s office, we were interviewed by the press, given a private tour of the city and even presented a beautiful little trophy marking the occasion of La Tienda bringing the mollete to America. The cordial owners of Horno Antequerana escorted us into their bakery and introduced us to their staff, who were forming these small oval loaves by hand. We took a picture together with the workers - a handful of perhaps a half-dozen of the local ladies and a cheerful young man who was serving as their apprentice.

What a pleasure it is to meet the past in the present: to see sea salt crystallize in the same place as it has for centuries; to look up in my friend Juan Carlos's bodega and see esparto blinds serving the same purpose as they have for centuries; and to be able break a special bread in the café with people whose forebears have done the same for hundreds of years.

I guess you could say I am an incurable romantic. But why not? ¡Viva España!

Su amigo,
Don

Some of you may have been reading the evocative NY Times best seller The Telling Room by Michael Paterniti. It is the narrative of a sophisticated 21st century American writer who dreamed of living in a simpler time, and took his young family with him to the village of Guzmán, close to Maderuelo in the province of Segovia. The author became intellectually and emotionally involved with the local men, many of whom would spend hours talking while they sat around in a room that harbored their rustic and famous cheese.

Last year, my wife Ruth and I decided to find some rustic rural village that would be far away from the cities and the tourism and the trappings of the 21st century. Of course, Ruth and I could not accomplish anything like The Telling Room experience in a couple of weeks of driving - the book’s author made a commitment of months or even years. But we hoped by drawing on our past experiences, supplemented by various accounts on the Internet, that we could select the perfect place 'to pitch our tent.'

We chose the hilltop village of Maderuelo, enclosed by defensive walls that rise above a rushing river. There, we hoped to spend three or four days amongst the local people in order to get a real flavor of what their life and values might be, and, if all went as planned, experience their Semana Santa observance. In ancient times, Celtiberians inhabited these lands, followed by Romans and then Muslims, until the latter part of the 12th century, when triumphant knights settled the area with fellow Christians to secure their gains. This is a land filled with watchtowers, battlements and castles, all vital during the era of the Reconquista in which Moorish domination was challenged and defended. While there are no longer invading armies, these battlements remain, sort of like a collective unconsciousness of the people.

To reach Maderuelo, we crossed the successor to a Roman-era bridge and followed the road around the surrounding battlements until we found a medieval stone arch on the far side which gave us entry to the town. The ambiance was amazing and gave the feeling that we were lost in a medieval village. The puebla was truly silent with no evidence of human activity. It was getting late and we needed to locate the place where we were to lay our heads.

Our friend Jamie, who lives in the Basque Country, had done some preliminary sleuthing, found a phone number for a bed and breakfast, and contacted a lady who assured us that we could stay in her home for two or three nights – or as long as we wanted. She had also inquired as to what we might like for dinner, since there were no restaurants or other public establishments in the town proper.

However, with no street signs, signs on the buildings, nor people in the streets, it seemed there was no way for us to find this woman. We decided to seek the central cobblestone plaza. In its heyday, Maderuelo had more than a dozen churches; now the number has dwindled to only one, Santa Maria, located on the edge of this Plaza Mayor. I tried the door of the church but it was locked (I later read there was a mummified girl inside). So I rested my back by sitting on the stoop of an extreme 'fixer-upper' building with a crooked handwritten sign saying se vende - for sale. It would take an extraordinary realtor to move this property before it collapsed.

Finally, we saw a truck that was blocking much of the narrow street. I asked whether he knew of Marta and Jorge Padilla, the innkeepers. He said, "Of course, she’s right down there!" and pointed down the curved cobblestone walled street where everything looked the same. Fortunately for us, our host heard the talking in the street, and stepped out to greet us with an umbrella, since it was drizzling by that time.

And what a delight she and her husband turned out to be. It seems that he was an accomplished IT technician, a person in great demand throughout Spain because of his valuable skills. But after a while he started re-evaluating his life and wondered what the purpose was for him to drive and problem solve from city to city all over Spain as a slave of electronics. His wife also yearned for a simpler life away from all the frenzy and chaos of a big city like Madrid. When she was a little girl, she used to visit her grandmother who lived, of all places, in Maderuelo! And after investigating what was available in the rustic town of her youth, Marta and Jorge left the modern world and moved into the medieval town of her grandmother to run a bed and breakfast. They seem very pleased about their decision.

We spent the night in the ancient structure that had been restored by the two of them as a labor of love. There were beautiful rugged beams, narrow stairs climbing here and there, and the bedrooms were cozy. Down below, on the lowest level of an essentially vertical building, was the place where we were served our dinner: simple hardy fare, rustic bread, a plate of fruit and good company – all surrounded by rugged stone and ancient rafters. Of course we did have electricity; and most remarkably we were provided Wi-Fi (which is pronounced 'wee fee' in Spanish). But, when you think about it, of course that follows: Jorge was skilled in the world of IT and did not shun it all: taking advantage of Wi-Fi would be a drawing card for their bed and breakfast.

But the thing that struck me the most in Maderuelo, and something most of us hardly ever think of, is that it was silent: no internal combustion engines, no radios and TVs, virtually no people. There were not even roosters to welcome us at dawn in this rural puebla! I suppose it goes without saying that our quest for a medieval Semana Santa procession was misplaced in a village only numbering one hundred and fifty people.

Undaunted, we climbed into our car and drove further into the isolated area of rural Segovia and by happenstance came upon a wonderful little town called Allyón during market day. People from the countryside had come to town to buy and sell food and sundries. As in medieval times, stalls were spread out in the Plaza Mayor. I have never seen such spectacular huge fresh cauliflowers, or lettuce, beets, turnips, chickens and tubs full of olives and artisan cheeses, as well as unfortunate skinned rabbits. Under the granite colonnades, which bounded one side of the plaza, we noticed an inviting hotel restaurant where we savored a dinner of roast suckling pig and lamb for which the region of Segovia is famous.

When we finished our meal and stepped out into the Plaza we were greeted by Maria, a local girl who works for the tourism office there. Her English was quite good and her warmth and enthusiasm was even better. In the brief time remaining she invited us into St Michael’s, her Romanesque parish church which was adjacent to the open air market. Within it, she showed us beautifully made pasos – with life-sized figures for the town’s Semana Santa processions.

Our search was tantalizingly close to fruition in the village of Allyón, but unfortunately by then we had run out of time and had to return to Madrid to fly home. On the way to Madrid, we did stop by the sublime walled city of Ávila and participated in a beautiful Pascua, Easter Mass, celebrated by a warm and friendly archbishop. The choir was composed of a dozen or so local men, not professionals but lovers of church music.

So our quest was not in vain, it just turned out differently than we had planned. Although we did not find any rustic medieval procession, which probably only exists in my imagination (unless it would have been in Allyón!), we were with good generous people, making our trip very much a holy week.

Tu amigo,
Don

Many of us hardly give the cycles of nature a second thought – spring, summer, autumn and winter are little more than markers of passing time. We blissfully eat food from all corners of the earth: grapefruits in July, raspberries in December and cranberries in May! But in Spain many people spend their whole lives in one area and the changing seasons directly affect their lives.

Once a year in the United States we recall our agricultural heritage by setting a bountiful harvest table on Thanksgiving Day – I think of a verse from the old English hymn: "all is safely gathered in ‘ere the winter storms begin." We Americans are an amazingly mobile society. This is not more obvious than on Thanksgiving Day when our airports are full and our trains and highways are swollen with people who want to be with their families.

In our case, our youngest son Christopher, with his wife Rian (and baby Cleo), were just settling in to an apartment in Madrid where both are serving as diplomats for the next three years. Our eldest son Tim and his family went the other direction to visit his wife Amy’s relatives in Minnesota where she has happy childhood memories. Ruth and I stayed home and enjoyed being with our son Jonathan, his wife Stacey and our delightful granddaughters, Sarah and Anna Bell.

On my travels to Spain, I notice the strong connection that many in Spain still have to their region and the changing of the seasons. If you travel the byways of Spain during the autumn you sense that harvest is in the air. In the wine regions across Spain, the people are joining in festive wine celebrations called vendimias, now that the grapes have been picked, pressed and are now on their way to becoming wine.

In the La Vera valley, farmers have already gathered, dried, smoked and milled the autumn pepper crop to make the pungent pimentón, or smoked paprika, we enjoy in our chorizos and stews. In La Mancha, our friends María Angeles, Juan Antonio and their neighbors in the village of Minaya have concluded another labor-intensive harvest of crocuses, toasting the stamens in a special way to make the very best saffron. As you read this, olive growers are harvesting olives by hand much as they have for over two thousand years.

Winter is on the horizon. Days are getting shorter, the leaves have fallen to the ground and the bare branches of the trees remind us that the winter season is appreciably different from the rest of the year. The cycle of the Earth continues on its way unmindful of how important we may think our human events may be.

It is a time of dormancy and refreshment. And there seems to be a natural yearning for us to be closer together – to share each other’s warmth and hopes. That is why it is the season for children. Children are pure life – as any grandparent understands most fully. In their exuberant play and spontaneous activity, they dispel the lengthening shadows.

This, then, is the essence of Christmas: in the depth of winter we dwell on the tender image of a mother cradling her newborn child. It elicits hope, and recalls the joy of families surrounded by love. Christians celebrate the light of God’s love coming into the world in the person of a newborn child. For all of us a new baby and the laughter of children elicit universal feelings of joy and hope common to us all.

In many a store window in Spain is a crèche or manger scene called a Belén (“Bethlehem”) so that shoppers will see small figures of the Holy Family seeking shelter in a stable, surrounded by animals and shepherds. Many years ago we were ‘window shopping’ in a village in Cáceres, and saw small hand carved Belén perched in a Samsonite cosmetic case in a travel agency window!

This yuletide is a time for caring: touching others with our warmth. For all of the hustle and bustle of holiday preparations in which we may find ourselves involved – cooking our favorite recipes, dropping off some special plate of baked goods for our neighbor, contacting old friends – our motivation is to bring joy to one another.

And don’t forget those who are experiencing hard times, whether they are in your community or are some of our Spanish neighbors who are experiencing a severe economic crisis. Your purchases here bring needed income to the many artisan families in Spain. And once again we offer the Campaign for Spain, where your contributions will go directly to support food banks as they supply families and shelters throughout Spain.

Our family, as well as our extended La Tienda family who are working so hard to serve you, extend to you best wishes for a joyful holiday season.

¡Feliz Navidad!
Don