If you would like to experience something truly joyful, plan to join with the people of Zaragoza on any October 12th for the combined festivals commemorating Hispanic heritage: Feria del Pilar and the Día de la Hispanidad.

It is not unusual for Spaniards to have a spontaneous celebration where the spiritual element merges with the secular to form a happy unity. As you read this, my wife Ruth and I are in Zaragoza to join the crowds of Spaniards in celebrating Día de la Hispanidad, in memory of the day Christopher Columbus and his crew encountered a marvelous new world, which he named Hispañola. El Día marks of the birth of the international Hispanic community whose cultural influence now spreads to the corners of the earth.

Equally important for many is the Feria del Pilar. According to early church tradition, the apostle James was preaching the gospel in the Roman province of Hispania, in what was then the pagan land of Caesaraugusta (now Zaragoza). On January 2, 40 A.D., in the earliest days after the Resurrection, the apostle James was praying with some of his disciples by the banks of the Ebro River, when he saw an apparition of the Virgin Mary appearing before him atop a pillar.

She assured James that his efforts would not be in vain, for the faith of the people would become as strong as the pillar on which she was standing. For the Spanish Christians she left the symbolic pillar on which was mounted a wooden image of her. To this day it can be seen in a special chapel in the Zaragoza basilica.

When reading about Pilar, many may question whether the Virgin really left behind that statue. Furthermore, Columbus surely had a shadowy side and in fact this visionary explorer ended up in chains! If the arrival of the Spaniards in America was an occasion of unmitigated joy, it was also a period of suffering for the native people.

We are all children of a materialistic age in which reality is often seen as concrete and scientific. We allow little room for the spiritual or heroic traditions which form a people’s identity. I guess the closest thing we have to this kind of reality is the story of Washington and the cherry tree. Nevertheless the melding of folk and religious traditions is important and marking the extraordinary accomplishments of Columbus is a perfectly appropriate way to celebrate the Hispanic world, and the interchange of cultures, which enriches all of our lives.

The most appealing event for Ruth and me on October 12th is the offering of flowers, Ofrenda de Flores, to the Virgin. As the day draws near, the roads leading to Zaragoza swell with hundreds of villagers who walk toward to the Basilica Plaza of Our Lady of the Pilar, with their arms filled with flowers to lay at the feet of the Virgin. Thanks to the bouquets brought by the faithful, Mary has an enormous cloak made of thousands of flowers brought in from the countryside.

During the final day we find a convenient curbside place along the parade route and mingle with the crowd of excited children. Many are with their mothers and fathers, grandparents or neighbors and are dressed in traditional clothes of Aragón. There are beautiful young ladies dressed in brightly polka dotted 'flamenco' feria dresses, or adorned with splendid lace mantillas and shawls.

It is such a happy occasion. Hundreds of delegations of villagers from all over Spain dance in the streets in their festive traditional clothing. There will be some pilgrims processing from as far away as Andalucía, where gracefully swirling ladies dressed in brightly colored feria dresses informally dance the flamenco-inspired Sevillana. Then there are others from as far west as Galicia and Asturias with their marching bagpipers playing ancient Celtic tunes. As countless delegations and pilgrims bring their beautiful floral offerings, a towering pyramid of flowers mounts crowned by the comparatively diminutive image of the Virgin at the top.

The majority of the participants are from the mountain villages of Aragón, with some from the Basque Country and the Pyrenees. Many are processing under the banner of a local parish, brotherhood or civic organization. As the groups pass by they are often dancing folk dances. We particularly enjoy seeing young and old dancing the jota – a genre of music and dance known throughout Spain.

The jota is the best-known expression of Aragonese folklore where it originated, dating as far back as the 18th century. Due to the complexities of the dance steps and manner of singing, the jota has evolved, but the most pure forms of the jota can still be found in Calanda, Alcañiz, Albacete and Zaragoza.

'Fiestas del Pilar' is an extravagant carnival attended by thousands on holiday and culminates with an evening of fireworks reflected in the broad Ebro River that runs through town. The devotional content is less important for the majority – as is the case of the famous Carnaval de Cádiz. The revelers enjoy the amusing procession of huge papier-mâché giants and big heads (gigantes y cabezudos) as they randomly mingle with the crowds to the delight of young and old alike. There are bands, dances, concerts, theatre and, of course, the inevitable ritual of the 'running of the bulls' takes place in the bullring where the young and daring humans encounter young and feisty bulls.

It is hard to remain a stranger for long in this jovial atmosphere where each night the tapas bars are jammed with revelers. Throughout the typical day of the traditional Spaniard there are designated opportunities to eat together – not the least of which is the daily ritual of meeting old friends at the tapas bars. Without a doubt, the people of Spain enjoy their food and companionship.

I like to find opportunities where I can place aside the skepticism that seems to saturate our age and everyday discourse. It is so much healthier to embrace life as it unfolds among families, friends and the community. There is a wonderful book, recently published by author Michael Peremiti, who took his family for an extended stay in a rural village in Castilla-León for much the same reason. It is called The Telling Room: A Tale of Love, Betrayal, Revenge, and the World's Greatest Piece of Cheese. I think some of you might enjoy it as much as I did. Indeed, this is why our family chooses to revisit an older culture, to be refreshed by seeing things from a different perspective. Maybe this is how you feel too.

I am grateful for my friendship with Penelope Casas, who was a friend to our family for nearly twenty years. I am especially thankful for the wisdom and gentle encouragement she provided during the formative years of La Tienda. Penny died recently after a seven year struggle with leukemia and I will miss hearing her friendly voice on the phone.

Penny was a groundbreaking cookbook author who introduced millions of Americans to the traditional foods of Spain. Over the years, Penny took time to personally reply to the questions of hundreds of Spanish cooking enthusiasts through her open-ended feature 'Ask Penelope' on LaTienda.com.

I find it fascinating how the paths of our lives intersect with like-minded people over the years. Most of the time we pay no mind, but now and then we recognize that our interests are in harmony with those of another and it is these unanticipated patterns that make life rich and meaningful. Such is the case of our two families and our shared love for Spain.

I came upon Spain quite by accident. In 1964, Ruth and I were married in Long Beach, California - but just three months later the Navy sent me on my first Mediterranean cruise as a newly commissioned naval officer. I was a chaplain to the officers and men of a destroyer division, ministering to about 1,000 sailors aboard four ships. Our first two ports of call were Mallorca and Valencia, and from my first steps ashore I felt an uncanny affinity for the Spanish people. The subsequent hours and days I spent on liberty strolling the pier side streets confirmed that I had found a spiritual home.

I suspect Penny had a similar experience when she arrived in Madrid three years before then. As a young college student she traveled to Spain as part of Vassar College’s 'junior year abroad' program and immediately fell in love with the Spanish people - and not only Spaniards in general, but also a handsome young medical student from Madrid named Luís.

One thing led to another – Penny returned to Madrid the next year and her romance with Spain (and Luís) continued to flourish. There were some frustrating moments for the young lovers, because in the interim Luís was called to serve as a medic at the Spanish army hospital in Melilla, a Spanish enclave off the Coast of Morocco. But, of course, true love always wins out.

They married the following year in Madrid and spent three happy and rewarding years living in Spain before moving to New York City, where Luís completed his medical residency in urology, and Penny began to write. She took every opportunity to spread the word about the unique cuisine and culture of her new-found Spain. At that time Americans had virtually no awareness of Spain, especially since the country had been politically isolated after the Spanish Civil War and World War II.

Penelope was on the vanguard, and I am convinced that it was in part because of her writing and advocacy in American publishing circles that Spain today is acknowledged as a premier resource for gastronomy. Her very first cookbook, The Foods and Wines of Spain, has become a classic – and is in its twelfth printing. Her definitive book, ¡Paella!, encouraged millions of Americans to undertake what is now one of America’s most popular dishes. My wife Ruth used Penny’s book to prepare four paellas for our son Jonathan and Stacey’s wedding rehearsal dinner! Spanish food and culture was her life’s work: in fact, just a few days before her final hospitalization, Penny sent the galley proofs of her magnum opus to her publisher: a book of a thousand of her favorite recipes.

Penny and Luís lived a happy marriage of 49 years (we were married in 1964, too!) and spent much of their time together revisiting their beloved Spain. They were a perfect complement, she with her innate curiosity and consuming interest in the foods and wines of Spain, he with his native knowledge of the culture of his motherland.

As Penny’s reputation grew, through her appealing and authoritative cookbooks, and informative articles in The New York Times and other major publications, she was invited by NYU to teach a course on Spanish cuisine and to lead gourmet culinary tours throughout Spain. This in turn led to their own intimate tours, personally arranged by her and Luís, which were enthusiastically embraced. The participants formed an informal community of aficionados of Spain, with many couples returning year after year. Out of these experiences Penny wrote Discovering Spain, an absorbing narrative of their many delicious and fascinating forays. And this is where our two stories intersected in a meaningful way.

Although my first introduction to Spain was visiting a port, I resolved to share my enthusiasm with my wife by exploring the highways and byways of this magical country. A few months later, Ruth and I set off on our own in a tiny Seat 600 rental car and only a smattering of a Castilian vocabulary. Each year we explored a little further, and now it is over forty years later! It would have been a lot easier if Ruth were a native Spaniard, an advantage Penny enjoyed with Luís – but then again, with Discovering Spain in hand we were guided by Penny’s descriptions of her trips and adventures.

Regrettably, New York and Virginia are hundreds of miles apart, so the chance to sit down for a meal together has been limited. Nevertheless, I treasure one time when my son Tim and I shared a meal with Penny and Luís at La Nacionál in the Chelsea area of West Village. Part of the unassuming building is a social club founded in 1902 to serve the flood of immigrants coming from Spain. We could see old timers talking over coffee and beer while watching the futbol games on TV, while others were in a corner playing dominoes. Our destination was downstairs to La Nacionál, a simple restaurant where we spent the evening enjoying honest, unpretentious Spanish fare. It felt as if we had been transported back to Spain.

In a way Penelope Casas has been our spiritual companion and mentor since the beginning of La Tienda. I hope that we can continue the course she has set: to share with you the depth of the Spanish culture; the strong family based roots; and the simple yet wonderful foods which Spain offers for our tables. What an inspiration she has been! ¡Muchas gracias, Penélope!

It seems that on just about all of our many travels throughout Spain, we include spending a special time in Galicia. And if there is one thing that comes to mind as a special treasure from Galicia, it is their marvelous bread. Bread is the staff of life, and through the centuries Gallegos have developed the most remarkable loaves: wonderfully crusty exteriors, and light interiors with lots of holes to capture the aroma.

Long ago my wife Ruth and I happened upon a magnificent thick and crusty round loaf of this iconic bread when we visited a Galician village, whose name I cannot recall. So for the last twenty-five years or so I have been on a quest to find that specific village which bakes the greatest breads in all of Galicia!

Earlier this year we thought we had found it in the country village of San Cristobal de Cea, located between Ourense and Santiago. The origins of the town’s baking tradition are closely linked to the story of the nearby Cistercian monastery of Santa Maria La Real de Osera. Back in the 13th century the vast monastery did not have the resources within the religious community to produce enough bread for their needs, so they grew the wheat, milled the flour and convinced King Sancho IV to designate the town of Villa de Cea as the source of all their bread. Eight hundred years later, we visited a baker in the same town of San Cristobal de Cea, with the help of Pablo, a gifted photographer and web designer from the neighboring port of Vigo.

As could only happen in the amazing 21st Century, I first met Pablo via Flickr, an online photo sharing portal, when I told him how much I admired the artistry of his photos of the monastery which was so much a part of the Cea story. It turns out that his grandmother was raised in the area, and a friend of his girlfriend, Rosana, knew the location of one of the home bakeries. What a delightful time we had when we all spent the day talking with the baker and exploring the surrounding countryside. We even celebrated Ruth’s birthday together in a favorite local restaurant!

The bakery and the baker’s house are one. Much of the interior of Carlos’ house is devoted to bread making. His day begins at 3:00 in the morning when he adds sacks of locally milled rustic flour to his professional-sized stainless steel mixing bowl (it has an electric motor, his only concession to modernity). He adds water from the 'mother yeast' (formento) from previous batches and then shapes the dough on a fine-grained wooden table, kneading it for 60 minutes by hand. The dough is allowed to sleep (dormillo) for about an hour, then he divides the dough into one pound and three pound loaves and allows it to rest for another 25 minutes. This laborious cycle is repeated three times, more or less, until he determines conditions are favorable for baking.

The oven is heated with local wood and brush, carefully selected so that no adverse odor or taste affects the bread. There is an art to placing his loaves in the oven in a certain order for even baking - it is termed 'walking the bread.' When the oven is full, it is closed for a baking time of about two hours. The baker’s day began before dawn, and he removes his final baking run at 4:00 PM. His is a labor of love, and a full-time commitment, one that has continued for centuries, passed from father to son.

The bread of San Cristobal de Cea was not the bread we were seeking and so we moved on to the walled city of Lugo, about an hour east of Santiago de Compostela. Over fifty years ago, a young man named Manuel Chousa opened the doors of his bakery, and like the bakers of Cea, he began work well before dawn. When he finished baking for the day, he would push his cart around Lugo filled with the legendary crusty loves and rolls. It was not long before Manuel gained a reputation for producing the best bread around, and that tradition is carried on through his sons, José Manuel and Rubén Chousa.

The Chousas joined with a friend, Roberto López, to form an expanded modern bakery known as Ingapan. They still bake bread the traditional way – some of it in the original bakery of their father. Applying the most advanced technology to par-bake and then flash-freeze each loaf, this bakery enables us to deliver the experience of fresh-baked Galician bread all the way across the sea.

Locally, Ingapan supplies the San Froilán Soup Kitchen, as they say, “to care, to feed, and to protect people who lack their own resources to live.” Last March we visited this soup kitchen in an old section of Lugo, accompanied by a member of the Chousa family. We were enthusiastically greeted by two kindly nuns: Sisters Dorinda and Asunción, who were busy prepping fish, liver and some vegetables in order to provide complete daily dinners for needy families and the homeless. They feed more than 120 people each day. Ingapan donates the bread – the staff of life.

Putting the Galician bread aside (which is not an easy thing to do), Galicia feels like home to me. Its rugged, rocky shoreline with many small harbors sheltering fishermen and their boats remind me of the coves and crashing surf I knew as a child in New England. Sometimes, even today, I stand on the shore of Cape Cod or the Outer Banks of North Carolina and reflect that the waves on our side of the Atlantic wash on the shores of Galicia – if we could only see that far!

Of course I've always loved the sea, and later as a young man the Coast Guard brought me to similar fishing villages along the Oregon coast and the Alaskan towns of Ketchikan and Sitka. On one of our very first exploratory trips in Galicia, we visited the fishing village of Cambados, located in one of the dozens of rias (fjords), where natural springs feed into the Atlantic Ocean from fingers of land. It is hard not to feel rhapsodic sitting in a shore side café, watching the fishermen entering the harbor with their boats laden with the day’s catch with hungry seagulls circling overhead.

Other members of the fishermen’s households are raking in shallow water, harvesting mussels, clams and little cockles called berberechos. Others still put these delicacies of the sea directly into little tins for the market. A patient person arranges the tiny-shelled berberechos in a symmetrical, spiral pattern – in its own way and amazing work of art. Then there are the brave young men dodging the bounding surf in little skiffs to chisel percebes (a type of long-necked barnacle) off the rocky cliffs: an amazing briny delicacy and worth the risk.

Apart from the loaves and the fishes, I am sure that one reason Galicia has a personal appeal is due to the Camino de Santiago, the fifteen hundred year old route that funneled Christian pilgrims from all of Europe into the distant Celtic land of Galicia – just about as far west as one could walk.

It goes without saying that as a Navy chaplain I would be drawn to the spirituality of the pilgrimage route and the ancient monasteries tucked in Galicia's green valleys, not to mention the awe-inspiring medieval cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, where the remains of Saint James are interred. All of our family has visited there several times, and my son Jonathan walked all the way across Spain on the Camino from France while he was a student many years ago, and then retraced the final part of it with his bride Stacey on their honeymoon.

Back in the 1960s, my wife Ruth and I were exploring the mountains leading to Galicia in our tiny Seat 600. As we came upon the mile-high Cebrero Pass, over which pilgrims have trod for more than a thousand years, we happened upon the mountaintop village of O Cebreiro. At that time the Camino had not regained the prominence it has today, and the village was essentially unknown to us.

The core of the settlement consisted of some archaic Celtic dwellings called pallozas, huddling close to the ground with low rounded stone walls crowned with extensive thatched roofs designed to protect the inhabitants from the mountain winds. Although their architecture pre-dates the Roman presence, the pallozas we came upon that day were far from being museum pieces (as they became later). These houses were homes for real people carrying about their daily work, with chickens and other animals coming in and out of their dwellings – as they needed shelter too!

Not more than a stone’s throw away was a field-stone church restored to its thousand year old foundation. Through the centuries the structure had provided shelter for many wayfarers seeking protection from the high winds. In earlier times the pastor would ring the bells to guide the pilgrims traversing the surrounding valleys.

The small church was a dark place, of course, but, as we entered the nave, it was hard to miss the massive granite baptismal font – large enough to immerse an adult believer. As our eyes were drawn towards the altar we saw on display a golden chalice which some say is the Holy Grail.

Tradition has it that a doubting priest was routinely celebrating Mass when a devout pilgrim appeared at the door of the chapel. He had struggled to the mountaintop in order to receive the Sacrament. As the man came in from the howling gale, the celebrant looked up and thought to himself how foolish was the devout pilgrim for having trudged all the way to the top of the mountain in such severe weather in order to witness a non-existent miracle. Continuing with the Mass, the doubting priest, as was his custom, elevated the Host and to his astonishment, the bread in his hands miraculously became flesh and the chalice was filled with blood!

Holy Grail or not, doubting believers and granite fonts – visiting the chapel made a lasting impression on us 20th century skeptics, as it has made with the villagers who had lived there on this mountaintop for centuries on end, beginning with Ferdinand and Isabella who made the trek to this holy spot.

While I was writing this reflection I heard of the heart wrenching loss of eighty passengers aboard a train headed for Santiago de Compostela, many planning to celebrate the feast day of Santiago/Saint James, the patron saint of Spain. My heart goes out to those throughout Galicia and the Spanish nation who are mourning the loss of those whom they have loved. Our whole family is saddened.

Tu amigo,
Don

As I was finalizing my essay, I received an email from Pablo who wrote to say:

...On Wednesday, we were in our Kickboxing class when arrived the news of the accident and the health authorities calling about the need for blood, so we went to the hospital Nicolás Peña, who belongs to the Galician Transfusion Center and was managing blood donations from Vigo area to Santiago. It was very emotional to be part of a queue of hundreds people who waited many hours in the night waiting their turn to help. And I feel very proud and lucky that as I have a regular donor card and my blood type is 0-, I could contribute with my little grain of sand. In less than an hour all the hospitals were overwhelmed with volunteers, donors and doctors on holidays.

Yesterday was the official funeral in Santiago. I feel sorry for the families of the victims, and the train driver, who has survived and will have to carry a heavy load the rest of his life. The accident seems to be due human error.

Galego:

O mércores, estabamos na nosa clase de Kickboxing cando recibimo-la nova do accidente de tren, e o chamamento público das autoridades sanitarias para ir doar sangue, así que fomos ó hospital Nicolás Peña, que pertence o Centro de TRansfusións de Galicia e estaba xestionando as doazóns de sangue do área de Vigo, para Santiago. Foi moi emotivo poder formar parte dunha cola de centos de persoas que esperaron durante horas na noite o seu turno para poder axudar. E síntome moi orgulloso e afortunado de que, o ter tarxeta de doante habitual e ser grupo sanguíneo 0-, puiden aporta-lo meu graniño de area. En menos dunha hora os hospitais estaban colapsados de voluntarios, doantes, e incluso médicos que estaban de vacacións.

Onte foi o funeral oficial en Santiago. Sintoo moito polas familias das víctimas, e tamén polo conductor do tren, quen sobreviviu e terá que levar unha pesada carga o resto da súa vida. O accidente parece que foi debido a un erro humán.

Each July thousands of Spaniards flock to Pamplona for the running of the bulls. During the Feria de San Fermín, there is a certain sense of excitement and abandon, even a test of valor, which appeals to the young men (or older ones clinging to their youth) as they sprint before the magnificent charging bulls. The atmosphere is more passionate than rational.

I keep a clipping of a Spanish ad campaign for San Miguel beer that captures this unique Spanish spirit of passion and danger. The magazine shows a flamenco dancer continuing to dance with complete abandon, despite the fact that her bleeding feet were wrapped with gauze bandages. The advertising banner for San Miguel beer proclaimed “Passion Beyond Reason.”

This kind of appeal captures uniquely the Spanish life view, which is far from that of the North American. I think of an American beer ad aimed at younger beer drinkers: “Grab some Buds.” It includes no dialogue, and features scenes of folks readying for a cookout, a baseball field, a rock concert and a grill-out and culminates with a young couple kissing at a bar. No bloody bandage there!

Several years ago Barbara Hurlburt, a member of the La Tienda “family,” wrote me a splendid description of the young men at San Fermín: “Watching the faces as they pray and prepare to start, watching them as they run looking ahead of them and behind them at the same time to avoid animals in all locations and to try to avoid each other, watching them go down and watching them drag each other out of harm’s way – it is a bizarre and intriguing spectacle.”

She went on, “The risks are absurdly high, but for those who have been there for forty years, there is clearly something extraordinary about it. Yesterday an older man (one of the forty-year veterans) fell and hit his head on the street. We saw the image of his body, as he lay there, unconscious. Today he was there – singing the cánticos with his colleagues. He didn’t run today (and may never again), but he wanted to be there with them as they prepared to go.”

The running of the bulls is called the encierro (literally “confinement”), referring to the narrow streets down which surge with both bulls and men. The encierro is deeply imbedded in the Spanish culture – some say since the 13th century. Devotion, pageantry and ritual is the essence of San Fermín, as the candidates don their white shirts, trousers and red bandanas and gather at the many tapas bars to trade embroidered tales of the encierros past.

An abundance of beer and wine provides a dose of “Dutch courage.” As people endlessly party at the tapas bars, ambulances are looming in the background, standing ready to rescue the fallen.

The daily event begins on Monday and runs through the following weekend. The participants (largely young men) fill the narrow medieval streets every day for a chance to run with five oxen and six bulls as they race from their corral nearby to the Plaza de Toros.

At exactly 8:00 AM a small rocket shoots up to the heavens, signaling the start of the encierro. A line of police holds the crowd back from the huge gates, so the oxen and bulls are moving at a pretty good clip before they meet the first wave of people. The terrifying event lasts but three or four minutes, depending upon the behavior of the bulls. There is no possibility that the people can run fast enough to stay in front of them for very long.

Some of the very valiant ones dart out in front of the charging bulls for a few seconds and then quickly press their bodies against the walls as the hoard of men and beasts roar past them. The intrepid ones may continue the pace for as long as their stamina (and adrenaline) holds out, but it is unheard of for even the most committed person to go the whole distance.

In contrast to the crowd of partying young men yearning to prove their courage, there are the valiant matadors who prepare to fight the bulls later in the day. They don’t just dash down the street trying to avoid the rampant bull; they choose to face the magnificent animal in the bullring, looking him in the eye. The courage these young men need to survive this encounter is palpable. They flirt with death every time they step into the ring.

At its core, this encounter between a young man and a bull is a rite of passage that occurs throughout Spain, far from the cameras and the thrill-seeking foreigners. Our son Jonathan and his family experienced the running of the bulls through the narrow streets of the hilltop town of Arcos de la Frontera on Easter Day - they named the bull the "Toro del Aleluya.” Another time my wife Ruth and I visited Ciudad Rodrigo, one of our very favorite rural towns, in order to experience the running of the bulls far from any tourist cameras.

The heritage of Ciudad Rodrigo is that of a Celtic village, then Visigoth and then Roman, but today it is a prosperous farm town where they prepare for the special day by fashioning a bullring in the Plaza Mayor. The boundaries were defined by temporary barricades and a rickety grandstand, where people watched the young sons of Ciudad Rodrigo confront about a half dozen bulls. Some of the people in the stands were passing their bota wineskins to the people next to them. A man was carving slivers from a local country jamón, which he shared with others. It was a mellow occasion as they celebrated the courage of their boys.

We saw that one of the more agile young men succeeded in vaulting over a bull - quite a feat. I was amazed, for I remembered from art history class that young men were vaulting over bulls 4,000 years earlier! Maybe this sacred act has been passed from the Minoan culture in Crete to other Mediterranean people and eventually to such as those boys in Ciudad Rodrigo who also vaulted over bulls.

Bulls have always been a part of the Spanish patrimony – from the Bronze Age to the commanding silhouettes of black bulls which dot the horizon wherever you drive in Spain. For me the running of the bulls in Pamplona is more than a tourist attraction, or even a serious test of courage. It is something deeper that ties into the roots of Spain.

What is 'real' paella? I think the soul of paella is about gathering with family and friends in your backyard or at a restaurant, sharing a meal served from a communal pan. The first paellas began as a simple farmer's dish cooked over an open fire. Rice was mixed with whatever was available - vegetables, wild game and even snails. Whatever the ingredients, paella has always been a shared meal, and the process of cooking it is always better when the tasks of preparing it are also shared.

Technically the word 'paella' refers to a pan - broad, shallow, typically steel, used to simmer rice and pasta dishes across southeastern Spain. The meal that we call paella is much more difficult to define.

What passes for paella in most of the world, and in much of Spain, will elicit howls of protest from aficionados in Valencia and beyond. This most famous of Spanish dishes has become the victim of its own popularity, with any combination of meat and saffron colored rice earning the name paella. In fact, most paella is made without real saffron, instead featuring colorante, an inexpensive yellow coloring powder made from turmeric.

Years ago I began a quest to learn how to make truly great paella. Early on I discovered that, even when I fail to cook the rice correctly, or overcook the seafood, I enjoy the adventure of the process, learning about each ingredient and experimenting with new methods make each paella an individual experience to be remembered and built upon.

One of my first lessons was that rice is the heart of any paella. And only one type of rice will produce a great paella, short-grained Spanish rice. Long-grained rice doesn't absorb the flavors of the broth and fluffy short-grained Asian rice ends up sticky. And Italian Arborio is too creamy. The ideal paella rice absorbs the flavor of the broth, yet remains separate and distinct from the grains around it. Bomba is a strain of rice that was saved from oblivion by chefs in Spain about 30 years ago. It is famous for its ability to absorb broth and flavors without breaking apart, and it is a forgiving secret weapon for the home paella chef. Other excellent types of rice for paella are those from Calasparra in Murcia, the bahia and senia rice of Valencia, and rice from the Delta de Ebro near Tarragona.

Another discovery was that not all saffron is created equal. Because this rare spice is so valuable, most saffron is not labeled correctly and is often not saffron at all. We were hoodwinked more than once when we started La Tienda, so we decided to go direct to the source in La Mancha. We now work with Maria Ángeles and Juan Antonio Serrano, a couple who produce saffron in the tiny town of Minaya. There they pick crocus flowers by hand, and pluck the pistils to be toasted on a silk screen. Our orders have helped reinvigorate the saffron industry in the town, with several neighbors joining them in planting crocus bulbs as they had for generations before thereby reviving a way of life that was nearly wiped out by fraud. The resulting saffron is remarkable - aromatic and floral with a beautiful coloring power.

Traveling across Spain, I learned that there are many great rice dishes, with many different names. Most are simply called arrozes, literally ‘rices.’ I enjoyed one of the most sublime examples in Alicante, called Arroz a Banda. My brother and I were visiting one of our olive suppliers and he invited us to a restaurant overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The waiter presented a paella pan with a thin layer of richly colored rice. No vegetables or seafood were immediately apparent as he spooned the rice onto our plates, but the first bite revealed the magic of this dish. The secret to Arroz a Banda is that the rice contains the essence of dozens of ingredients, including shrimp, fish, calamari, saffron, garlic, peppers and more. What an explosion of flavor! Later the seafood is served apart, or a banda, so you can savor the complex, rich taste of the rice on its own.

This is when I realized that the paella I first learned about, what I like to call Paella Mixta or Paella Americana, is an entirely different dish than traditional rice and paellas. In Spain, paellas are usually focused on one or two main ingredients, and almost never mix seafood and meat. Chorizo is almost unheard of as an ingredient in paella. The focus is on the rice, flavored with a great broth - any seafood or meat is almost like a garnish for the beautifully cooked rice.

There is something wonderfully American about the paella we most often find in the US - exuberant piles of shrimp, peppers, chorizo, chicken, clams, mussels and artichokes all crowded into a pan that can barely contain the cornucopia! This kind of paella offers a riot of flavors, and everyone can find some part of it they like. Like many other great foods that originated elsewhere, we have adapted the paella and made it our own.

That said, my eyes were opened to the purity of flavor that is the essence of traditional Spanish paella. Finally, a few years ago, I had the opportunity to travel to the center of paella culture, Valencia. Paella originated in this region as an outdoor meal cooked over a wood fire, so I went with my family to one of the few restaurants that still cooks paella over orange wood, called Casa El Famos.

El Famos is a century old paella institution situated in a field at the edge of the city, surrounded by farmland. Here I was greeted by two brothers who personally prepare each paella in an open grilling area. In their small kitchen I saw a line of paella pans held up by a thin metal rack, with blazing sticks of orange wood underneath. Each pan was charred black and held ingredients in different states of preparation - from the fresh chicken searing on the left, to the furiously boiling broth in the pan to the right.

Throughout the process I chatted with the brothers, who work with their wives and children and nieces and nephews to carry on the tradition. Each brother was cooking two or three paellas at once, chopping chicken, adding wood to the fires, tossing seafood into pans and talking to me at the same time! I wish I could tell you that I learned the ancient secret of cooking the perfect paella, but in all of the action there was no one thing that stood out!

The paella was phenomenal - rich and flavorful, with a crunchy crust at the bottom, called a socarrat. The seafood paella that my family ordered was decorated with cigalas, prawns and shrimp, but the star was definitely the rice.

Here in Virginia our family has a tradition of cooking paella, especially in the summer. My brother Tim and I like to have a paella cook-off, preparing two paellas side by side on the back deck. Then we serve the paellas to family and friends. We always have a great time, and each of the paellas is a new experience.

So, at long last, what have I learned about traditional Spanish paella? First, rice is the most important ingredient. Second, restraint is key - it is important to not overwhelm the rice with too many ingredients. Third, make a great broth with great spices, including real saffron. Fourth, your paella should be flat and fairly thin, and you should not stir it after you add the last of the ingredients. Fifth, let the paella sit for 10 minutes after you remove it from the flame. And finally, decent paella is easy to make, while great paella takes practice.

There are some questions that I still can't answer, at least not yet. Should the uncooked rice be fried in the olive oil before you add the broth, or should it be sprinkled into the boiling broth? Should paella start with sofrito, a sauce made from simmered tomatoes, onions and garlic? When is it acceptable to serve alioli with paella? Or lemons?

The most important lesson of all was the one I learned with the first paella I cooked in my backyard: there is no wrong way to cook paella. Paella is about cooking a great meal with friends and family. It is about experimenting with ingredients, and adding your favorite flavors to the ancient pan. Will I ever cook a paella good enough to impress a Valencian? I hope so. But even if I don't, I plan to have fun along the way!

This month's guest writer is Jonathan Harris. He is a co-owner and son of Don Harris.

There are some who dream of a 20 course meal at a cutting edge restaurant like Arzak or El Celler de Can Roca, temples to Spain's gastronomic revolution. But for me, nothing can surpass a humble fish or leg of lamb prepared a la parrilla - on the grill in a simple restaurant.

Don't get me wrong - the spectacular creations of Spain's cutting edge chefs should be celebrated. Most importantly, these inventive chefs bring attention to Spain's amazing cuisine and most of them revere the pure, fresh ingredients and deep roots of traditional Spanish cooking. And they often strive to showcase local produce and seafood. For me, their delicate creations and surprising revelations are entertaining and delicious, but are somehow not as satisfying as the wonderful typical meals I have enjoyed across Spain.

Simplicity and pure flavor are what resonate with me when I seek out the aroma of the grill in towns across the country. Charcoal and steel elevate the freshness of seafood, meats and vegetables to the highest level of importance. There is no sauce to run to, and no pasta in which to hide!

Spain celebrates the grill from coast to coast, and there is a great variety of fire roasting traditions. One of the first meals in Spain that sticks in my memory was of cochinillo at Mesón de Cándido in Segovia. There they roast suckling pig al horno - in the blazing heat of a wood fired oven. I could hardly believe the tender, delicate pork on my plate, covered in crunchy cracklings as I sat with a friend looking out at the Roman aqueduct that dominates the city. There didn't seem to be any seasoning used beyond sea salt, and yet to this day I can still taste every bite of that wonderful meal.

The owner, with the apt last name of Candido, turned out to be as warm and welcoming as the meals he provides. For decades he has cut the cochinillo with a plate to prove its tenderness, all the while wearing medallions awarded to his restaurant. Now, I must admit that this restaurant is a tourist favorite in a famous tourist town, and not a secret restaurant discovery in a far flung village. But that makes the quality and freshness of its menu even more remarkable. The owner doesn't just do the minimum, counting on the endless flow of uninitiated visitors - he offers an authentic example of his region's cuisine.

Another great example of this pure pride in authentic, quality foods is the offerings at the chiringuitos, or beach bars you will find across Spain. Unlike our summertime beach shacks, which serve the world's finest corn dogs and soft serve ice cream, these temporary restaurants feature amazingly fresh seafood of great quality. At one chiringuito in El Puerto de Santa Maria, I remember seeing sunbathers walking right off the beach to enjoy fresh-harvested sardines charred on the grill, washed down with ice cold Cruzcampo beer from the tap. Later, I savored each delectable bite of a steak of grilled almadraba tuna from the nearby fishing village of Barbate, paired with a pile of fried fresh green peppers. All this while seated at a table in middle of the beach, sheltered by the plastic roof as my family and I watched the waves splash on the shore!

A third example is the calçotada fiestas every spring in Cataluña. Are the Catalans satisfied to simply enjoy fresh green calçots onions at home every April? Of course not! It is time for a celebration. Family and friends gather, often right in the fields, and toss bunches of calçots on the grill over a searing hot fire. Afterwards the charred green onions are peeled to reveal a sweet, tender center that is dipped in nutty romesco sauce. Juicy butifarras and other sausages are grilled and the meal is shared among friends, all consuming generous amounts of beer and wine. The party lasts for hours! And remember, this is all to celebrate a simple but remarkable fresh green onion.

Back home in the US, I try to adapt this tradition of quality to my grill. One revelation for me was the pork I tried first a few years ago in Córdoba - Ibérico de Bellota cooked at an outdoor parrilla. Years ago I had accepted the idea that the sad dry white pork served in the US was normal and that every pork tenderloin needed to be wrapped in bacon, that every pork chop should leave your jaws aching. Then along came the Ibérico pork and a whole world opened up to me! The grilled presa was so red and juicy that my father swore it was a beef steak. The pluma was marbled with flavorful fat that literally melted in my mouth. What was going on here?

The answer is that Ibérico represents what pork used to taste like before industrial farming and genetic engineering. Pigs are supposed to be fat and run around outside. How silly it is to think of skinny pigs, and of pork as a low-fat white meat! Ibérico de Bellota is the pinnacle of porkiness - beautiful juicy meat, marbled with acorn-flavored fat from animals that live outside.

I try and keep it simple on the grill, following the path blazed by countless Spanish parrilla masters. My spices are restricted to sea salt, black pepper and pimentón de la Vera paprika on occasion. I prefer to sear meats, cooking quickly, and keeping them rare when possible. Fish and shrimp should be cooked soon after they leave the sea, vegetables soon after they are picked or pulled from the ground.

Finding high quality foods to prepare this way is not necessarily easy, but the results are so much better. I even find that I eat smaller portions because the food is so much more satisfying. Growing up in the US, we've become accustomed to eating not-so-fresh foods from stores that value volume and long shelf life over quality. But my years in Spain have taught me to expect more from my food. And the ultimate proving ground for quality and freshness is the grill!

So clean off your grill and get ready for summer! I hope you share some great times outside with family and friends enjoying delicious fresh grilled foods like they do in Spain.

¡Buen provecho!
Jonathan Harris

This month's guest writer is Jonathan Harris. He is a co-owner and son of Don Harris.

Imagine any city in America completely closing down for a weeklong party. That is exactly what happens in Sevilla, as the city’s families gather along the banks of the Guadalquivir River to celebrate the coming of spring. It is the Feria de Abril, Spain's biggest party!

The feria is all about reconnecting with family during this the most beautiful season of the year. Sevilla is a magical place in the spring and early summer. Bowers of bougainvillea cascade over enclosures and sweet aromas from the jasmine vines, oranges and lemons waft in the air.

The fair ground is located in the Triana barrio of Sevilla. In earlier times, it was the site of the famous agricultural horse fair where some of the finest Andalucian horses were traded. Some of these legendary horses shared the same bloodline as those in the Royal Andalucian School of Equestrian Art in Jerez de la Frontera and the Spanish Riding School of Vienna.

Now it is purely a spring fair, but what a fantastic fair it is! Each year an extravagant gateway is built to welcome the families of Sevilla as they erect an amazing tent-city of individual casetas. Each tent is a gathering site hosted by a family to entertain friends and extended family members.

Many of the people of Sevilla were seriously involved in the Lenten devotion less than a month before; but now the rigors of Semana Santa are a fleeting memory. The members of the brotherhoods have returned the religious pasos to their resting places in local parishes, until the beginning of Holy Week the next year. If Easter is late enough in the year, the streets and patios of Sevilla will be lined with flowering citrus. The street sweepers gather the bounty of ripe oranges that have fallen to the ground from the trees that line the streets.

Now it is time to enjoy visits with the whole family in the casetas. Within each enclosure, it is a time to catch up on the latest news from an out of town cousin or aunt, or to spend time with parents, brothers and sisters, as well as hang out with your favorite friends. In one caseta, you might find a flamenco guitarist playing and singing, while all ages of the extended family are dancing together.

Of course, since it is Spain, the bar at the back of each caseta features a portable kitchen serving a cornucopia of delightful tapas: simmering garlic shrimp served with picos bread sticks; boquerones fritos; glistening slivers of Jamón Ibérico; langostinos; cracked olives; Manchego cheese and almonds.

Visiting casetas is not a casual affair, it is not something to take lightly. If you are married, it involves dressing up meticulously and spending several hours in each of the four casetas that represent the four branches of your family. If I were a native of Sevilla, I would visit the people on my mother’s side in their family caseta, and then my father’s brothers and sisters. Then my wife’s side of the family, which is two more sets of relations! Finally, there would be time with my good friends and neighbors.

This is a joyful event in which time is never a concern: good conversations, tasty food, wonderful reunions with people you care for -- what more can you ask for? But remember, in Spain you do not just exchange pleasantries; you become involved with the person, trading the latest family news over delicious tapas, Manzanilla sherry and beer. That is a lot of people to visit – you can see why a week is allotted for the affair.

Then there is the ceremonial aspect to the Feria de Abril. Most women set aside their street clothes and don festive feria dresses -- mostly with bright colored polka dots and flamboyant flounces. The dresses can become quite elaborate creations with much fitting and stitching costing hundreds of dollars, and often only worn for one year, since the fashions change for every feria! Whether you are rich or poor, the dresses are a part of the fun.

When I say that women wear these dresses, I am not referring only to the young dark eyed beauties (and there are many of them). I am also referring to older women who are at least as exuberant dancers of the Sevillana as their daughters and granddaughters. They are refreshingly unashamed of their lost youth -- they are at the feria to have a good time.

I remember seeing horse drawn carriages in which there were a group of housewives having the time of their lives in their feria dresses, with a glass of sherry in hand! Until 8:00 PM, families in horse drawn carriages promenade down the unpaved avenues outside the hundreds of family casetas. Some of the carriages even sport drivers and footmen in traditional dress. As they pass down the broad esplanades, I find it fun to admire the pageantry of a long ago era. It is reminiscent of the antebellum South in America, with their beautiful ladies in their hoop skirts.

When I think back on the feria in Sevilla, I picture magnificent Andalucian horses mounted with handsome caballeros and señoritas. The young men sit erect in their saddles, wearing broad brimmed black hats and gray vests and the strikingly beautiful young ladies are casually riding pillion behind their men.

I know the picture of it sounds so terribly romantic -- of course it does, and that is because it is fact. My most precious recollections are the sight of children, mostly little girls in flamenco dresses, perfecting their Sevillana technique with each other. Some were under four years old! You can be sure that the admiring grandparents are close by.

Lest you get caught up only in the romance, remember that the feria is a vast family reunion, not a tourist event. If you did not know anyone with a family caseta, you will only experience the feria looking in from the outside. These family gatherings are all about the social fabric of Sevilla, so in order to attend you will need to be the guest of one of the families.

The closest event I can think of in the United States is Thanksgiving Day and perhaps Christmas Eve. Our families gather around these holidays. But ours is a different culture due to the vastness of our nation. It is not unusual for some families to be scattered over thousands of miles. It would take more than twelve hours driving for me to see my brother, or for my wife Ruth to see her brother and sister. I know of one person who flies from Virginia to Alaska to see her grandchildren!

In Sevilla the key is proximity, where families see each other many times a month, and they may have lived in the same neighborhood for all of their lives. They have friendships with others that stretch back to early childhood. The weeklong Feria de Abril is something the residents of Sevilla can count on as part of the rhythm of their lives.

Saludos,
Don

To truly participate in the culture of a select group of people, such as the people of Spain, it is important to honor their way of living that has developed over thousands of years. Their way of life and values have been influenced by Carthaginians, Romans, Visigoths, Arabs, Phoenicians, Berbers, Celt-Iberians, Byzantines and more. So even the concept of a "Spanish culture" is too broad. Yet it is this very variety of ways of life within the Spanish borders that I find most appealing.

One event that is shared throughout all the regions of Spain is Semana Santa (Holy Week): the six days that lead up to Easter. Whether or not you share their faith, or are among those there simply to share the experience, the dramatic reenactment of the last days of Jesus’ life on earth is woven into the fabric of Spain. Ruth and I personally feel renewed, even though, in our case, these traditions are very different from our own.

Central to the week-long observation are the processions with realistic life-size wooden images of the events of Christ’s Passion carried on pasos, mahogany platforms adorned with gold or silver leaf. Punctuated by the clack of staffs on the pavement, the progress of the pasos are labored as they wind through the main thoroughfares so that thousands of people may participate with joy, passion, fraternity and penitence; a mix of feelings that can be contagious.

Since the paso may weigh up to two tons, scores of strong young men are enlisted to carry each paso for many miles along an established route. In Córdoba, for example, the route of the processions is not too long, taking 6-8 hours. However, in Sevilla some of the processions last 10-12 hours, quite the penitential march!

Under the paso there may be thirty costaleros at any one time, with many more men awaiting the privilege to relieve their brothers, so that no one has to assume the burden for all the hours of the procession. The costaleros are only able to travel a few yards at a time before it is necessary to pause to renew their strength. Many costaleros roll heavy towels about their necks to lessen the pain.

Almost every family has at least one person who is a member of a hermandad, or brotherhood, often it may be father and son together. Normally someone who joins the hermandad is personally devoted to the image that is carried on the paso, or is part of the parish where the hermandad is located.

My dear friend Alejandro, a young man from Córdoba, explained how he counted the years until he was eighteen years old and could join the hermandad of his local parish. He told me, “There is a strong feeling that makes a man decide to belong to a brotherhood: not only devotion, but also family tradition or special faith.”

Another way to participate in the nightly processions is as a nazareno, one of the penitents who precede the paso. Typically they wear a full-length black or purple robe and cover their faces with a cubrerrostro, or hood, so as not to call attention to their personal piety. One of the most appealing things we saw were nazareno fathers with their little sons processing together in the same type of dress, the boy without a hood. Also in the procession are the ciriales, four people who carry high beeswax candles immediately preceding the paso.

Months before Semana Santa, all the hermandades, whatever their role in the procession, start preparing: they select the flowers they’re going to put on the paso, they look for a band of trumpets, bugles and drums to play their marchas; they lay out the route they’re following on the day of their procession. The costaleros start making “dry runs” carrying the paso in order to be ready.

The different areas of Spain differ in their expressions of Semana Santa. In the north, the observance appears to be more serious and solemn. On the other hand the influence of the Moors is very evident in Andalucía. They were initially a blend of Middle Eastern Arabs and fierce Berber tribesmen from North Africa who crossed from Morocco to the Spanish port of Tarífa. The invading force, of course, was made up of young men, so that within just one generation they had fully intermarried into the local population.

Historians say that the mixing was so thorough that it was hard to distinguish them from the local Christians except by their religion. This differentiation is probably one reason why Semana Santa and the week-long processions became so important to the identity of the Christian Spaniards. After all, the Muslims occupied parts of Spain for over 700 years! In sunny Andalucía, the processions are filled with raw emotion, such as men and women breaking out in soulful saeta songs whose origins are likely Middle Eastern.

My wife Ruth and I have experienced several Semana Santa celebrations in the past few years. This year we have decided to visit some rural villages in Castilla-León. In some ways the towns do not look much different than they did in medieval times. For hundreds of years this region in Northern Spain was the major battleground for the Christian Reconquista. The landscape is dotted with dramatic castles indicative of a culture of war and struggle. We look forward to seeing how the observance differs from the others we have enjoyed.

Observing Semana Santa among the people of Zamora, in western Spain, made an indelible impression on Ruth and me. It seemed as if everybody, from the smallest little boy or girl to the most elderly, were totally involved in the processions. It was serious business and a communal effort that radiated an air of solemnity among the cobblestone streets. I like to think of the scores of sublime Romanesque churches as having been silent witnesses of the events of this ancient city for over a thousand years.

Another Semana Santa that is high on our list is that of the city of Cuenca, perched high on a cliff in Castilla-La Mancha. We drove barely two hours from the Madrid airport, but when we got there we entered another world, of houses hanging over the cliff, of narrow winding stone streets that ascend to the Plaza Mayor and the Anglo-Norman Cathedral built in 1182.

What makes Cuenca’s Semana Santa unique is the rolling sound of snare drums reverberating down the narrow streets and stone buildings. The streets are barely wide enough for the pasos and marchas with their snare drums to navigate. We were able to see the hooded penitentes close at hand on narrow sidewalks, as we clung to sides of the buildings along the route. The pasos swayed from side to side due to the steps of the costaleros -- it almost gave a life-like dimension to the images. The punctuation of the men striking their staffs on the cobblestones added a further dimension of solemnity.

As a counterpoint, Cuenca offered a week-long international festival of religious music. The various performances occurred all day until early evening when the processions began. We heard the voices of fifty boys from El Monasterio del Escorial singing Gregorian chants; and the haunting songs of a handful of young women from the Beguinage in Bruges, Belgium, whose clear tones of XIIC polyphony enveloped us as we sat in the medieval church.

For us, perhaps the most dramatic of all the Semana Santa events occurred early on Good Friday morning. Through the misty dawn we saw the image of Jesus, on His way to Calvary. He entered the Cathedral Plaza on His paso, the weight of which was carried on the strong backs of twenty or thirty men.

The drumming reached a crescendo as the crowd started jeering at the stooped figure of Jesus weighed down by His cross -- just as did the crowd in Jerusalem two thousand years earlier. Adding to the chilling drama was when the snare drummers started clacking their drumsticks together; then they formed them into the shape of a cross and pushed them aggressively toward the image of Jesus.

This year we hope to experience something quite different. We will go to a very rural part of León, and stay in the tiny village of Maderuelo with a population of 156 souls. It is still encircled by walls built for protection from the Moors -- whom they vanquished centuries before. We anticipate the Semana Santa rituals of this tiny town will be pure and simple.

From Good Friday to Easter Sunday, we will stay in the neighboring town of Peñafiel where the ruins of a magnificent XIII C castle shelter a town of 5,000 people. On Easter morning the celebration of Christ’s resurrection begins in the Plaza de España, when bells and rockets announce the beginning of the procession of the image of the Virgin from the Church of Santa María.

When the procession gets to the Plaza del Coso (which also serves as a bull ring on other occasions), a crowd gathers to witness the moment an angel (a young boy) "flies" between two towers of the church to the image of the Virgin (with the help of pulleys).

As the “angel” descends from Heaven he releases two doves; and when he gets to the image of the Virgin, he removes her veil, symbolizing the end of her mourning. The procession then continues to the Parish Church of San Miguel de Reoyo, where the pasos of the Virgin Mother and the Resurrected Son are reunited and the Holy Sacrament awaits under a canopy. We hope to share photos on La Tienda’s Facebook page soon thereafter.

In Zamora we saw the same event: the joyful reunion of Mother and Son. On Easter Sunday the Virgin, dressed in white, enters the Plaza Mayor where her Son, the Risen Christ, meets her. It is a joyful occasion, with flower-adorned pasos laden with carnations and roses and those in the processions carrying florally decorated staffs, no longer hidden beneath robes and hoods.

As you can see, it is not a time for Easter eggs or even a Sunrise Service in which we might participate in America; instead we see the distinct Spanish emphasis on the family, Mother and Son, which is the bedrock of the culture of Spain. Springtime with all its flowers and ferias is a perfect season to engage the Spanish people in a meaningful way. I cannot think of a better way to leave the frantic pace of modern life and get lost in another time.

¡Feliz Pascua!
Don

There is nothing quite as appealing as the aroma of fresh bread right out of the oven. I remember years ago, when we were living in Andalucía, I would get up first thing in the morning on Saturdays and go to the panadería by the market. The bakery was named Buen Pastora, The Good Shepherd. I would pick up a loaf or two of warm bread to bring home to my young family. The only time I would be distracted from my mission was if I passed by the “churro lady” as she was extruding ribbons of churro dough into her cauldron of hot oil.

Next to jamón and olive oil, bread must be close to the top of the list for the best of Spain, and on our bread quest, we have made many interesting discoveries. For example, in the ancient city of Antequera, bakers have been making molletes for over a thousand years, stretching back to the time of the Moors. These unique rolls are moderately crusty, with a soft interior.

During a recent trip, we were greeted very graciously by the city leaders of Antequera, one of the shimmering white cities of Andalucía. They presented us with a plaque for La Tienda to mark the occasion of our visit. They were pleased to see that their classic mollete was going to America. Ruth and I visited Horno El Antequerano, the family bakery on the outskirts of town. There we personally met the small group of bakers who were readying molletes for the oven by carefully forming each mollete by hand.

Since I love breakfast, molletes are an unexpected treat. At home, I slit my mollete, and put it in the toaster oven for about 10 minutes. Then I open its steaming interior and spread it with melting butter. Another option is to pour on a little fruity olive oil, crushed tomatoes and garlic – pan con tomate style. If I am in a hurry, I just slice a frozen mollete, pop it into the toaster for an “Iberian style English muffin” and then garnish it with butter and Seville orange marmalade.

Near Córdoba, we found a gifted baker who makes especially delicious Magdalenas, sweet breakfast muffins. His secret is just a touch of orange, which he adds to the dough. In Sevilla, we found a good source for small loaves that are perfect for bocadillos de jamón, the classic Spanish ham sandwich. They are so good that I also enjoy them stuffed with tuna salad, or even a hot dog!

The breads of Spain vary widely across the many autonomous regions. Typically the baked goods of Andalucía have a fine texture, or crumb, whereas bold and crusty loaves are baked in Galicia – the Celtic homeland in far northwest Spain, north of Portugal. I think most would agree that Pan Gallego, Galician bread, is the ultimate Spanish bread.

We accidentally discovered an amazing example of this bread many years ago. We were wending our way down the highway from Santiago de Compostela to Madrid with a van full of our three young sons and three of their friends. Soon we young parents heard the inevitable rumblings in the back seat: our children told us they were hungry and thirsty.

So we turned into a random village in the middle of nowhere, and stopped at the bakery. There, purely by chance, we bought the most magnificent (and huge) round super crusty loaf of Galician bread. It was an amazing creation, which, because of its thick crust tided us over for the rest of our long trip.

The memory lingers vividly, even though the event occurred more than 25 years ago and the children are grown men and women – some with families of their own! But wouldn’t you know I neglected to note on the map the name of the village where we stopped so many years ago. As we continue to travel the byways of Galicia, I still retain the hope that we will rediscover that village with the mythical bread. I suspect that this search for a specific loaf of bread baked in a tiny town may be a bit Quixotic.

In the real world, we have found a wonderful source for Galician bread you can serve at your table in America. It comes from the ancient city of Lugo, which is just an hour east of Santiago de Compostela. It is the only city in the world that is surrounded by completely intact Roman walls. It is ringed with 71 towers and 10 gates.

We enjoy strolling through the municipal market, which is loaded with fresh greens and stalls laden with sea creatures, some of which are still moving about on their bed of crushed ice. Once I enjoyed greeting the cheerful local women who sell mellow Tetilla and San Simon cheeses, made from the milk of cows that graze in the lush meadows of Galicia.

Over 50 years ago, a young man named Manuel Chousa opened the doors of his bakery in the city of Lugo. He was an industrious man, beginning work well before dawn while most people were still sleeping. When he finished baking for the day, he would push his cart around Lugo filled with the legendary crusty loves and rolls. It was not long before Manuel gained a reputation for producing the best bread around, and that tradition is carried on through his sons, José Manuel and Rubén Chousa.

They joined with a friend Roberto López to form an expanded modern bakery called Ingapan. They preserved the artistry of the bread developed in the original Chousa bakery, preserving the tradition of starting each new batch of bread with a bit of the previous batch. This way the vibrant yeast, or madre, is preserved, not substituted by industrial yeast. To deliver the experience of fresh baked Galician bread to us across the ocean, they applied the most advanced technology to flash freeze each loaf.

The flash freezing process is something to see: tempting hot bread is quickly frozen to capture all the aromas. As miraculous as this process was, being the traditionalist that I am, it was reassuring later to visit the original Chousa bakery and see a young man placing the hand formed loaves on a wooden paddle in order to introduce them into the original wood fired oven – a direct tie to the days of Manuel.

Even more reassuring was that the family has not forgotten their roots. They are generously giving back to the community. At Christmastime, employees delivered complete dinners to needy families in their homes in the nearby community. The owners explained to me that a family gathering in their own homes is the only proper place to celebrate Christmas, not in some mess hall.

In the last year they reallocated their marketing budget intended for corporate gifts in order to provide a local soup kitchen the necessary resources “to care, to feed, and to protect people who lack their own resources to live.” As you are reading this, we are on our way to visit the San Froilán soup kitchen located in an ancient barrio of Lugo. In addition, the bakery has raised more than 10,000 Euros to promote the cultivation of land and the education of women in rural Africa.

Ingapan is one example of the kind of artisanal family company which mirrors the values that we hold dear in La Tienda: respect for the family, making quality artisan products and having concern for those in need.

December can be a fragile month. The fruits of summer have disappeared from the local farmers market, replaced by gourds and holly. Wind and rain have hastened the departure of the colorful leaves, which used to drop lazily to the ground. Squirrels are putting the finishing touches on their winter store of acorns, preparing for the leaner months ahead.

As a boy in New England, I loved gathering spiny horse chestnuts from a neighbor’s tree or scuffing noisily through the fallen leaves. A couple of weeks ago, I was delighted to see my two grandsons burying themselves in a pile of brown oak leaves. It brought back many happy childhood memories.

Of course, each year I share the excitement of people preparing for Christmas. Nevertheless, I always have a feeling of sadness when Daylight Savings Time ends. I always anticipate the time when we can ‘spring forward.’

One of the many little things I like about Spain is her adjusted time zone. Because Spaniards are commercially linked to the many countries north of the Pyrenees, they key their time zone to Western Europe, rather than to Britain’s GMT, their longitudinally proper zone. As a result, in the winter, Spain enjoys perpetual Daylight Savings Time! In the summer, they bask in ‘Double Daylight Time,’ which explains the sun setting after 10 PM – just in time for youths to finish dinner and head to the plaza mayor.

However, here we are in North America in December and with a chill in the air, darker day are upon us. In northern climes, it is time to retreat inside and enjoy each other's company, perhaps with a piping hot bowl of soup or a chocolate a la taza in front of the fire. It is also a time when we think of others who may find winter a time of trial and darkness in many different ways.

This is why Christmas is celebrated in the depth of winter when darkness prevails, not in the spring, "when lambs are born and shepherds watch their sheep by night." The symbolism is that Light came into the world, dispelling darkness and bringing new hope for believers, that Light came in the most humble of circumstance, in the form of an infant nestled in a stall surrounded by domestic animals. Beyond this specific event, the Light that we celebrate is that of Love.

The holidays are a time when we make a special effort to extend our love and friendship to our associates, and reaffirm our bonds with our friends and loved ones. I hope that we go out of our way to acknowledge the value of all whom we meet – even the toll taker on the highway or the salesclerk who is helping us with our shopping.

I sense that Spaniards have a natural bent for hospitality. Even to the stranger they extend a kind of warmth and intimacy that we reserve for our closest friends and family. Although most Spaniards would not put it in so many words, when they encounter any person he is accepted as a fellow pilgrim sharing life’s journey. Hospitality, especially while dining together, is in their words and in the marrow of their bones. Theirs is a gift to all of us, and is a large reason why millions of tourists love the Spain they flock to each year.

This warmth and affection is the bedrock of the traditional Spanish family. Children feel cherished from birth, and are celebrated within their extended family all their lives. There is no fear of giving too much love - or of spoiling them. There is never a time when they are unwelcome. Eighteen years old is not the time to leave.

Alejandro, a young student from Córdoba who is attending university here in the United States, just spent Thanksgiving with our family. He showed me a picture on his iPhone of his proud brother surrounded by the 40 members of his family who gathered to celebrate his Confirmation. Alejandro observed wistfully that he was the only one missing from his younger brother’s side.

The hospitality of the family enables them to pull together in times of crisis. A family member is always welcome at the table, and has a place to lay his head, no matter how trying the circumstances. However, of course, there are limits, and this is why the situation today is so dire for some families in Spain. Over half the young people are unemployed; and the elderly are especially vulnerable even though abuela is always welcome, without a second thought.

Ruth and I, and our sons and daughters-in-law, know many families in Spain. Over a hundred of them provide La Tienda with the food that might grace your holiday table - and we are very concerned with the crisis they and their neighbors are facing. These are rough times, and if we can find any way to lessen the burden on the families, we will. If you would like to join with us in extending a helping hand during this holiday season of love and caring, give to our Campaign for Spain, that will help stock some of the food banks all over Spain. We will match every dollar you give with one of our own.

May your holiday gatherings be filled with love and the laughter of children. Ruth and I join with many others who find our children (and grandchildren) to be a source of great affirmation and love. Please do not forget those who may be alone.

Feliz Navidad. Felices fiestas.

Last month I received one of the most meaningful recognitions of my life. My family and I were at the Spanish Embassy in Washington, DC where the Ambassador presented me with the Cross of Civil Merit, awarded by the King of Spain for "extraordinary services promoting the people, culture and foods of Spain here in the United States."

What made it especially satisfying was that it confirms and recognizes the special love I have long held for the Spanish people and their way of life. Because my life has been made so much richer by doing so, I have encouraged my friends in America to get to meet the people of Spain, if not in person, then at least through the foods they enjoy.

My October reflection, Letters from Valencia, explained how, as a child, I began to perceive something of the Spanish culture through the emotional and mystical paintings of El Greco, and the many faces of Spaniards he portrayed. Fifteen years later, in Toledo, when I mingled with the people of El Greco’s “hometown,” my perception was confirmed. For me, to experience the warmth and acceptance of another person is what trumps all other factors, and this I found among the Spanish people.

It all started back in March 1965 when my ship, the USS Damato (DD871) was tied up along the pier so that the ship’s company might enjoy the festivities surrounding Las Fallas – an amazing extravaganza of food, bonfires and firecrackers.

I was a new young chaplain on board my first Navy ship, and at the end of the day’s work, I would walk the streets along the waterfront of Valencia, hoping to meet some of the local people. I recently retrieved some old letters written to my wife Ruth 45 years ago which described my first encounters with young Spaniards. I would like to share parts of them with you. I wrote to Ruth:

I met some really great teenage kids at the game room/jukebox-type place. We got to be really good friends in the few days we were together, and I got to learn a lot about the people. Juan is 19; he works in construction during the day, goes to art school at night. He took me to his school and introduced me to his teachers. The subjects included sculpture, woodcarving, charcoal, oil painting, stained-glass window making, commercial art and metalwork.

A little 12-year-old took me to a store that concentrates on handmade religious art and I got a really swinging {sic} abstract crucifix made by a Catalan. The other boy is 18, works as a chauffeur during the day, and studies mechanical drawing and architecture at night. He also is a fine kid...

These encounters made a lasting impression on me. First, I felt so hopeful seeing the resilience of the Spanish youth. 1965 was still hard times for many people in Spain, both emotionally and economically, as their families were trying to put their lives back together after a hateful civil war. There were many older women dressed in black, mourning losses in their families. Yet these young people were industrious and optimistic. An 18-year-old boy working as a chauffeur found time to study architecture at night; the 19-year-old followed up a hard day’s work in the construction industry by enrolling in art school to do what he loved.

More than that, the Spanish young people were genuinely warm and welcoming toward me, a perfect stranger. I especially liked the little boy who took me to a beautiful store full of handmade sculptures, undoubtedly made locally. I still display a cross from that store on my wall at home. (I do not know in my more dignified years that I would call it "a swinging cross," but it is dramatic in its simple line.) I truly enjoyed my interactions with this group of young people.

Later in the evening, each night I moved on to a fine little hideaway called Casa Angel, which is a small place like Giovanni’s by the North Gate in Berkeley. There were a lot of young people from their early to late 20s there: an engineer who had lived in New York for a year, a French girl who was sort of tired of France who came down to learn the language, another French girl with about the same motivation, many Spanish girls who work in the various shops around town, a couple of art students.

(There were) many Spanish men from various schools and jobs including a man named Francisco who was an artisan during the day and loved to play the guitar all night long – he played Spanish, Mexican, flamenco, Andalucían, American and French songs with equal facility. {They} sat around singing songs and clapping strangely complicated Spanish rhythms. I understand that they are so complicated because they are Moorish rather than African-based rhythms.

After meeting these young Valencians, I returned to my ship and spread the word that there were young Spaniards (including señoritas) about the same age as the crew whom they would enjoy meeting at the tapas bar. It was a much better alternative than hanging out in some sailor bar. Members of the crew came with me – a few more each night – and got a true and lasting flavor of Valencia and her people. It was the first step in a lifetime of, as the award says, "Promoting the people, culture and foods of Spain."

Each evening in Valencia, I would take a half a dozen sailors with me down to this rock and roll place where they would end up meeting the Spanish teenagers and playing games with them. It was a lot of fun and educated both the groups. I then would take the sailors over to Casa Angel, where they certainly enjoyed the good music and conversation.

As the evening wore on, sometimes there would be gypsies stopping by, inevitably breaking into mournful song. Casa Angel was a friendly neighborhood bar. You might be amused by my first description of tapas:

During the evening before dinner they munch on hors d’ oeuvres or antipasto. The dishes are shrimp (small), snails, lobster, a dry salt fish, olives stuffed with anchovies, pimentos, almonds etc., squid cooked in their own ink, sausages, potato salad, oysters, tiny clams, American peanuts which we call in America Spanish peanuts, toasted almonds, etc.

By the way, an interesting tasty dish I ate as a hors d'oeuvres is called an angelito (gambas al ajillo). Maybe we can try it in Norfolk with variation.

They bake it in a small cast-iron dish about the size of the exterior measurements of the wooden ashtray at home; a mixture of small shrimp garnished with a piece of onion (sliver) a couple of pieces of sausage (pepperoni type), ample garlic and olive oil (could use butter, but they do not because it costs so much).

It is served sizzling hot with a hard roll. One tears off pieces of hard roll and sops up the liquid. By the time the juices are absorbed the bread has run out and the shrimp is cool enough to eat. I forgot a most important ingredient: cayenne pepper – this is one of their few peppery dishes.

So there you have it - an art book, an awesome city and introducing American sailors to Spanish youth at a tapas bar. From those experiences my appreciation of Spain was born. As the years passed, I have met many fine people throughout Spain. I have concluded that the treasure of Spain is the family and the way they cherish their children, surrounding them with love. Nearly as important is the way family members and friends meet around the table to enjoy good food and their relationships with one another.

I am grateful that my family and I are able to work with these good people, to honor their artisan traditions through La Tienda, and to spread the word far and wide about the beauty of Spain and her culture. ¡Que viva la familia Española!

My best wishes to your family and those whom you love.
Don

P.S. Some of you may enjoy reading my book The Heart of Spain: Families and Food. It is filled with pictures of people and places I have met and seen through the years.

Recently I was looking though some old letters and unexpectedly found a note to my wife that I sent from Spain in 1965! It was exciting to relive my first experiences in Spain and striking to see how my first impressions continue to be confirmed, even now, almost 50 years later!

Since the 1960s, my family and I have enjoyed spending time with hundreds of Spanish families, and we even lived for two years in one of the sherry towns of Andalucía. But oddly enough my love for Spain had roots in my childhood – long before I had even met a Spaniard.

I was a "latchkey kid" who, for several years, was alone at home after my school day ended. I passed the time listening to jazz and browsing magazines and art books (there was no television). I was particularly drawn to a beautiful book devoted to the pictures of the mystical Spanish painter, El Greco. His depiction of the spiritual dimension of humanity and the emotional depth of his vision resonated deeply with me.

However, it was not until sixteen years later that I made a firsthand connection with the people and culture of Spain. In 1965, they were still recovering from an enormously bloody civil war, and years of hunger and deprivation. Yet despite this, I observed their strong family ties and their love of children. I found it a joy to be among them.

I was a newly commissioned Navy chaplain and Ruth and I were newlyweds planning to settle in Washington, DC for a two or three year Navy tour. However, at the last minute I was ordered to a destroyer squadron in Virginia to replace an ailing chaplain. It was quite a shock; Ruth staying alone in an unfamiliar city, and I joining the crew of my first Navy ship for a six-month cruise after only eight weeks of marriage.

While deployed, my communication with Ruth was the old-fashioned way – by U.S. Mail. This was long before the age of instant communication and virtually free telephone calls. The other day I came across the first letter of the cruise, in which I told Ruth of my enthusiasm for Spain and her people. It was an amazingly detailed letter (I loved writing even 50 years ago!) and provided a peek into the past. I will share some of it with you below.

That March, after a North Atlantic crossing, the four ships of the destroyer division nested along the pier in Valencia. Lucky for us it was during the week of Las Fallas – an annual extravaganza of food, drink, thundering fireworks and gigantic homemade satirical images that the creators would set ablaze on the final day, on the feast of San José. It is an astonishingly noisy event. The young sailors were delighted!

One day at a tapas bar in port, my thoughts went back to my childhood. I thought to myself, "Here I am in Spain; this is my chance to meet El Greco face to face, so to speak." So I left the Las Fallas festivities and caught the Talgo train to Madrid and the Prado Museum – it was only a two-hour train ride away. I was not at all prepared for what happened next, it was a life changing experience. I wrote to Ruth back home:

When I entered the Prado Museum and encountered room after room filled with El Greco’s work, I was overwhelmed with emotion and I could not tear myself away from his paintings. They were truly a religious experience.

I was so entranced or enmeshed in this experience that the only possible thing to do was to drive out to Toledo to see more of his work, the town he lived in, the cathedral he worshiped in and the whole milieu, which produced such a profound man.

So my shipmate and I caught a taxi to Toledo. It was an amazing sight. I wrote to Ruth:

It was just as {El Greco} had painted it and was easily 400 years behind times. Virtually no cars could be seen, little electricity, no heating, no English spoken, a big central plaza stocked with appropriate Castilian peasant-types, narrow winding dirt roads pounded down by centuries of use weaving between the very close brick houses and gates.

For centuries, Toledo was the political and intellectual heart of Spain. It is located on a series of hills and encircled by an immense wall. The Romans occupied it until 190 AD when it became the seat of the Visigoth kingdoms. About two centuries later, the Moors captured Toledo and ruled it for 370 years until the Christians of the Reconquest gained sovereignty in 1082. Toledo is the soul of Spain, and I wrote to my wife with great enthusiasm:

The whole city is a huge chalky hill with buildings a uniform ochre color. The Cathedral is the most moving in all Europe as far as I am concerned. It is full of treasures donated by most of the top figures in history. The woodwork is exquisite in its carving and design, as well as its embodiment of Spanish mysticism. The reredos behind the altar soars 50 feet or more and is an intricate woodcarving portraying the life of Christ in florid Spanish Gothic style. It was so overwhelming that I literally was brought to my knees.

I still see this Spain today, even as we move farther into the 21st century. The mystical spirit of El Greco, whom I met as a child, is what makes Toledo holy for me. The locus of Spain’s soul lies among the churches, synagogues and mosques built by her inhabitants over hundreds of years. Most of all, I sense this core value among my Spanish friends today. It is a spirituality, which greets all people as sacred, of equal value.

This April, Ruth and I returned to Toledo. This time, amidst the hustle and bustle of hundreds of tourists and locals, we encountered a group of 80 choirboys who had come from Japan to give a sacred concert in the cathedral. We joined them and hundreds of other faithful the next morning as we processed with palm fronds along the cobble-stoned streets that surround the cathedral. We were among people who had gathered from all over Spain to celebrate El Dia de Ramos, Palm Sunday. Toledo was no longer a place of winding dirt roads, but rather a quietly splendid city with the Zocodovar plaza packed with young people on Easter vacation.

Not in Toledo alone, but in so many cities in Spain, it is not the buildings, but the children, the parents, the grandparents, the people of all generations who continue to maintain the traditions, unaffected by cycles of prosperity and hardship. I have great faith in the Spanish people – their foundation is strong. Their loving families, cherished children and spiritual roots remain their anchor. From the first day I stepped ashore so many years ago, I felt at home. I am truly grateful to the culture and people who have had such a profound influence on my life, and for the opportunity to reciprocate through La Tienda.

Atentamente,
Don