We have a young houseguest, Ibon, who is a 16 year old student from the Basque Country. So this year the Fourth of July was an extra special day for us because of his visit. During his brief stay with us, he hopes to brush up on his English (he already speaks Basque, Spanish and French!) and get the flavor of American life. His parents, Sebastian and Mila are friends of ours who provide La Tienda with some of our finest Bonito del Norte tuna.

Ibon arrived in the last days of June, so Independence Day was his first exposure to true Americana. The Fourth of July is the most American celebration of them all – complete with parades, speeches, fireworks and hamburgers and hot dogs on the patio grill. It also marks the midway point of the Major League Baseball season, ‘America’s pastime.’

As you can imagine, our hometown Williamsburg, the historic city of the American Revolution, made every effort to celebrate its heritage. The Capitol and the Governor's Palace were the center of the political and social life of Virginia for most of the 18th century. George Washington and Thomas Jefferson were students at the College of William & Mary. Patrick Henry, while serving in the legislature, launched impassioned patriotic speeches from this city.

Like most of the towns in the United States on the Fourth of July, Williamsburg was dressed up in red, white and blue: buntings, t-shirts, bands, balloons and of course the ‘Stars and Stripes.’ The American flag, affectionately called ‘Old Glory,’ was everywhere, lining the streets and buildings of Williamsburg.

The Fifes and Drums Corps proudly marched down Duke of Gloucester Street in their 18th century apparel. It is composed of boys and girls who begin their education in military music at age 10 and practice weekly for the next eight years, until after they have graduated from high school. Alongside them was the Color Guard from the local naval base. Local leaders made patriotic speeches and the celebration was crowned by a fireworks display of epic proportions, which drew thousands of people from hundreds of miles away.

Because Ibon was with us, my wife and I had a chance to experience the celebration through the eyes of a person from quite a different culture. Of course, Ibon has enjoyed fireworks and parades before, since they are a part of ferias at Ibon’s home in the Basque Country. What he saw as unique to our celebration was the presence of so many American flags. They were everywhere.

I think he is right. I do not remember the national Spanish flag as the centerpiece of a national event in Spain, much less displayed in front of private homes as it is in the United States. When the national ensign appears at a public celebration, it is paired with the flag of the autonomous region. The flag of Castilla-León with its checkerboard of rampant lions and solid castles; the deep red flag of Pais Vasco with its intersecting green and white crosses, or the proud flag of Asturias with the fabled cross of Covadonga emblazoned on a sky blue field are of equal or primary importance to the local people.

There are two national observances in Spain which I think might be roughly equivalent to the American Fourth of July. One is the Feast of Santiago, the patron saint of Spain, celebrated on July 25th; the other is El Dia de Hispanidad with the primary site of celebration at the Basilica of Nuestra Señora del Pilar in Zaragoza. Both celebrations are anchored on the sites of saints who, in effect, become the national heroes.

Many years ago, my wife and I were in Santiago de Compostela for the Patronal Feast of Santiago (Saint James). Because July 25th fell on a Sunday, the year was the culmination of a Holy Year. We traveled to this hallowed Galician city to meet our son Jonathan, who was just arriving from a two-month walk from France across Spain along the Camino de Santiago – a route along which hundreds of thousands of pilgrims have traveled over the ages. All the pilgrims have a cockle shell on their walking staff, hat or shirt as a symbol of St. James. It is the same shell that we chose for the logo of LaTienda.com.

The three of us were standing shoulder to shoulder with thousands of other people in the Plaza de Obradoiro in front of the Cathedral. King Juan Carlos and Queen Sofía were there along with dozens of cardinals and noted dignitaries. Our attention was focused on a remarkable ‘light show’ which depicted the sacking of the city by the marauding Moorish warriors of Al-Mansur: bigger than life figures on horseback flashed across the facade of the cathedral. Clearly the common denominator on that national holiday was the pilgrimage tradition of the Camino, and the commemoration of the 700 century struggle of the Christians to rid the peninsula of foreign forces from Africa and as far away as Damascus. The national flag was almost an afterthought.

On another occasion, Ruth and I witnessed the celebration of Dia de la Hispanidad in Zaragoza. Although it was a national holiday and all government buildings were closed, the focus was on the Virgin of Nuestra Señora del Pilar. All week long there was a stream of villagers from Aragón and beyond headed to the basilica. Along the way, some were dancing the jota and other local dances. Their destination was the Basilica of Our Lady of Pilar where they contributed armfuls of fresh flowers to the mounting pyramid of bouquets lain at the feet of the Virgin. The King of Spain attended, as in Santiago, but again, the focus was not on the national identity represented by the monarch or the flag, it was rather on the age-old religious tradition passed on over a millennium.

This is quite a different setting than our national day in America. Other than among indigenous people, we cannot draw upon thousands of years of tradition as the Spanish can. We have nothing like a friend of mine in Spain whose family first settled in his hometown more than 800 years ago! What we Americans hold in common is that we are all from somewhere else. Within my conservative little city live neighbors of many traditions: Chinese, English, Spanish, Greek, Vietnamese, Korean, Romanian, Indian and more. Our forbearers came here because they wanted to make a better life, seeking the freedom to shed the past and start anew.

Essentially, on the Fourth of July we Americans celebrate an ideal expressed on our national seal: ‘E Pluribus Unum’ – out of many, one. Our experiment in democracy has been lived out over just a relatively few centuries – and for some of us it is just a few years since we came to these shores. This is why our ‘Star Spangled Banner’ is of singular importance to us – with fifty stars on a field of blue and the thirteen stripes of the founding states.

The people of Spain and the United States have been molded by radically different experiences, and these are reflected in the form of our national celebrations. Nevertheless, we are no different when we marvel at the fireworks with our grandchildren. We are all one in our desire to love and be loved, to build solid families and prepare a good future for our children. Ruth and I are enriched every time we return to Spain and enjoy the hospitality of the many traditional families who provide to La Tienda the work of their hands. Moreover, we hope our young house guest from Spain will gain from his experience of living among Americans for a few weeks, sharing our daily life.

Su amigo,
Don

The roll of more than a hundred drummers disturbed the calm of the misty early hours of Good Friday. Ruth and I were standing in the Plaza Mayor of the hilltop city of Cuenca looking through the Roman arch and straining to see the heavy mahogany platform that inched its way up the narrow cobblestoned street. Mounted on it was a meticulously carved likeness of Jesus carrying his cross to Calvary.

The celebration of Semana Santa, Holy Week, is a signature event throughout Spain. The emotional observance in Sevilla, with bystanders spontaneously bursting into mournful song, is world famous. In the north, Zamora is a favorite of the devout for the solemnity of its observances. Neighboring Valladolid has perhaps the finest examples of exquisitely carved life-size figures, many dating from the seventeenth century.

I don't think you need to be a believer, or even personally religious at all, to experience the amazing amount of devotion and community involvement which occurs in many cities and towns in Spain each Easter season. Ruth and I have made it a point to be a part of Semana Santa in various parts of Spain, both in the north and the south. We have even visited a tiny village where they reenact Jesus’ descent from the cross and burial.

Yet, whenever Spaniards get together there is always a human element that trumps any possibility of precision. In the hamlet, people stopped to enjoy some sizzling churros as they observed the procession to the burial place of Jesus. In Zamora, the brotherhoods paused half-way through their five hour processing for a bocadillo sandwich break with family before assuming the penitential burden once more.

Even though Ruth and I have spent over forty-five years exploring just about every nook and cranny of Spain, there are always some experiences we cannot fully anticipate. Semana Santa in Cuenca was just that sort of circumstance. The setting is an ancient hilltop village city dramatically perched above a gorge at an altitude of 3,200 feet. The goal of the men bearing the paso was to pass through the ancient Roman gate into the broad Plaza Mayor which stretches out in front of the 12th century cathedral named Our Lady of Grace. Even under normal circumstances, the carrying of the paso is no mean feat. The men can only go a few yards before they have to stop and gather their strength. This particular street is on a steep incline, and the cobblestone plaza itself is at a slant.

Beneath the platform, or paso, were 30 or 40 men, shouldering the several tons of weight of the life-size image of Jesus and his cross, mounted on the heavy timbers. The men are members of a Hermandad, who consider it an honor each year to bear this heavy burden with their brothers as the procession winds its way through the city for several hours during the pre-dawn hours.

This particular procession making its way with arduous effort was one of nine that the townspeople launched throughout the week. On previous nights and days, the events contributing to Christ's passion were graphically presented on the pasos borne by other brotherhoods: the temptation in the garden, the traitorous kiss of Judas, the denial of Peter, the sorrowful mother, the scourging and many other events that resemble what some of you may know as the ‘stations of the cross.’ The pasos were accompanied by long files of penitentes dressed identically in robes and peaked hoods, and were preceded by musicians playing band instruments.

As the paso approached the gate, the sound of hundreds of drums reverberated, with one group of youths playing one pattern and another responding. The young drummers and their friends had stayed up all night awaiting this moment. As the paso entered the plaza the crowd started shouting at the figure of Jesus carrying his cross. In a stylized way they were imitating the mocking which Jesus must have felt. After rolls of their drums, the drummers would raise their wooden drumsticks in the air, clacking them together and then forming a cross as they raised them over their heads.

I wove myself into the crowd of young people who were interspersed among families and their umbrellas. It was almost surreal to see the little children amusing themselves in the gathering while others were part of this profound drama. This was not a carefully orchestrated tourist event that was unfolding; it was the expression of people who have replicated this experience every year of their lives. Ruth and I have been to many Semana Santa celebrations, but the memory of Holy Week in Cuenca is one we will keep for a long time.

Another of the surprises, which we had not anticipated, when making plans for Cuenca, is that concurrent with Semana Santa is the Semana de Musica Religiosa, a week of religious music. It is a gathering of musicians in Cuenca, which has been going on for fifty years. Each afternoon or early evening during the week, we had the option of experiencing sublime music in a perfect preparation for the processions.

Tuesday evening we were treated to Benedictine chants performed by choirboys from the Benedictine Abbey of Santa Cruz del Valle de los Caidos. Their director was a monk who had trained at the Abbey of Santo Domingo de Silos, 50 years ago. (Some of you may remember the popular CD called Chant, issued in 1994, which came from that monastery.) Some of the boys, after they matured into young men, continued their devotion to church music by forming a group called Schola Antiqua. On Thursday, they sang the service of Tenebrae in the 13th Century Iglesia de San Miguel.

But for me, one of the best musical experiences I have ever had, occurred in another church, San Felipe Neri. Ruth and I and our friends just happened to stumble upon it during our noonday walk. There seven young women from the Netherlands sang medieval chants and hymns from the sisterhood of the Beguines in Bruges. The acoustics in the church of San Felipe Neri were bright and alive. As I sat at the end of a row of pews, I was enveloped by the pure clarity and beauty of the voices of these lovely women as they processed by.

Someone pointed out to me, that when things seem to be declining, to be behind is to be ahead! That is how I felt during our week in Cuenca. I did not know or care what kind of turmoil that city had experienced through the centuries. At this isolated moment, I was apart from all the rough and tumble of our emerging age. I experienced the essential harmony of sublime voices, and that of a community of Spaniards who face an uncertain future, but who nonetheless maintain a tradition of timeless devotion.

For those of you who might think about visiting Cuenca during Semana Santa, it is a low season airfare and just a short drive from the Barajas Madrid airport. I will post our itinerary from this year, 2011.

Tu amigo,
Don

A few weeks ago I sat down at a restaurant in El Puerto de Santa Maria that serves delicious fresh seafood. I ordered one of my favorites, acedias fritas, delicious tiny flounder fried to perfection. The waiter told me that it was unavailable – it was Monday after all! The fishing boats don’t head out on Sunday, and he wasn’t about to serve me two-day-old fish.

Earlier I marveled at the freshness of the fish, meats and vegetables at the local open air mercado at the center of Cadíz. Along with scores of stalls with the freshest of fruits and vegetables painstakingly displayed by the proud vendors, there must have been sixty vendors of fresh seafood. While each offered seemingly identical piles of freshly harvested merluza, chipirones and langostinos, each obviously had their own group of loyal and discerning customers. I have never seen anything fresher, even at small local seafood stores in coastal Virginia.

Why is everything so fresh in Spain? I think one reason has to do with the special regional culture of Spain. The people have a fundamental pride in the region of their birth, and it expresses itself most profoundly in how they eat. Often times we have been told that the beans, shellfish, wine, sausages, etc. of a certain location are vastly superior to those in a town that is only a few kilometers away. Sometimes it is true that there is a noticeable difference, but overall, it is an expression of pride in the local culture and traditions that span centuries.

Spaniards throughout the country are serious about what they eat. In Spain, should you choose to stop at what we would term a 'truck stop' you will find that the truck drivers are not drinking warmed-over coffee and some microwave concoction from the world of the fast and convenient. Instead of a machine of perpetually revolving hot dogs by the cash register, there will be a full menu of local cuisine. The truck drivers settle into a three-course meal with their buddies - perhaps some fresh fish or a thin solomillo steak, and ensalada mixta con atún - a hearty mixed green salad with large chunks of tuna and boiled eggs.

With the ready availability of truly fresh ingredients from the local countryside, most of the good restaurants concentrate on the local cuisine. Outside of the big cities, Spain does not have the American obsession with new flavors. It is hard to find a restaurant featuring good French or Italian food, never mind Thai, Japanese or Indian. In fact, even enjoying food at a restaurant featuring dishes from another region of Spain can be seen as a bit adventurous. Because of this, the meat, fish and vegetables are mostly sourced locally from the surrounding countryside or nearby sea.

This attention to quality is shared by all Spaniards. Whether they be customers or cooks, they learned to appreciate quality at their mother’s knee! We see it every time my wife and I take our two young daughters to a favorite local restaurant on the weekend. As a matter of course we will be seated next to a large family who are gathered around a long table. Grandparents, parents, children, aunts, uncles and cousins all come together on the weekend, spending hours together over great food. The sheer volume of discussions between family members is astonishing to an outsider – it seems as if everyone is talking at once! And the children and babies are included from the start, so they grow up enjoying the local cuisine and learning to discern what quality food should taste like.

Families also gather at tapas bars during the week, where a child learns that coffee does not come served in a paper cup, but rather from ceramic espresso cups, often lined up on the bar counter with a sugar envelope tucked in each saucer. When their parents order their café con leche or café cortado, the bartender swings into action in front of his elaborate espresso coffee machine. Preparing a serious cup of coffee is quite a ritual and fun to watch.

First, to prepare one cup, there is the insistent tapping out of the old grinds by the bartender, to make room for his freshly ground beans. Then there is much steaming and bubbling as the coffee is completed and milk is foamed. The carefully prepared cup of freshly ground coffee is in another class than what we in America are used to – and often the blend of beans is tailored to match the taste of the local area where it is served. No corners are cut for a good fresh cup of coffee. As with the food, the coffee is plain and simple – unadorned with foreign flavors.

Repeated visits by extended families are the lifeblood of these restaurants, and since their customers keep returning for generations, they must deliver what their clients want: fresh, local, traditional meals. I think this is the key to the healthiness of the Mediterranean diet. The vegetables are fresh and minimally prepared. The meats and seafood are cooked simply, no creamy sauces to hide old or processed ingredients.

The movement to eat locally produced, wholesome food in America has been growing recently, and this is a good thing. It seems absurd to find California peaches in Georgia during peach season or frozen shrimp from Vietnam in coastal Carolina. We have a lot to learn from Spain, where the concept of fresh, local cuisine is not a cause to join, but a fact of every day life.

¡Buen provecho!
Jonathan Harris

This month's guest writer is Jonathan Harris, who is spending six months visiting vendors and exploring Spain. He is a co-owner and son of Don Harris.

My wife Ruth and I always have fun when we share a meal with Fermín and Aixa Rodríguez. Fermín is a master olive oil taster, who provides La Tienda with our favorite blended extra virgin olive oil. Along with their cute little daughter Sofía, they live in the hilltop city of Priego de Córdoba, high above the family owned olive groves. It is one of the dramatic White Towns of Andalucía -- just an hour away from another spectacular structure perched on a hill: the medieval castle of Alcalá la Real.

This spring we joined them for tapas in a café next to an old church, on the edge of what used to be the Moorish neighborhood many generations ago. As she has many times before, vivacious Aixa, laughingly described herself as a ‘Jewish Muslim Berber.’ She married her Christian husband in the same church where their baby was baptized! That afternoon the four of us adults watched their joyful four-year old Sofia darting around the fountain of tumbling water in the plaza. Worries about lineage did not cross our minds. We were friends.

Many of us find it interesting to trace back our roots, often getting engrossed in the study of our genealogy. Here in the United States it is of particular interest since, other than the indigenous people, all of us have come from somewhere else. We bound together as Americans, regardless of our ancestry.

But over in Europe, and especially Spain, with its complex history of competing cultures, the question of who is Spanish has always been a real one. When our son Christopher was born in Rota he received an elaborate birth certificate proclaiming him hijo de la raza -- son of the race -- which of course was absurd. Chris does not have a drop of Spanish blood, and some of his ancestors from Holland, Ulster and Yorkshire might have waged war against Charles V and his son Philip II.

However this kind of a birth certificate was issued by the local government to honor its historical past, because for hundreds and hundreds of years the Christian inhabitants of Spain coveted their identity as la raza, the pure race, which in reality boiled down to a distinction based on the enemy’s religion. From 711 AD, when the invading armies of Muslim Berbers crossed from Africa to the Iberian Peninsula, until the 16th century, there was always a tension between Moor and Christian. During the 700-year long war of religious struggle, the Reconquista, friend or foe was defined by his faith. Even then, it was not that clear cut. The hero El Cid fought for both Christian and Moor.

Always in the mix were the Sephardic – Spanish Jews, (Sephardic is the Hebrew word for ‘Spanish’) some of whose families had lived in the area since Roman times. They use a uniquely Sephardic style of liturgy and otherwise define themselves in terms of the Jewish customs and traditions which originated in the Iberian Peninsula. There was a large Sephardic presence in holy Toledo, which at various times was either the Arian Visigoth, Muslim or the Catholic capital. The families of two towering 15th century Spanish mystics, Santa Teresa of Avila and San Juan de la Cruz, are said to have some Sephardic roots.

Alfonso X el Sabio (1221-1284) was known as a learned man. When he was crowned King of Castilla y León in 1252, he became one of the most significant intellectual leaders in Spanish history as he fostered discourse among Christian, Jewish and Islamic intellectuals. He wanted the scientific writings and the works of Aristotle to be available to his court and when he learned that the wisdom of classical Greece was only available in Arabic translation, he commissioned the Jewish scholars of Toledo to translate the Arabic documents.

In an interesting twist, I read that Sephardic scholars chose to translate the Arabic into Castilian, the vernacular, rather than Latin, because they had no love for the Roman church! So in Spain, Greek knowledge was translated by Muslim scribes and in turn by Sephardic scholars so that it would be available to Christian Europe. The writings became the source of much of the early scientific knowledge, and through Aristotle became the basis of Catholic theology.

Alternatively, let us take a look at another confusing event in Spain. At one time Córdoba was the most advanced city in Europe, as well as one of the jewels of Islam. In 784 AD, the caliph began building a magnificent mosque, on the site of St. Vincent’s Visigoth Church (which in turn was built on a pagan temple, centuries before). The mosque was an architectural wonder modeled after the great mosque of Damascus, perhaps one of the two or three most famous buildings of Muslim worship.

More than four hundred years later, in 1236, Fernando III conquered the city, and was so impressed by the mosque that he had religious leaders ritually cleanse the area, and then declared it a cathedral. Since then, it has been the seat of hundreds of archbishops. The current archbishop insists that the structure be referred to as a cathedral, since the building has not been a mosque for almost 800 years. Nevertheless, if you approach it from the neighboring Jewish quarter, your eyes will see a mosque.

So which is it, mosque or church? In my eyes, it is a magnificent example of Islamic architecture, reflecting the richness of the Moorish faith at its zenith. At the same time, with the later addition of a Gothic church within, it is a monument to the Christian faith. Christian and Moorish, it is located adjacent to what was once a flourishing Sephardic community, where lived Maimonides, one of the greatest Torah scholars and physicians of the Middle Ages. Once again, we have an expression of the complex tapestry of Spain: in this case pagan, Visigothic, Islamic, Sephardic and Christian.

But a more poignant story is the one that was related to me by José Manuel, who is the tenth generation of a family that produces turrón, the essential Spanish Christmas confection made of almonds and honey, whose recipe was undoubtedly brought from the Middle East by the Moors. He wrote:

Dear Donald:

I have been gathering some information, about a side of my family background – the sephardies. My grandmother, on my father’s side, was from Toledo. Her name was Sagrario, named for Nuestra Señora de Sagrario, the patrona of Toledo. I spent some time with my grandparents, living in their house during my high school years. I learnt that her ancestors were Jews and that was known by neighbours and people around her hometown. But as with many others, she was raised as a Catholic and taught to behave like that. The family attended service at Santa María la Blanca, which I believe was an ancient Synagogue [whose architects were Mudéjar -- Muslims under Christian rule.]

My grandmother was the only one of her sisters and brother to marry, and the eldest. The family left Toledo, and her father became secretary of the judge in Madrid. During summers, she was sent to her relatives, and she told me that an aunt taught her to cook the plates the family cooked for special occasions.

Her aunt also taught her some of the family Sephardic background and traditions, but her father never wanted her to practice any of the traditions, especially when he was transferred to a new destination in Jijona. He wanted a ‘clean’ image as the new secretary of the judge in such a small town, adopting the role expected for the family.

Many years later when she was married to my grandfather, a turrón manufacturer, she started making old Sephardic pastries learned from her aunt and selling them in the store of the factory. She made:
1. Empanadillas of marzipan (She called them ‘half moon’) filled with sweet potato paste.
2. Empanadillas of marzipan filled with egg yolk paste.
3. Balls of marzipan with pine nuts.
4. Pastries with sweet potatoes and pumpkin paste.

My grandfather never said no to those new products, and they sold well. She was responsible for the women in the factory, and she told them how to make some of those products. She would make baked marzipan with the form of the Star of David, but never for the store, just she would take the paste from the factory and bake the figures at home.

Once when I was staying with my grandparents I saw her lighting a candle, it was Friday night, her husband was not at home and the windows curtains where shut down. I asked what she was doing and she said – "Nothing, just remembering." That is all I can tell you. Her youngest brother Luís is 94 years old, but when I ask him anything about Jews background, he says that "past is past" and that he is a good Catholic and does not want to say anything else. I do not know if any of this might be useful for you.

Un Abrazo, José Manuel

I find it sad that Jew, Christian and Muslim found it hard to live in harmony at one time or another (even as they do today). We humans seem to have to struggle to get along with one another. It is easy to focus on the dark side. However, is it not more constructive to highlight the good: the day-to-day life of humble people away from the headlines, who quietly learned to get along with one another and fashion a new culture? Speaking as a Christian, one of my favorite blessings is this one: "Life is short, and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of others, so be swift to love, and make haste to be kind. Go in peace."

Many years ago, I read a fascinating book by Americo Castro, The Spaniards: An Introduction to Their History. It was controversial at the time because the scholar maintained that the true Spaniard only came into being as an amalgam of three cultures. The people before them had no common identity.

The richness and depth of the Spanish history, the hundreds of years when competing cultures learned from one another, has produced a unique people whose culture draws from the strengths of Europe, the Middle East and Africa. The result of the peculiar Spanish experience is a fascinating fusion: one of warmth, hospitality and strong family ties.

¡Feliz Pascua! (The Spanish word for both Easter and Passover!)
Don

“Artisan” is a word that we often use to describe many of La Tienda’s products. By purchasing from families of Spanish artisans, we encourage them to continue their traditional ways of making products by hand. The fruit of their labor is the continuity that nourishes the soul of Spain. For us artisan is far more than a romantic marketing term designed to catch the eye -- it is the core of what we do as a family, and we take this concept very seriously.

We are in a world that is so media savvy that anything of perceived value is fodder for marketing. After a while, we learn to be skeptical of nuanced marketing words.

Currently every breakfast cereal from All-Bran to Count Chocula trumpets a whole grain label. So what does “whole grain” mean? Are Cocoa Puffs and Shredded Wheat equally noble breakfast cereals?

Moreover, when I look at the food facts listed on the carton of my favorite "all natural” ice cream I see many strange terms listed in addition to cream, eggs and fruit. Of course, I think the most amusing misuse of labeling is the one proclaiming fat free half & half! For each of us as consumers, it becomes an issue of credibility.

I was thinking about this credibility gap on my flight home from Spain. My wife Ruth and I had just spent a couple of weeks in Spain renewing friendships and visiting families who provide products to La Tienda. We visited true artisans in every sense of the word. I would like to tell you a little more about a couple of them, so that you will understand what my sons and I mean when we at La Tienda use the term artisan. These people are the salt of the earth.

It was late Friday afternoon when our plane landed in Palma de Mallorca. Our good friend Carmen met us at the airport. She was visiting with her father as she does with great frequency now that he is older, but took the time to be with us. As we drove through the streets of Palma, she pointed out various sites that reminded her of her happy childhood in Mallorca. Now she and her husband Juan Carlos own a boutique bodega in El Puerto de Santa María.

Armed with a Tom Tom GPS, we headed toward one of the small villages on the island where Bernat Fiol and his son fashion bowls and plates from olive wood in their workshop. Alas, our GPS Wizard Tom Tom disappointed us as he often does, and we found ourselves winding through nearly identical narrow streets that were randomly identified with street names painted on the walls. To make it more challenging we discovered that some of the streets have two different names!

At any rate, thanks to several of Carmen’s inquiries in the Mallorcan dialect, we found number 12 to the right of the doorway and rapped on the metal door. From inside Bernat’s son, a young man also named Bernat, opened the garage door and welcomed us into the family workshop. As you might imagine, the place was covered with sweet smelling sawdust generated by their labor each day. It was a crowded room, with a pile of discarded pieces of olive wood to the fore, shelves of drying olive wood products to the left, and a considerable amount of olive wood planks of various thicknesses to the right. He explained to us that these planks of olive wood had to be imported from the mainland by ship, since the endangered olive trees native to Mallorca are protected.

It did not make much sense to me that what is being chopped down in one place was protected in another, but Bernat explained that it was a matter of economics as well as ecology. At present, there is a glut of ordinary olive oil on the market bringing prices so low that it is hardly worth the labor required to produce it. In addition, as olive trees get older, they produce less fruit, making them less valuable for the production of oil. Their commercial value is in their smooth beautifully grained wood, formed through sometimes centuries of growth.

The thickest broad planks in the workshop are milled from trees that are hundreds of years old. Bernat and his son reserved these prized pieces of wood to make large items such as big salad serving bowls carved out of one piece of wood. Because of the scarcity of wood of this size, Bernat and his father may make only five or six a year. They could laminate various pieces of olive wood together to give the appearance of solidity, as many other producers do, but as artisans who take great pride in their work, they would not dream of cutting corners in this way.

About this time, Bernat's father appeared. He was a hearty, welcoming man -- I would guess about in his late fifties. It was he who chose the life of a wood carver, and his only son works with him every day to make these beautiful products. This tradition of father passing on his skills to his son stretches back to biblical times.

He took a piece of wood and asked us to follow the process from beginning to end. As he explained the process to me it became clear how labor-intensive it was, and why the end result is so costly. Bernat and his son always use green olive wood, because it is easier to work with and to shape.

First, he selected a piece of olive wood and imposed a template on it so he could rough out the size of the finished product. Next, after refining the exterior shape, he gouged out the interior with special tools, putting the personal touches on the piece by deftly chiseling its lip and the foot. Bernat explained that at this stage they immerse the piece in a special water bath for up to two days before placing it on the shelf by the door, a location that will assure slow drying. This assures that the pores of the wood are closed, and minimizes the possibility of the wood cracking.

About two months later, they soak the dry olive wood bowl in mineral oil for about a day to prepare it for the final artisan touches. Father and son polish each piece by hand, using steel wool and sand paper. More than two months have elapsed from start to finish even for the most humble spoon or the grandest bowl.

By then it was getting dark outside, but as we were preparing to leave the younger Bernat proudly confided that he and his wife were expecting their first child in the spring. Bernat and his son and daughter have lived in this town all of their lives – his wife comes from a neighboring village. The externals of life do not change too much for the Fiol family. Their focus is on what they have done for years as artisan wood carvers. Yes, they now use some electrically assisted tools and even a computer. Nevertheless, the essence of their lives remains intact. When we call their work artisan, you know it is the real thing.

A few days later in our journey, Ruth and I stopped by another kind of workshop, a rural one – a few miles from Córdoba (and not far from the town where the matador El Cordobés was born).

Lola and her friend Angela had emailed me about the new recipes they were excited about, and wanted us to drop by their kitchen to evaluate their new creations the next time we came to Spain. As they ushered us into the modest metal warehouse, I greeted Ana, a cheerful middle-aged woman who was squeezing plump lemons by hand, one by one. Not far from her was her neighbor, Amalia, who tended a machine that was chopping olives for a new tapenade. A few feet away Paqui was preparing the canning jars.

There are five women in all who make pure homemade soups and sauces, originally to help their working sisters in the neighborhood. They get up before daybreak so that they can complete their labor in time to pick up their children from school in the early afternoon.

Lola ushered us to a long table in the back of the structure where she and Angela had prepared a variety of new recipes for us to sample. Among the creations they presented us with was a series of cremas, traditional pureed soups, they were developing. I won’t go into detail until we are able to get them to your table. The flavors are exquisite, and I could visualize many applications for the creative chef.

As I hope you can see, for our family artisan is the real thing, not some nuanced marketing term. It is a source of pride for us; providing the best in Spain delivered from the hands of her people. You can meet more of our artisan friends in my newly published book, The Heart of Spain (a shameless plug!!), within whose pages you will meet other families and the food they share.

¡Buen provecho!
Don

I wish I had the genius to reintroduce sherry to the world, because most people have a poor idea of what sherry is, and as a result, an Andalucian way of life is under threat. Instead of picturing sherry as a crisp, dry white wine to serve on all occasions - from a refreshing wine with tapas to the perfect beginning of a great meal - many people only picture sherry as a sweet wine from yesteryear. But I have hope that the sherry culture will be rescued, if only we can convince the adventurous world of wine enthusiasts to simply take the first sip. I know that the vibrant taste of sherry itself will do the rest.

There is a good reason for sherry’s poor reputation. I remember my mother kept her cream sherry in a beautiful cut glass decanter, from which she discreetly served on Sunday afternoons, and other ceremonial occasions. Some churches I have attended used sherry as a Communion wine because it kept well and the taste was pleasant. This is hardly the modern reality of the two most popular sherries known as Fino and Manzanilla - bright dry white wines which thousands of Spaniards regularly enjoy, especially during the spring and summer ferias/fiestas.

Many years ago, I happened upon a local feria at the base of the cliff on which the town of Arcos de la Frontera is perched. There I saw handsomely dressed young men on horseback wearing their characteristic broad brimmed hats, with their girlfriends riding sidesaddle dressed in bright polka dotted flamenco dresses. The couples, and all of their friends, were pouring refreshing Fino sherry out of small bottles. What they knew is what I want to share with you – this clean, crisp wine is very special and will find its place among the world’s great wines again, and hopefully soon!

The more personal reason I want the world to rediscover sherry is this. Out of all the groups of Spaniards I have met through the years, I remember the sherry families as the most gracious. To befriend one of them opens the door to a fascinating, courtly world -- almost like the Old South families of Virginia, or South Carolina. What a shame it would be if their congenial culture of intertwined families and handsome bodegas would fade away purely because their uniquely refreshing wine was misunderstood by the new generation.

Vineyards and wine cellars blanket the sunny hills that surround the three sherry towns of El Puerto de Santa María, Jerez de la Frontera and Sanlúcar de Barrameda. They have been flourishing as a source of income from at least 1264 AD when the Christians reconquered the land. Two hundred fifty years later Columbus and Magellan brought aboard sherry from Sanlúcar on their historic voyages. Sir Francis Drake brought 29,000 barrels to London after his ships sacked Cádiz in 1614.

When Napoleon and Lord Nelson prepared for their epic naval battle of both sides requisitioned ample supplies of sherry for their officers and men. Each side received sherry from the same bodegas. The canny merchants affixed the appropriate labels on the casks so that each side was convinced it had received the best. To this day, Bodegas Hidalgo bottles the same sherry under the Napoleon label. I would venture to say that all the men on the English and Spanish galleons were not sipping sweet sherry from crystal carafes – nor was the crew of Columbus’s flagship, the Santa María. How in the world did we get to think of this refreshing wine as something only grannies savored?

For a while, our family lived in El Puerto de Santa María among the Osborne Sherry bodegas that lined our cobble-stoned street of Virgin de los Milagros. (In amusing Spanish style, our street had two names, the other being Calle Larga, depending upon which sign you saw on the street corner; and we had, therefore, two house numbers!) Our traditional house was right around the corner from the small Castle San Marcos, which the Christians built over the remains of a 10th century mosque.

Among themselves, the sherry families have a cordial non-competitive relationship, and often intermarry. Carmen and Juan Carlos Gutierrez took us to the Feria del Vino Fino and introduced us to the extended Osborne family and their friends. Carmen looked forward to spending some time with the Osborne family, with whom she shared memories (and Fino) with women who have been her friends since childhood.

When he was younger, Carmen’s husband Juan Carlos used to compete in sailing regattas with his friend Miguel Valdespino, until recently the owner of a significant bodega in neighboring Jerez de la Frontera. Miguel, in turn, introduced me to Fernando Romero in Sanlúcar de Barrameda of the Bodegas Pedro Romero.

Fernando’s family bodega is noted for its founding family, and the woman who took the helm at the beginning of the 20th century. Founded in 1860 by Vicente Romero Carranza, it is still owned by the Romero family, successors to the grandchildren of the founder: Pedro, Aurora and Fernando Romero Ambrosse. It is one of the few Spanish businesses that can claim to have been in the same hands through six generations.

In 1904, Pedro Romero Villarreal took over the burgeoning business from his brothers and named his most treasured Manzanilla Pasada, in honor of his wife Aurora. Only seven years later he died, leaving his wife with the responsibility of raising three little children: Aurora, Pedro and Fernando Romero. Undaunted, Aurora took over the reins of the business. Traditional Sanlúcar was amazed at the audacity of a woman running a bodega. Rather than failing, under her guidance the bodega flourished. The current owners, successors to the Romero Ambrosse family, continue to create magnificent brandies, and Sanlúcar Manzanilla, Oloroso, and Amontillado sherry wines. Every day Ruth and I serve our green salads with olive oil and their exquisite sherry vinegar. When Miguel Valdespino divested his holdings, he sold his private vinegar bodega to the Romero family, knowing that they would appreciate its value, as they combine it with theirs.

These are the stories of just three of the many generous and gracious sherry families in Spain. It is almost as if these families are of another world – and certainly of another time. This reality is captured in the amazing Feria del Caballo of Jerez de la Frontera, home of the Spanish Riding Academy’s celebrated Andalucian Lipizzaner horses. Each May the leading sherry families promenade in their beautiful carriages pulled by amazing steeds, often guided by the coachmen. In a touch of modernity, one Tuesday last year Ruth and I saw carriages brimming with jovial housewives (with glasses of Fino in hand). It was the day of the feria set aside especially for women.

Sherry wine was once so popular that, to this day, imposing whitewashed bodegas dominate the centers of each of the towns I call the three sherry sisters. I invite you to give sherry another taste, and rediscover a great wine - and the beautiful culture that is so unique to Spain.

¡Salud! To your health!
Su amigo,
Don

Salina San Vicente is the last remnant of a culture that stretches back three thousand years to a time when the Phoenicians plied the Mediterranean Sea, establishing settlements as far away as the Atlantic shores of Cádiz.

Civilizations as old as Tartars, Phoenicians and later the Romans located small salt flats of about 60 acres in diameter in the Bay of Cádiz to take advantage of the constant and strong levante winds from the hot Sahara desert of Africa that greatly facilitate the evaporation of seawater.

Today, Manolo Ruiz and his wife Reglín work to produce sea salt with their five children: Manuel, Angeles, Lidia, Aurelio and Reglín. They can continue to live the traditional life because their remaining patch of the 3,000 year old salt flats is now set aside as a national park.

They are the fourth generation of the Ruiz family to work with the Salina San Vicente and ten other auxiliary salt fields above the Bay of Cádiz. Manolo’s grandfather, José Ruiz Belizón, a native of northern Spain, was the first owner of this salt enterprise, and his son José Ruiz Velázquez expanded their holdings.

We must have driven by the salt flats of the Bay of Cádiz a hundred times over the past forty years, but we never had the opportunity to investigate this ancient site until my son Tim made contact with Manolo and Reglín Ruiz during his extended stay with his family in neighboring El Puerto de Santa María.

One Sunday last May, our family spent much of the day with Manolo Ruiz as we stood on the banks of the salt evaporating reservoirs of this desolate region. Not only had we come to meet him, but also to witness a reenactment of the traditional Estero salt harvest festival. The authentic celebration occurs every year in late summer when the harvest of salt is complete.

This day the occasion was in celebration of a young boy’s First Communion. The boy’s family accompanied him from mass at their parish church to the salt flats of Salinas San Vicente along with many cousins, uncles, aunts and grandparents. He was easy for us to spot as he sat by the fish netting pool in his white sailor suit and blue neckerchief. Naval attire is for some reason the boy’s traditional dress for this holy occasion; girls wear white dresses like bridesmaids.

Like the estero, the principal evaporating pool at the end of the season, this special pool contained fish that surprisingly breed in this very salty environment. With a fishing net spread between them, a couple of workers captured the remaining pool of dorado (sea bream), sea bass and sole. Close by, in the Ruiz ranch house, or finca, a charcoal fire was ready, garnished by aromatic plants from the several reservoirs. They quickly pop the freshly caught live fish on the hot grill, while the rest of the people watch with anticipation and enjoy each other’s company amid copas of fino sherry and tapas including olives, shellfish and Manchego cheese. They then retire inside for a feast.

Although Manolo and Reglín enjoy hosting various celebrations for happy children and proud parents who visit their finca, it is no more than a pleasant diversion for them. Harvesting salt is Manolo’s main concern and he is troubled there are only six families remaining to harvest salt in the Bay of Cádiz. Only twenty years ago, there were 600.

While listening to Manolo’s account I could see that the salt flats are indeed vanishing. As I looked across the desolate salt flats, I could plainly see the encroaching high-rise structures of the city – still a safe distance away.

The story of how the salt flats are used begins with the accumulation of extremely fine silt from the bay of Cádiz into the channel of San Fernando. The silt makes such a dense clay that it can serve as the watertight foundation to accumulate reservoirs of tidal water that flows into the evaporating trays or pools. Some of the confining walls remain from Roman times.

For about three hundred years, the San Fernando channel served as a shipbuilding site where hundreds of wooden ships built for the Armada were anchored. Napoleon’s army was stopped at the shore of San Fernando, since his army found traversing across the flats almost impossible. After the demise of the wooden boat shipyards, the only boats that still plied the channels were wooden salt boats that took their load to far away places, including Galicia. But that ended about 60 years ago.

Two images remain in my mind as I think back on our visit. First was the sight of an intact wooden hulk impregnated with salt pulled up along the edge of the channel. Beyond it was a salt mill built in 1936 during the time of the Civil War. As in the case of the boat, the building was made only of wood, which resists corrosion. In this case, the structure was made from driftwood, as it was the only available source during the Civil War.

To harvest the salt, incoming briny water from the Bay of Cádiz is channeled into elongated ponds, where the seawater remains for about six weeks. The purpose is to concentrate the salt through evaporation and to precipitate different salts. Seawater contains many substances other than sodium chloride and in this traditional method salt acts as a natural purifier – a filter that extracts only the most beneficial water from the sea. Manolo explained that during the natural process, the heavy metals and other contaminants settle out, leaving a clean hyper saline water which will ultimately produce flor de sal, the flower of salt, as well as natural traditional salt.

Throughout its journey, the water flows from one pond to another by the action of gravity for about a total of six weeks, the successive bodies of water are lower than the previous ones. With the pride of an artisan, Manolo stressed that no machinery or water pumps are necessary to transfer the salt from one point to another, just gravity. From the standpoint of traditional salt production, we could have just as easily been talking to Phoenicians!

In late spring, the Ruiz family starts a general cleanup of the salinera salt flats in preparation for the new summer harvest. As soon as the winter and early rains subside, the workers channel the briny water from the Atlantic into various reservoirs to create the ‘mother liquor.’ I found it fascinating to learn that the salt water captured in the first pool serves as an important and unique source of food for the many flamingos who feast on tiny crustaceans that live only in this normally inhospitable environment.

Also included are grasses that somehow flourish in briny wetlands, one of which is called salcornea – salt antlers. They grow in clumps anchored in the fine silt, which covers the salty expanse; and their strong and far-reaching roots prevent erosion – an important concern with the constant currents of the tide. On occasion, some of these grasses are laid out to dry in the sun to be used as an aromatic bed on which to grill freshly caught fish, as I mentioned before. Moreover, Reglín uses some this rare and fragrant herb to add an interesting seasoning in her homemade salt blend for preparing fish.

In the months of July and August, the harvest begins with the gathering of the prized flor de sal. During evenings, the gentle breeze creates a glassy coating of this precious salt as it crystallizes on the surface of the final pond of brine. Its clean, delicate and fine properties will delight gourmets around the world. You might liken the salt crystallization to the time you might have gathered a thin piece of ice as it was forming on a winter lake.

The unique flavor of flor de sal is due to the trace elements such as potassium, magnesium, iron or iodine found in its structure. It is gathered on the surface of the water, whereas traditional salt is harvested from the bottom of the ponds, and there is a difference in structure.

Although the two salts are separated from each other by only by about 4 inches, their flavor profiles are very different: if the flor de sal is soft, the other is a little more salty. Flor de sal is light and sparse, traditional salt is heavier and hard grained, but neither reaches the intense saltiness of industrial salt. Both salts are harvested from open Atlantic sea water, Manolo points out, which is a cleaner raw material than salt drawn from a confined body of water such as the Mediterranean.

After hand picking, the flor de sal is sun dried and sieved to remove even the slightest impurity, while the natural salt is ground and dried in the sun. Neither is compromised by being washed. Salt extracted with heavy machinery requires that the salt be washed later. This artificial washing impoverishes the salt as the commercial streams of water dissolve the trace elements. That is why most industrial salt is ‘re-iodized’ after washing. Traditional sea salt and salt contains iodine naturally. Manolo’s San Fernando salt contains only 95% basic sodium chloride, the other 5% contains trace minerals fundamental to life such as iodine, iron, calcium or magnesium. This salt has a smooth taste because it comes from waters richer in trace elements.

As we were completing Manolo’s fascinating tour, the Spanish families were feasting on freshly grilled dorado and sherry in the background. Nevertheless, Reglín ushered us into her old-fashioned kitchen where she proudly showed the flavors of salt she was making. I found the most interesting was the one flavored by sea grass. As if their hospitality was not enough, kindly Reglín took a small picture that she had painted off the wall and presented it to our young grandson Ben as a memento of his visit.

It may have taken us more that forty years to visit the salt flats of Cádiz, but the chance to be with the Ruiz family and learn of their dedication to a lost art was worth the wait!

Su amigo,
Don

To view more photos, please visit the Salina San Vicente album on La Tienda's Facebook page.

Last month I attended my grandchildren’s primary school for the Veteran’s Day exercise. Seated before me on the floor were a couple of hundred boys and girls happily chattering with one another, surrounded by us veterans: largely fathers and grandfathers who lined the gymnasium walls.

On the stage, the fifth grade chorus presented a program of patriotic songs, including the anthems of each of the armed services. I stood proudly as I heard the young voices singing the words of ‘Anchors Aweigh’ and ‘Semper Paratus’ (I served in both the Navy and Coast Guard); and then ate a cafeteria lunch with my grandsons Sam and Ben. It is hard to describe such an affirming experience as being among a gathering of parents and happy, joyful children; ‘Of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven’ had renewed new meaning for me.

This holiday season, whatever our faith background, many of us will set aside time for renewal within our families. For some of us it is an easy task because our families have naturally evolved and deepened in their relationships. For others 'family' is an elusive ideal toward which we focus our energy during the waning days of the year. Either way, the excitement of little children brings a special joy to the occasion. When we make an effort to renew these relationships each holiday, we build particular bonds of love, which give value to our lives.

Their deep commitment to children and family is what first drew me to the people of Spain. Many years ago, when I stepped ashore for the first time, as a newlywed and a freshly ordained Navy chaplain, I was drawn to what I call the ‘heart of Spain.’ I recognized that the Spanish people cherish their children in a special way. Throughout their childhood the little boy or girl is showered with love within the family, and treasured by their neighbors. No one worries about ‘spoiling’ the child.

Over the past forty-five years among the Spanish people, I have grown to appreciate that the heart of Spain is enriched by daily encounters of affection expressed within the family and neighborhood. From a childhood immersed in virtually unconditional love, comes an eagerness to engage in personal interchange and a willingness to maintain these personal relationships through frequent contact. When one begins life with this kind of affirmation, it becomes second nature to engage friend and stranger alike with a kind of personal intimacy.

This national reverence of the family is graphically before your eyes during the Christmas season. Just about anywhere you look, you can see a Belén, (the Spanish word for Bethlehem), a crèche, or a manger scene depicting the holy family surrounded by barnyard animals, simple shepherds, angels and whatever other characters the individual family chooses to add to the scene. Some of the constructions become quite elaborate, as over the years children add a camel or two, or the wise men, or people of the village.

A friend of mine named Miguel tells how in his extended family the children make quite a project assembling their family Belén which includes a shed to shelter the holy family, mountains and hills, wise men coming from afar.

We are happy to be in the spacious house of my sister Carmen. She has eight very willing children that help with dinner, build a wonderful Belén, and both individually and as a chorus sing the most touching of religious carols.

We form the Belén on a big table. It depicts the birth of Jesus: along with the Three Kings and a number of shepherds, sheep, donkeys, green-dyed sawdust and the inevitable “river” made of the “silver paper” that covered chocolate blocks.

To me it is reminiscent of the care some fathers used to put into assembling elaborate electric train sets for their children -- another way to mark the holiday season.

I have been sifting through the emails and reflections that I have written to you, my La Tienda family, over the past several years. In the process, I have also gone through my 'virtual' box of snapshots. You know what I mean: in the 'olden days', it was that shoebox of random pictures taken over the years -- the ones you vowed that sometime you would get around to mounting in albums. The modern equivalent is the thousands of images stashed in 'My Pictures' or Picasa on the hard drive of your computer.

The result of these months I have spent reflecting on the meaning of my forty-five years of travel among the people of Spain is a new book, The Heart of Spain: Families and Food, in which I give personal portraits of the many families I have met in Spain, and throughout I have liberally sprinkled my snapshots. I hope many of you might enjoy reading it. For some it will bring back memories of their heritage or the happy times they spent visiting this unique country. For others it will be a celebration of the best of Spain and her food, which occasionally graces your tables.

The book, and many of my reflections, is my way to encourage each one of us to take our family seriously. None of us comes from perfect families, for we are not perfect people. My childhood was particularly chaotic. Nevertheless, we can learn from the joy of the loving, trusting children who surround us during this blessed period of the year.

May your holidays be a warm affirming time among those whom you love.

Su amigo,
Don

My family and I have traveled the byways of Spain over the years, and we take great pleasure in getting to know members of Spanish families whose livelihood is intimately linked with the earth. Whether they are churning milk from tended flocks, growing rice or peppers; pruning grape vines or olive trees, there is something basic and straightforward about their lives.

I recall some special moments when visiting Spanish suppliers. I remember my friend Fermín's face as he described with affection his favorite olive tree in whose roots he hid as a child. Another time, our saffron supplier José reflected that he learned to walk behind the plow. I also visited with Pedro, a maestro of Ibérico ham, to view his herd of Ibérico pigs as some of them were wallowing in a puddle next to some holm oaks. Later we enjoyed meeting his young son Jorge who was working as a partner with his father.

I find it refreshing to find people who do not feel all-powerful, but know that their lives are linked to the seasons, not only to their wits. Especially at this time of year, when we can see their preparations for winter, the words of the traditional harvest hymn come to mind: “All is safely gathered in ere the winter storms begin.”

A vivid reminder of this is the message my dear friends Hans and Daida, who have adopted Spain as their home, left on their website. In Cataluña they produce superb artisan olive oils and exquisite olive oil soap wrapped by hand. We count on them without fail, and their products arrive like clockwork. I must admit most of the time we do not give it a second thought, but from Hans's vantage point as a producer, it is not that simple. He wrote:

On the 8th of March 2010 a severe unexpected snowstorm inflicted terrible damage in our county of Empordà... That day we had 16 inches of snowfall, a sticky kind of snow piling up high at sub zero temperatures even on thin electricity wires. At the end of the afternoon sudden gusts of wind made these lumps of ice swing, breaking everything brittle. In the 50 years we've known Catalonia we have never seen such havoc.

But it was the trees that came to bear the most of the suffering. Particularly the evergreens such as pines, holm oaks, cork trees, cypresses and of course olive trees that were more than decimated. On our property, dozens of solitary trees fell like matches, roots pulled and all. Our Arbequina olive trees kept themselves upright but left an estimated 2000 broken main branches, almost one third.

What nature inflicted on this day will take years to repair. Compared to other storms this was a small disaster. It certainly keeps you humble.

As city dwellers in the 21st century, our focus is not on the sweat and toil involved in producing the food we eat, nor the vagaries of weather, although we might read about the wheat shortage due to forest fires in Russia, or this year's short crop of corn in America. We do not give a thought about Hans's crops, or José and María so long as they have toasted enough saffron to meet our needs.

Facing the aftermath of inclement weather which affects the growing season, or not being able to find enough farmhands to bring in the harvest are all abstract concepts for many of us who are able to have more than enough of everything at the click of a mouse.

From the first days when primitive man learned to plant seeds and till the soil, harvest time has been a time of relief and rejoicing for all involved. Autumn marks the culmination of months of hard work in the fields: sowing the seeds; coaxing the young seedlings until they become strong enough to make it on their own; irrigating and tending the crops and finally bringing in the fruit of all that labor. As I write this I realize that I could easily use many of these same words describing those of us who are parents as we shepherd our children through many years of joy and toil, and then enjoy them as they reach adulthood.

Our unique Thanksgiving Day celebration in the United States draws from that harvest tradition of sacrifice and reward which forms the basis of our American myth of the stalwart and faithful English settlers of Cape Cod or Jamestown. They endured hardship, even starvation, until finally, they enjoyed the bounty of the soil, as they broke bread together, with the help of their Native American neighbors.

Because of the amazing abundance of foods available to us, we modern city dwellers tend not to focus on the vicissitudes of the farmer, but on the family feast laid out before us on the dinner table. There with our gathered family and other loved ones we enjoy the traditional plump turkey. I usually make a buttery bread dressing with rich broth and maybe some walnuts or mushrooms along with the celery and onions. Since my childhood was spent in Boston, I call upon Bell's Seasoning, a traditional New England staple since 1867, to add the final herbal touch, which will fill the kitchen with familiar aromas.

With the table filled with potatoes, yams, squash, chopped cranberry and mandarin orange relish, a big crunchy romaine salad, as well as cracked olives, pomegranates, clementinas, pecan, pumpkin and mince pies, we have before us a feast which could not have been duplicated by a king, much less a villager. In truth, the various ingredients on the table may have come from all over the world.

As you sit down to your plentiful table, I hope you will be thankful for those who tilled the fields, prepared the ingredients and shipped them across the ocean for your pleasure. May you have a beautiful experience this Thanksgiving connecting with those whom you love.

Saludos,
Don

It is harvest time in the La Vera Valley, and as you read this, groups of farmers and their families are working with their neighbors to harvest ripe red peppers. They flourish along the banks of the Tiétar River as it winds its way through the mountains of Extremadura. These are not just any peppers: once the peppers are dried and milled to a fine powder, they season virtually all the chorizo, lomo pork loins, caldo soups and stews of the forty million people of Spain, for these are the source of Spain's famed smoked paprika, known as Pimentón de La Vera.

The peppers grow in this rich river valley that enjoys a micro-climate which yields peppers of a singular intensity, color and flavor. Although the location is inland in Western Spain, the climate of the valley is almost Mediterranean. The influence of the Atlantic winter is tempered by the presence of the Sierra de Gredos mountain range, which protects the entire region from cold winter winds. The winters in the valley are usually mild and rainy, and the summers are hot and dry – perfect for peppers.

One September many years ago, as my wife Ruth and I were driving through the area, we passed a procession of small tractors pulling wagons laden with their harvest of colorful peppers. Their destination was one of several smokehouses located on the edge of the fields nourished by the Tiétar River. Out of curiosity we stopped to visit one. It looked something like a long low lying hen coop, and stretched for about a hundred yards. It had two levels: The bottom was a chamber filled with wood smoke that seeped through the slatted wood of the second story floor to envelope the waiting peppers above.

Once at the drying sheds, the families unloaded their fresh harvest of peppers. There they spread them out as a thin layer on the smoking floor. The source of the smoke was smoldering oak stumps and logs from holm oaks that dot the adjoining dehesa. They are the last vestige of the original forest that once covered Europe, and are the same type of oaks which nourish the legendary black hoofed Ibérico pigs of Spain. In fact, the encina oaks are the source for the acorns that feed the famous pigs every winter! I like the fact that this primeval woodland is supporting the production of two of Spain’s greatest products: the famed Ibérico de bellota hams and smoked pimentón de La Vera. It is an example of the balance of man and nature at its finest.

For the next two weeks the smokehouse maestro monitors the drying process, stirring the peppers daily to assure that the pungent wood smoke dries them evenly Soon the time is right for the peppers to be delivered to one of several local mills, where the resident miller selects from the peppers brought by each farmer, buys what he discerns to be the best, and creates the final product - smoked Pimentón de La Vera. Three types of smoked paprika are produced: dulce (sweet), agridulce (bittersweet) and picante (hot), depending on the type of pepper that is ground.

Earlier this year, some thirty years later, I returned to the beautiful valley of La Vera. This time I was with my son Tim (now a grown man with children of his own!) We were there to meet one of the pioneers in the commercial production of Pimentón de La Vera.

We drove to the town of Jaraíz de La Vera, which has been inhabited since prehistoric times by successive civilizations and was particularly influenced by the Romans. There we visited La Dalia, the iconic company of José María Hernández. His company was the first to earn the Denomination of Origin, and is one of the last to use traditional granite millstones.

The founder, Valeriano Hernández Martín, had eight children: five boys and three girls: Margarita, Valeriano, Angel, Carmen, Antonio, José, Manuel and Luciana. (You can see them in this picture taken in 1936. The founder is the gentleman at the left, who has one hand on the big tin. The lady between him and the tin is his wife.)

The values, spirit and wisdom of Don Valeriano have been passed from parents to children, especially José María who has an abiding respect for the traditional methods of production and preparation. He and his son welcomed me and my son Tim with the unmistakable warmth that in Spain seems to radiate when families meet.

He is a strong and fine man, whose heart is with the soil, and the traditional products he makes. Taking us back to his spacious warehouse, he showed us the various types of mills his family has used through the years.

Some were machines that receive the newly dried peppers from the local farmers, and make a preliminary run with steel blades. However, he was proud to share that he still uses granite millstones for the final milling in which the peppers are reduced to an aromatic powder. Although it is a lot more work for him, he told me that the hard textured surface of granite grinds the paprika into a finer, silkier powder than any modern process could achieve.

José María and his traditional, family company are exactly the people we love to support. Through their efforts, the old ways of Spain are preserved. Because they cherish their roots and are uncompromising on quality, we are able to enjoy the very best paprika in Spain, possibly in the world. Much of our food nowadays has been commoditized and separated from its roots. This paprika is a flavor intimately tied to one special valley – smoky Pimentón de La Vera expresses the essence of its land, its harvest and its people.

Saludos,
Don

Have you ever given a second thought to a bar of soap? It has a fascinating role to play in Spanish history where soap was first shunned by Christians as a sign of unfaithfulness, and later became one of Castile’s proudest contributions to courtly life.

Although not used in Europe, soap was known in the Fertile Crescent, modern day Syria, Iraq and Armenia, as early as 2300 BC. People made it from animal tallow and ashes.

In the Egypt of the Pharaohs, people used soap as part of a skin care regimen, while the Roman scholar Pliny wrote about the production of olive oil soap. The Roman citizens first used it for cleaning textiles and later for bathing -- scented with rose petals, laurel and herbs.

Soap went out of favor with the fall of the Roman Empire -- resulting in centuries of fragrant Europeans! It was especially so in Spain during the occupation of the Moors. The Christians wanted to distinguish themselves from their Muslim overseers. Some say this is why jamón, ham, became the signature product of Christian Spain, for its consumption was forbidden to the observant Muslims and Jews in their midst. To this day Spaniards consume more ham than any other people in the world do. (I have no quarrel with that as a lover of jamón and bacon!)

However, the other distinguishing action is a little more bizarre. Muslims ritually bathe prior to praying in their mosques, and their civil architecture is resplendent with water, fountains, and baths in contrast to their desert origins. Yet for a time in Spain, Christians rarely bathed at all – as allergic to soap as a little boy playing outside! Some suggest that it was a way to distinguish themselves from the others. Why not prove your faith by not bathing – ritually or otherwise? I am sure their neighbors could get a whiff of a Christian a block away.

However, by the late Middle Ages -- the time Spain was becoming a more cohesive and confident society under Fernando of Aragon and Isabel of Castile and their successors -- there was a renewed interest in the cleanliness brought by using soap. Although the base of soap had usually been tallow, or rendered animal fat, the people of Spain recognized that their most plentiful source of oil grew on trees – miles and miles of olive trees as far as the eye can see. So they revived the ancient tradition of the Middle East by creating a smooth fragrant soap superior to the crude one made from tallow.

From the kingdom of Castile came an appealing soap, which swept the fashionable courts of France and the rest of Europe. 'Pure Castile' soap has remained the 'gold standard' of soaps for several centuries.

I remember when I visited my first Parador, one of those astonishing castles, monasteries, and manor houses that the Spanish government restored in the rural landscape. I think it was the castle in Olite back in the 1960's, in the center of a small town that served as the seat of the Royal Court of the kingdom of Navarra in the Middle Ages.

Impressive as the thick stone walls and crenellated towers of the palace were (it is one of the finest examples of civil Gothic architecture in Navarre), the memory that most sticks in my mind was a luxurious soaking in a grand bathtub with a cake of Heno de Pravia filling the room with a clean natural aroma. It was an almost magical experience after having driven hours along the byways of rural Spain. It is funny how seemingly trivial items are the source of fond memories. This particular soap has graced Spanish homes and inns for over 100 years.

About the turn of the 19th century, one of the founders of an esteemed cosmetics company was passing through the Cantabrian village of Pravia, in Northern Spain – most likely via horse and carriage. Around him, the local farmers were busy cutting heno, hay, a grass used for livestock. He loved the aroma so much that when he returned to Madrid he reproduced the fragrance of the fresh mown grass and blended it with geranium, lavender and a hint of sandalwood. He made the bar mossy green and wrapped it in yellow, the color of heno when it dries.

At about the same time, a more exotic soap emerged. It contained mineral salts from a fashionable hot spring in Galicia where wealthy Spaniards went to "take the waters." The spa still welcomes visitors to its healing waters on the tiny island off Galicia named 'La Toja.' It is west of Pontevedra and just down the road from Santiago de Compostela.

The story is told that an ailing donkey was abandoned by its master on the island of La Toja and given up for dead. The owner returned to the island some time later and found the animal in good health. The miracle was attributed to the therapeutic hot springs of La Toja and the idyllic island became a famous spa where some guests still come to take the waters and immerse themselves in mud baths.

The third entry into this golden age of Spanish soap at the beginning of the 20th century is Maja, with its classic fragrance of rose, jasmine and other flowers unchanged after 100 years; it contains olive oil as did classic Castile soaps of hundreds of years ago. The family business is now operated by the third generation. Grandfather Esteban Monegal was a well-known artist, sculptor and violinist who decided to produce a soap that would be a work of art as were his other creative endeavors. Thus he named the company Myrurgia, or the art of making myrrh.

The romance of soap seemed to be destroyed when soap production was absorbed into the detergent industry in the mid 20th century. Whatever soap the industrial producers offered, they replaced olive oil with much cheaper oils such as cottonseed and linseed, often mixed with animal tallow and fish oil. They introduced chemicals to speed the soap making process. Today a typical bar of commercial soap contains some 20 different chemical ingredients including artificial dyes and synthetic (often overly pungent) perfumes.

Ah, but there is hope yet. One of my gratifying discoveries is an exquisite hand made soap that is the labor of love of a retired couple. Following a medieval recipe they discovered, the couple makes no compromises -- beginning with their choice of costly extra virgin olive oil from their own grove of arbequina olive trees.

The soap's delicate scent comes from essential oils steam-distilled from rosemary leaves, lavender petals and pine needles. To the fresh soap, they add a pinch of sea salt as well as lemon juice, and individually wrap each one by hand. Soap of this quality, totally made of extra virgin olive oil rather than tallow, is what made Castile soap the gold standard in Europe for centuries.

I hope you have a new appreciation of humble soap, which you use every day without much thought. Whatever our faith, I don’t think being 'gamey' is a good way to express it! You and I can still enjoy pure Castile soap, which changed the habits of Europe.

Saludos,
Don

Ferias and celebrations are part of every day life in Spain all year long. Their roots are in the religious and agricultural cycles of traditional life, although, with some notable exceptions, modern Spaniards largely focus on fiestas as joyful events for the extended family to mingle with the rest of the community.

Earlier this year my wife Ruth and I were planning a couple of visits to Andalucía to be with our eldest son Tim, his wife Amy and their family. For the first six months of this year they were living in El Puerto de Santa María and had enrolled their two young sons (ages 7 and 10) in a Spanish school. Our thought was to plan two separate visits that would include events we would enjoy sharing with our grandsons.

The joyful options included the historic Carnaval of Cádiz, where Ruth and I had such fun before. Certainly, we thought everyone in the family would enjoy participating in that revelry. Or perhaps our family would enjoy being part of the Feria de Abril in Sevilla where citizens of that beautiful city dance sevillanas into the night with family and friends.

On the other hand, the boys might like the elegant Feria de Caballo in Jerez de la Frontera, the city where they were attending school. It seems only yesterday when I held their uncle Jonny as a baby in my arms as we admired the handsome caballeros and señoritas riding gorgeous Andaluz horses while their families rode in magnificent horse-drawn carriages in the fair ground. (Actually that was some thirty-five years ago!)

On a more serious note, we also wanted our family to experience the profound processions of Semana Santa, which takes place in the street of just about every town in Spain. We were familiar with the famous one in Sevilla, but thought the experience of Holy Week would be more meaningful on a smaller scale.

A poignant memory of Holy Week in our 'hometown' of Puerto is still fresh in my mind. I remember when our little boy Tim got out of bed late in the night and peered wide-eyed through the wrought iron grill of our street side window to see solemn penitents silently processing by with their hoods and candles.

We ended up with a good solution. In February, we went with Tim and his family on the last day of Carnaval in Cádiz. Sunday is especially set aside for children – lots of balloons, cotton candy, kids in costumes and groups of young people singing on street corners. In April the boys’ two cousins visited, just in time to see a little bit of the Holy Week processions in Jerez.

Ruth and I returned in May to see the horses and carriages of the Feria de Caballo. It was Ladies' Day, when women don their festive polka dotted feria dresses, rent horse-drawn carriages with uniformed drivers, and ride around the fair ground singing and laughing with sherry glasses in hand!

Then it was off to the feria in bustling Puerto. Our newfound friends Carmen and Juan Carlos treated us parents to a small flamenco show in their sherry bodega, and then included us in their visits to their lifelong friends in the casetas, or family booths. Our grandchildren, Ben and Sam, joined us when school was out for the day. We strolled together along the wide dirt paths between casetas, but soon they heard the siren call of the carnival rides.

Livestock fairs are major events for families and friends in rural towns of north and central Spain. At these ferias de ganados, people gather to see the latest magic in agricultural machinery. Of course, farm machinery and livestock are merely an excuse for the whole town to have time together. The famous markets in Tolosa or Gernika are flooded with local families and their friends who come to eat, drink, sing and laugh together for about eight hours, with no tractor or animal in sight.

Romerías, weekend retreats, are especially popular in the north of Spain, from the central Pyrenees west to the Picos de Europa to Galicia. These humble romerías involve all the families of the village and are prompted by the veneration of a local virgin or patron saint.

In any given weekend you can find a village where families are heading outdoors dressed in hiking and mountain garb with umbrellas if need be - even the very old are driven in jeeps or 4-wheel-drive vehicles so that they can be with their families at the romería. They attend an outdoor Mass in the morning, and then fill the rest of the day with food, drink and song. The great thing about a romería is that it is perfectly acceptable to roll out your blanket after your picnic lunch and take a siesta! For many people the romerías are simply an opportunity for families and friends (or boys looking for that special chica) to meet and have a daylong picnic on some mountaintop.

Is there anything like this in America? My first thought was the August hospital fair I went to as a child each summer in a New Hampshire village. Like the ferias of Spain, the event involved many of the local community and there was a festive aspect to it, but it was a charity fundraiser. A county fair might be an approximation, but unlike Spain, the fair will have people from many different cultural backgrounds whose ties intersect, which of course is the definition of America.

What is absent in American fairs is an opportunity for grandparents, parents and children - or cousins, uncles and aunts - to share the experience in common. A Spaniard does not go alone to a feria, but as part of a family. It is wonderful how these traditional festivals continue to be an important way to renew the bonds of the family and to bring communities together even in this increasingly secular time. Maybe you can plan something together as a family on Labor Day.

Saludos,
Don