Dear Friends of La Tienda,

Valencia was my first port of call as a young Navy chaplain (and newlywed). Every chance I got I would leave the ship and stroll the cobble-stoned streets of the Gothic Quarter. I liked catching glimpses of what life in the historic port of Valencia has been for centuries. Our young sailors, members of the crews of my destroyer squadron, explored the waterfront - as mariners have for as long as there have been seaports.

However, this was not an ordinary port visit. We had tied up to the pier in time for the week of the fiesta of Las Fallas, and the people of Valencia were eager for all of us to become part of this fabulous event.

The Las Fallas fiesta of Valencia is an astonishing farewell to winter. Only those who have actually seen it can believe it. Some 700 fallas, large papier-mâché monuments mounted over wooden frames, are burnt to cinders on the 19th of March – the festival of San José, the patron saint of carpenters.

In the Middle Ages, as the days became shorter, artisans and carpenters of Valencia had to spend the last few hours of their workday laboring by the light of oil lamps hanging from crafted wooden stands called parots. When spring arrived and the days became longer, the lamps and wooden stands were no longer necessary. As part of spring-cleaning, the carpenters would routinely burn the parots, standing them up in the midst of wooden shavings and scraps of lumber.

Over time, these workers made a ritual of the event, adding an individual touch by festooning the lampstands with rags and a hat – which evolved into some resemblance of a doll or human form. Such a figure, often depicting some person of authority in the neighborhood, came to be known as a Ninot Falla – fire doll. As the centuries went by, the local fires became spectacular blazes that encompass the city each spring.

You can imagine there was not much work being done aboard my US Navy destroyer squadron – except for some poor unfortunates chipping paint or tending the boilers. Each day when the rest of us went ashore, we found the air electric with excitement. All but essential work was already coming to a halt throughout the city, since virtually everyone in Valencia was involved in the fiesta, in one way or another. Many people had been preparing for Las Fallas all year long.

So I spent my free time during the port visit strolling from one plaza to another exploring this ancient port. In one area, I was attracted to clusters of people gathering in classic old stores with checkerboard marble floors. You know the ones – mirrors on the walls – like ice cream parlors 50 or 60 years ago in America. Their parents and grandparents must have visited these shops in their youth.

From the several shops came the sweet aroma of buñuelos (pumpkin crullers), a native Valencian treat. Delighted revelers were consuming them as fast as the pastries could be made. In some shops, the buñuelos were served with horchata – a local white chufa nut drink. Customers in other shops enjoyed the fresh pastries with wonderful rich hot chocolate a la taza. (That was my choice).

The production of each Falla (the monument, not the fiesta in general) is organized by falleros – a group of neighbors from a specific barrio, who are responsible for producing the falla and arranging their individual program so that everyone can join in the preparations. They hold meetings, pay dues, seek sponsors to contribute money for their part of the festival. Throughout the months of preparation they gather in a sort of clubhouse in the neighborhood. On the walls would be framed photographs, and trophies they earned in years past.

The neighborhoods compete with each other to build the most fantastic ninots (giant papier-mâché images) as a unit within the larger Falla. The ninots are often grotesque dolls or figurines, made in a "wise guy" tone, mocking local politicians, clergy or others in authority. The ninots can be several stories high, can take months to build and in some cases can cost upwards of $100,000. A large number of them are on the "racy" side. A local Valencian remarked to my friend, Penelope Casas, "You really have to be born and bred in Valencia to appreciate the bad taste of Las Fallas."

In contrast, but integral to the Fallas, are the falleras - young maidens dressed in traditional costume. Since the Community of Valencia proudly claims to be the only region in Spain that still does silk weaving on manual looms, many of the young girls wear delicate damasks, brocades, and shawls of flowered silk intertwined with silver and gold thread. Dressed in their finery, they process with baskets of flowers to present Nuestra Señora de los Desamparados (Our Lady of the Abandoned or Helpless), to the patron saint of Valencia.

During this time, the square around the basilica is ablaze with color. The Plaza of the Virgin is transformed into a bower of flowers – even the façade of the basilica is carpeted with blooms. In the center is a huge 50-foot image of the Virgin made completely of flowers.

The festival culminates in the eagerly anticipated Crema (burning) on the night of San José, March 19, where hundreds of works of communal labor and artistry go up in smoke! By popular acclaim, one of the ninot comical figures is saved and placed in a ninot museum – a sort of Hall of Fame.

A crowd gathers at the Plaza Del País. Smoke and haze have settled over the city from random fires and the gunpowder used in the rockets. Soon people become impatient with anticipation, and break into rhythmic applause followed by whistles and jeers as the hour passes, and there is still no crema, the final burning.

Suddenly all the lights in the Plaza are extinguished, and the crowd roars in approval. Fireworks illuminate the night - strings of firecrackers set off brilliant sparks and colored rockets soar in the air, exploding thunderously. Over three hundred bonfires are lit throughout the city, and the noise produced by the accompanying fireworks is deafening.

Each Falla, (the huge wooden monument) becomes enveloped by smoke and flames. As the breezes blow and the air clears, the fire burns hot and the heat is intense. The base of the falla is the last to ignite and in a flash, the structure collapses. After initial roars of approval, the crowd begins singing the Valencian anthem.

To tell the truth, none of the ship's company was around for the climax of the Fallas, when literally hundreds of blazing structure light up the sky. The commodore wisely decided to get our destroyers under way just before that day. The sailors had had so much fun with the Valencians that they were physically exhausted. With this in mind, and a six-month deployment ahead, our admiral decided it was prudent for the crew to get some rest at sea! Therefore, I owe the description of the climactic events to others who have been there, including my good friend Penelope Casas.

While it is true that I did not experience every minute of Las Fallas, the precious memories of my first days in Spain provided a lasting introduction to the warm and generous culture which I have since found throughout Spain.

My best to you and those you love,
Don

Let me tell you of a happy coincidence that led my family find one of the very finest Manchego cheeses in Spain. A couple of years ago, our sons Tim and Jonathan, had finished visiting small producers in the south of Spain, and decided to return to Madrid via Extremadura, along the Portuguese border. After driving several hours, they approached Trujillo, one of our favorite towns. They had driven for several hours, it was now late in the afternoon, and it seemed to be a good place to stretch their legs.

For as long as people can remember, a cheese competition has taken place in Trujillo's Plaza Mayor, surrounded by ancient, splendid stone buildings. There are cheeses from rural producers all over Spain: local ones such as the fabled Torta del Casar with its rich creamy interior, and even some cheese from as far away as Galicia, Catalunya or the Balearic Island of Minorca.

From all over Spain, producers are drawn to Trujillo because of the reputation of this historic fair – even people bringing Manchego cheese from distant La Mancha. There are many cheeses called "Manchego" just as there are many cheeses called "cheddar". Some that you will find in the supermarket are industrial cheeses and taste fine. Other cheeses, hand-made by artisans, are finer: they capture the truly artisan tradition. Thereby hangs my tale:

Jonathan and Tim strolled around the many displays of artisan cheeses of Spain, and happened by the stand of a warm and pleasant man named Antonio Villajos. He and his assistant Raul were very excited because their tiny family operation had just won the prize for producing the finest Manchego in all of Spain. It was a particularly remarkable accomplishment because Antonio and his brothers Vicente and Julian only started bringing their homemade cheese to market in 1996!

As my sons sampled the prize winning cheese, they were convinced that this was indeed a remarkable Manchego. What was even better, the hand-made cheese was made by a small family producer - the kind of people La Tienda is committed to supporting.

Now for a little background: true Manchego cheese comes only from sheep of the Manchega strain. Thousands of years ago, wild sheep crossed the Pyrenees, and migrated through various parts of Spain such as Aragón and Castilla-León. Eventually they settled in the high plateau region of La Mancha southeast of Madrid. La Mancha (the Moors called it Al-Mansha "dry land") is a high plain, 600 – 700 meters in altitude, with intense and bitter winters. For some reason, this ancient breed of sheep settled there and remained on the land of La Mancha until the present time.

Iberian archaeological sites confirm that the earliest residents of this vast rolling countryside domesticated the Manchega sheep. Through skillful breeding they improved the stock, without allowing the breed to mix with other kinds of sheep. The Manchega sheep's unique characteristics have hardly changed through the centuries. Both their thick wool grown to resist the cold winters, and their remarkably rich milk are legendary.

These hardy sheep live most of their natural life in the outdoors as they have for centuries. All year long free-range herds of Manchega sheep roam the countryside, foraging amongst the sparse herbs and grasses. In modern times, shepherds enrich the ewes' (female sheep) diet during their pregnancy.

In this sheep country, the terrain is dotted with small villages of hardly more than a main street, with houses on each side and family ranches stretching out into the countryside. The Villajos brothers make their classic cheese in the remote town of Porzuna, nestled in the hills close to the Montes de Toledo in the Province of Ciudad Real. In what was originally their family home they produce a handcrafted cheese. It is made from the fresh raw milk collected from a few local farmers whose Manchega sheep graze on the pastures nearby.

The key to their cheese is the skilled hand of the master cheese maker Beni. Each small batch of cheese made from their rich milk is sampled by a representative of the Denomination of Origin board to certify that it is 100% Manchega sheep's milk and is aged for a minimum of 60 days.

The rinds of these cheeses have the signature herringbone pattern, a legacy of the pattern traditionally imprinted by the woven Esparto grass mats that were used to mould the cheeses. The exterior of the cheeses varies in color from white to yellow, as they are never waxed or colored, as are industrial cheeses.

I know many of you have joined us in enjoying Antonio's authentic, hand made Manchego cheeses. It was a fortuitous chain of events that enabled us to bring to your table an extraordinary Manchego cheese that has earned four Gran Selección prizes in the past five years! (It is a remarkable achievement to win so many of these esteemed awards during such a short term).

What a happy coincidence that Tim and Jonathan stopped to stretch their legs in Trujillo!

With best wishes to you and your family,
Don

When I think of St. Valentine's Day this year my thoughts are of Pedro and Isabella Díaz, a devoted couple whom I met in Spain in 1975. Pedro is no longer with us, he died last year, but the life he lived with his beloved Isabella lives beyond him. Pedro and Isabella are the embodiment of the best of traditional Spain, and an example of the New Spain that has risen out of the ashes of the Civil War. Their story reflects ensuing decades of sacrifice that eventually gave birth to the strong and healthy Spain we know today.

Our families formed a close bond that grew over the past thirty years or so. We as parents have grown old together – and enjoy each other's children and grand children. My wife Ruth and I feel especially close to one of their daughters, Olga, since for a few months she lived with us in Virginia, almost twenty years ago. Later I had the privilege of solemnizing her marriage in a medieval church in the sherry town of Jerez de la Frontera.

Pedro was the son of a shoemaker in the ancient Atlantic seaport of Cádiz – one of my favorite communities in Spain. Born in 1934, two years before the beginning of bitter Civil War, which tore the fabric of the nation, and then plunged the mourning survivors into years of famine. The 1940's and 1950's were a time of profound deprivation for the people of Spain as the shattered nation tried to piece together a cohesive life, altogether isolated by her European neighbors. Hunger stalked the land for many years. Theirs was a struggle for survival.

In 1952, when Pedro was 18 years old, he left home to join the Spanish navy, La Armada Española, and lived the life of a sailor. Like many young men his age throughout the world, he went to sea in order to find his place in life. Providentially, as a young able-bodied seaman, he was chosen to be a member of the crew that was returning a ship to the Americans. After crossing the Atlantic to New York, the ship sailed to its new homeport in San Diego.

There Pedro contracted a serious lung condition, which landed him in the Balboa Naval Hospital for several months. He was all alone in a strange country. His Spanish shipmates had to leave him behind because he was too ill to travel. But a warm and generous woman named Robin who was a volunteer nurse befriended Pedro and helped him to learn English while he was convalescing.

Pedro was an eager learner, so the student and the teacher became fast friends; he became in many ways her adopted son. Recognizing what a bright and earnest young man he was, Robin gave him some money with the provision that he return to Spain and go to school once he had recovered.

Pedro loved learning. Completing schooling in Spain, he then went on his own to Oxford for a year to perfect his English. He had no money, except for a small gift from Robin, and lived by his wits in order to complete his studies. He maintained a correspondence with his benefactor back in California for the rest of Robin's life.

After his studies in England, he returned to Andalucía briefly, only to leave for France to learn the French language. This time he was totally on his own. Finally, he returned to his family in Cádiz, several years older and wiser. There he intended to settle down to work with his father as a shoemaker. But he was always open to opportunities.

He heard a rumor that the Americans were going to establish a large naval base near the fishing village of Rota, in conjunction with the Spanish Navy. So he rode a local bus for an hour or two to Rota – he was there to meet the US Navy.

The naval officers welcomed him warmly because he was one of the very few Spaniards who could speak any English. That very day the Americans put him to work to teach English to his countrymen. From that time on until he retired 40 years later Pedro was at the Naval Base teaching Spanish sailors how to speak English and American sailors how to speak Spanish!

Rota was a little far to commute from his family in Cádiz, so he looked for a room in the neighboring town of Jerez de la Frontera. A carpenter and his family living over their shop rented a room to this ingenious young man. Soon he was included at the family table, where he came to know their daughter named Isabel Buzón. At first, she was somewhat skeptical of Pedro, he was a bit too exotic for her – he dressed modishly and was not like "the boy next door." Nevertheless, Pedro had dancing brown eyes and a warm heart. They fell in love and within nine months, they were married!

The Díaz family still resides in Jerez de la Frontera, as they always have. There Pedro and Isabella raised three bright daughters: Inmaculada, Olga, and Eva. Inma is married to a Spaniard from her hometown and has a traditional Spanish family. Olga and Eva married Americans. Both sisters are teachers, following in the footsteps of their father. In fact, Olga has replaced Pedro in the classroom on the Naval Base. Just as her father translated letters for me in years past, now Olga translates my updates!

When I first came to Rota with my young family, Pedro was an invaluable partner, both personally when he helped us get settled in the Spanish culture; and professionally helping me to locate a site for a retreat ministry I had designed called CREDO/Esperanza. Because of his deep faith and close ties to his church, he opened many doors for me. You can read about this in my Christmas 2006 Update.

Pedro opened many doors for others as well. As he rose to become the intercultural affairs coordinator for the Commanding Officer, he worked assiduously to bring Americans and local Spaniards together so that they could work in harmony.

After years of wandering as a young man, Pedro found a spiritual anchor in his beloved Isabella who was always by his side. She is a pious woman, practicing her traditional age-old faith. With members of her ladies group at the parish she has attended many pilgrimages, including the famous El Rocío, across the Guadalquivir River in the province of Huelva. Isabela remains a spiritual anchor today. As a mother and grandmother, she continues to lend her loving and faithful support to her extended family.

Old Spain and New: steeped in tradition, yet always eager to integrate the changing times. That is the story of the shoemaker's son and the carpenter's daughter. To my mind, people such as this devoted couple are the bedrock of Spain and an inspiration to all of us.

My best to you and to those whom you love,
Don

Three Kings Day is all about the joy of children as they join the whole community to celebrate the coming of the Magi. One of my favorite essays in my book, The Heart of Spain, describes one of the most delightful celebrations in Spain.

Three Kings Day, the sixth of January, is still alive and well in Spain. The local parades, the Magi, the happy children scrambling for caramelos - it is Epiphany, the culmination of the Christmas festivities, and it remains intact - very traditional and very Spanish.

It is one of the religious celebrations which are central to the identity of Spain. That most Spanish of all events, Semana Santa, is still so laden with emotion, that the suffering of Good Friday almost eclipses the Resurrection as a focus of devotion and celebration.

The Spanish Three Kings Day is quite different in its focus. Rather than being devotional, it has always been the festival for children and the family. The celebration of the arrival of the Wise Men, the Magi, is an official excuse to go all out in showering attention and affection on their children - who are singularly treasured in the Spanish culture.

Modern Spain has in many ways been heavily influenced by modern secular culture imported from America and her northern European neighbors. Santa as a mercantile symbol is in most of the stores. Modern Spaniards even have Christmas trees!

But if you want to experience traditional Spain, go to the towns and celebrate Tres Reyes with the local people, where Three Kings Day is still central in the children's hearts. The Christmas season begins with a Carta de Reyes, a letter that children pick up in the post office, fill out and mail free of charge to the Three Wise Men.

It reaches its climax with a parade, which in Spanish is called the Cabalgata - a cavalcade - a ceremonial procession, especially on horseback. This Friday evening, as is customary on the fifth of January, the eve of Three Kings Day, thousands of excited children and their parents will gather along the streets of virtually every city and village in Spain in anticipation of the arrival of the Three Kings.

One of them, Baltazar, is an anachronism: reflecting the long time Muslim presence in Spain, he appears as a Moor and an African! He is a favorite of the children since, until recently, black Africans were a rarity in Spain. He is accompanied by the other Magi, Melchior and Gaspar, and together they toss candy into the excited crowd of children. In some towns, the Magi stop to greet the children personally, giving them small presents as well.

After the excitement of the parade, it is time to prepare the children to go to bed. But just before bedtime on this magic eve, the children prepare three items that they will leave by the door for the Wise Men: a dish of water and hay or straw for their camels, rich turrón made of honey and almonds (such as we have at La Tienda), and a glass of wine or sherry for the Kings. Next to the provisions they have prepared, the children leave a pair of shoes in which they hope the Kings will deposit a gift or two.

When they awaken next morning the children discover their gifts, and for breakfast they might enjoy chocolate a la taza (thick hot chocolate) and Roscón de Reyes - sweet bread embedded with candied fruit - similar to Easter bread in Greece and Scandinavia. Within the bread is hidden a prize, perhaps a small coin or a ring. Whoever finds it is King for the day.

Late in the afternoon, after dinner and a siesta, the children and their parents visit the homes of their extended family, grandparents, aunts and uncles or a favorite cousin, to see what the Kings have given them. It is an all day evolution devoted to the family.

My wife Ruth and I, and our sons, have many fond memories of Tres Reyes. One year we visited the mountain town of Guadalupe, where we saw the children born the previous year being presented for a blessing on the monastery steps. Soon thereafter the Wise Men arrived dressed in their exotic Near Eastern attire. They did not arrive on camels, however, but on a flat-bed hauled by a John Deere tractor. The kids could care less about the incongruity; they were delighted to catch the candy that the Three Kings were tossing to them.

Another time Ruth and I visited the lovely town of Trujillo in Extremadura. The entire population gathers in the vast Plaza Mayor each Tres Reyes Eve, under the watchful eye of Conquistador Juan Pizarro who is looking down from a huge bronze statue.

As we stood among the gathering we could see grandmothers lovingly fussing over their grandchildren safely tucked in their strollers. Fathers and grandfathers were playing with the young boys who were scampering through the crowd of their neighbors.

Families would stop to admire the Belén, or crèche, situated in the plaza near the stone steps. A beautiful young girl next to the manger was dressed as Mary. She was watched over by a young boy Joseph – who was a little less convincing with his cotton batten beard. Gathered around the manger were a few teen-aged shepherds. And then, at the appropriate time, their fathers and uncles rode into town on handsome horses, dressed as the Three Kings. The carts that accompanied them were filled with candy dispensed by young señoritas.

Perhaps the most elaborate festivity was the one Ruth and I, and two of our sons, witnessed in the holy city of Santiago de Compostela – the goal for pilgrims throughout the world. As we headed across the Plaza de Obradoiro toward the cabalgata of the Kings, we were jostled by the crowd of children with their parents and grandparents.

We peered around the medieval stone columns of Santiago’s ancient Romanesque arcades to witness the arrival of the Magi. Their entrance was quite impressive – out of the misty night appeared three men in elaborate costumes, mounted on impressive steeds, and accompanied by truck after truck of caramelos for the children.

What a wonderful way to end the holiday season - providing some event to delight our children. Earlier I mentioned that Spaniards treasure their children, and I used the word "treasured" purposely. If there was one characteristic, above all others, that attracts me to Spain, it is seeing how they cherish their children – not just the parents, whom you would expect, but the whole community.

Other mothers (and grandmothers, of course), whom we would view as strangers, will joyfully come up to a little baby and admire her profusely. Then they will reach into their purse for an omni-present caramelo to present to the child. ¡Que guapa! – How beautiful! – She will exclaim. Those women are not strangers but part of a broader community that supports the child all her (or his) life.

The English adage "children should be seen and not heard" is incomprehensible to the traditional Spaniard. As many of you who have traveled the byways of Spain know, children are everywhere. When Ruth and I were eating dinner at 10 o'clock in the evening in Andalucía, we would see the Spanish parents enjoying dinner together, while all around their tables the children were playing. And why not? They are as much part of the family as the older people. In fact they are our hope.

I hope you had some time to enjoy your children and grandchildren, nephews and nieces, this holiday season. I love to see the unbounded joy and wonder of little children as they discover the world around them.

Felices fiestas y un Prospero Año Nuevo,
Don Harris

Three Kings Day, the sixth of January, is still alive and well in Spain. The local parades, the Magi, the happy children scrambling for caramelos - it is Epiphany, the culmination of the Christmas festivities, and it remains intact - very traditional and very Spanish.

It is one of the religious celebrations which are central to the identity of Spain. That most Spanish of all events, Semana Santa, is still so laden with emotion, that the suffering of Good Friday almost eclipses the Resurrection as a focus of devotion and celebration.

The Spanish Three Kings Day is quite different in its focus. Rather than being devotional, it has always been the festival for children and the family. The celebration of the arrival of the Wise Men, the Magi, is an official excuse to go all out in showering attention and affection on their children – who are singularly treasured in the Spanish culture.

Modern Spain has in many ways been heavily influenced by modern secular culture imported from America and her northern European neighbors. Santa as a mercantile symbol is in most of the stores. Modern Spaniards even have Christmas trees!

But if you want to experience traditional Spain, go to the towns and celebrate Tres Reyes with the local people, where Three Kings Day is still central in the children's hearts. The Christmas season begins with a Carta de Reyes, a letter that children pick up in the post office, fill out and mail free of charge to the Three Wise Men.

It reaches its climax with a parade, which in Spanish is called the ‘Cabalgata’ - a cavalcade - a ceremonial procession, especially on horseback. This Friday evening, as is customary on 5 January, the eve of Three Kings Day, thousands of excited children and their parents will gather along streets of virtually every city and village in Spain in anticipation of the arrival of the Three Kings.

One of them, Baltazar, is an anachronism: reflecting the long time Muslim presence in Spain, he appears as a Moor and an African! He is a favorite of the children since, until recently, black Africans were a rarity in Spain. He is accompanied by the other Magi, Melchior and Gaspar, and together they toss candy into the excited crowd of children. In some towns, the Magi stop to greet the children personally, giving them small presents, as well.

After the excitement of the parade, it is time to prepare the children to go to bed. But just before bedtime on this magic eve, the children prepare three items that they will leave by the door for the Wise Men: a dish of water and hay or straw for their camels; rich turrón made of honey and almonds (such as we have at La Tienda) and a glass of wine or sherry for the Kings. Next to the provisions they have prepared, the children leave a pair of shoes in which they hope the Kings will deposit a gift or two.

When they awaken next morning the children discover their gifts, and for breakfast they might enjoy chocolate a la taza (thick hot chocolate) and Roscón de Reyes – sweet bread embedded with candied fruit – similar to Easter bread in Greece and Scandinavia. Within the bread is hidden a prize – perhaps a small coin or a ring. Whoever finds it is King for the Day.

Late in the afternoon, after dinner and a siesta, the children and their parents visit the homes of their extended family – grandparents, aunts and uncles or a favorite cousin - to see what the Kings have given them. It is an all day evolution devoted to the family.

My wife Ruth and I, and our sons, have many fond memories of Tres Reyes. One year we visited the mountain town of Guadalupe, where we saw the children born the previous year being presented for a blessing on the monastery steps. Soon thereafter the Wise Men arrived dressed in their exotic Near Eastern attire. They did not arrive on camels, however, but on a flat-bed hauled by a John Deere tractor. The kids could care less about the incongruity; they were delighted to catch the candy that the Three Kings were tossing to them.

Another time Ruth and I visited the lovely town of Trujillo in Extremadura. The entire population gathers in the vast Plaza Mayor each Tres Reyes Eve, under the watchful eye of Conquistador Juan Pizarro who is looking down from a huge bronze statue.

As we stood among the gathering we could see grandmothers lovingly fussing over their grandchildren safely tucked in their strollers. Fathers and grandfathers were playing with the young boys who were scampering through the crowd of their neighbors.

Families would stop to admire the Belén, or crèche, situated in the plaza near the stone steps. A beautiful young girl next to the manger was dressed as Mary. She was watched over by a young boy Joseph – who was a little less convincing with his cotton batten beard. Gathered around the manger were a few teen-aged shepherds. And then, at the appropriate time, their fathers and uncles rode into town on handsome horses, dressed as the Three Kings. The carts that accompanied them were filled with candy dispensed by young señoritas.

Perhaps the most elaborate festivity was the one Ruth and I, and two of our sons, witnessed in the holy city of Santiago de Compostela – the goal for pilgrims throughout the world. As we headed across the Plaza de Obradoiro toward the cabalgata of the Kings, we were jostled by the crowd of children with their parents and grandparents.

We peered around the medieval stone columns of Santiago’s ancient Romanesque arcades to witness the arrival of the Magi. Their entrance was quite impressive – out of the misty night appeared three men in elaborate costumes, mounted on impressive steeds, and accompanied by truck after truck of caramelos for the children.

What a wonderful way to end the holiday season, providing some event to delight our children. Earlier I mentioned that Spaniards treasure their children, and I used the word "treasured" purposely. If there was one characteristic, above all others, that attracts me to Spain is seeing how they cherish their children – not just the parents, whom you would expect, but the whole community.

Other mothers (and grandmothers, of course), whom we would view as strangers, will joyfully come up to a little baby and admire her profusely. Then they will reach into their purse for an omni-present caramelo to present to the child. ¡Que guapa! – How beautiful! – she will exclaim. Those women are not strangers but part of a broader community that supports the child all her (or his) life.

The English adage "children should be seen and not heard" is incomprehensible to the traditional Spaniard. As many of you know who have traveled the byways of Spain, children are everywhere. When Ruth and I were eating dinner at 10 o'clock in the evening in Andalucía, we would see the Spanish parents enjoying dinner together, while all around their tables the children were playing. And why not? They are as much part of the family as the older people. In fact they are our hope.

I hope you had some time to enjoy your children and grandchildren, nephews and nieces, this holiday season. I love to see the unbounded joy and wonder of little children as they discover the world around them.

Felices fiestas y un Prospero Año Nuevo.
Don

The abiding aspect of the holiday season, beyond the hustle and bustle of buying presents, is the hospitality you share with your family, friends and strangers. What most faiths hold in common is an affirmation of our capacity for generosity, even in times of turmoil and war - whether it be in Bethlehem many centuries ago or in the Amish town which sustained such loss this fall.

One example of this goodness and hospitality that has affected me deeply is the life of Don Ignacio Millán, whom I met in 1973. He was a frail ascetic Spanish nobleman born in the 19th century. It was hard to tell an exact age when looking into the face of one who had endured first the religious persecution of the 1920s; then the hunger and devastation of the Spanish Civil War, where almost one third of the male population was slain; and finally the deprivation of World War II and its aftermath of political and economic isolation.

I first met Don Ignacio at his bedside in Villa Ballena - the House of the Whale. I was with my good friend Pedro Diaz, and we were looking for a site to hold weekend retreats which I led as a Navy chaplain stationed at the naval base in Rota. I first met Pedro at a Spanish class he was teaching on the Base. He was a warm and expansive man with a great love for Americans.

Villa Ballena was an unpretentious but elegant retreat house located on the beach of Chipiona. At that time it was a modest fishing village. As we stepped to the door of Don Ignacio's dwelling, we could hear the waves lapping around the pre-Christian light house, which was just a few yards away. I could even see the surf swelling over the remnants of Phoenician stone fish traps near its base.

Bundled up for the chilling winds, Pedro and I rapped on the glass pane of the front door of the villa. A widow, dressed in traditional black, came to the door and, when we told her our mission, led us to a bedroom at the end of the main tile-clad corridor.

The frail figure of Don Ignacio, suffering from influenza, rose from his sick bed and bowed graciously. "You are especially welcome," he said humbly, "I will forever be grateful for the Americans who brought food to our little town of Chipiona when we were hungry."

After we described the purpose of our visit, Don Ignacio, without hesitation offered me Villa Ballena as the site for Credo Weekends. He said that all he wanted was $1 per person for the four day retreat! As he bid us goodbye, he said "I am honored to have an opportunity to give back what we have received."

The Villa has an interesting history. As was the custom for all young men of means, Don Ignacio and his brother were privileged to attend the month-long Ejercicio Spiritual - the Spiritual Exercises of Ignacio de Loyola. The Millán brothers were so moved by the experience that they vowed to extend the blessing they had received to the less fortunate fishermen of the town. Sparing no expense, Don Ignacio joined with his brother, an architect, to build Villa Bellena.

It was a splendid retreat house, clad in Moorish tiles, built to nourish the souls of Don Ignacio's humble neighbors, including their children whom he welcomed to enjoy the beach in the summer. Over the years the structure became a haven for many spiritual seekers and a place of refuge for Christians persecuted by the anti-clerical regime that governed Spain in the 1920s.

As he welcomed the American sailors and marines and members of their families into his house during the ensuing months, Don Ignacio could see his dream fulfilled in yet another way. Once more he was helping common sea-faring people in their search for the love of God and new life.

Two widows, Rosario and Catalina, prepared simple and hearty meals for the sailors, and Don Ignacio wearing a vest and black bow tie, typical of local waiters, served the sailors elegantly. Sometimes between meals, the aged gentleman would slip out to drive to Seville 70 miles away, where he would visit the elderly folks who lived in another structure he and his brother had built to serve their less fortunate neighbors. Of course, many of the residents were younger than he.

Don Ignacio insisted upon only one thing: that each of his Navy guest's names would be entered in a ledger that listed all those who went on a retreat at Villa Ballena over the years. At the end of each retreat, after they had rolled up their sleeping bags to prepare for their return to the base, each sailor and marine would pause by a small table where frail Don Ignacio sat with his timeworn register. With a sense of deep satisfaction evident to all, the holy man entered their names alongside the hundreds of Spaniards who had come before.

Once he told me how impressed he was that the American young people showed such seriousness during the retreat, wistfully observing that this was not always the case with modern Spanish youth. As we walked along the beach one day I asked Don Ignacio whether he had ever been married. He looked into my face with a twinkle in his eyes and answered, "Who would ever want to marry me? I give away all that I have."

Indeed, this was so, for as the years passed by, he even offered to give me Villa Ballena as a permanent residence for ministry to the Naval Base. Tempting as the offer was, I was not at a point in my journey where I could consider such a radical move.

A few years later I tried to contact to Don Ignacio in Sevilla. I received the following handwritten note, "I write you to communicate with all regrets and deep feelings that unfortunately, and surely because God wanted him by His side, seven months ago, the good and saintly Don Ignacio died. He has left a trail of good deeds behind that all of us will never forget. He was a man of exemplary conduct, sharing, humble, charitable, diligent, generous, modest, virtuous. If you knew him I suppose it is unnecessary to continue listing his praises. The general opinion was that he was a saint."

A few years later Don Ignacio's gracious structure, Villa Ballena, fell to the wrecker's ball in order to make room for another anonymous beachfront condominium. I returned 18 years later with my son Jonathan and could not find a trace.

But does that really matter? Thirty years later the light of Don Ignacio's generosity and humility abides with me, and with many of the sailors and marines who had the privilege of knowing him. Don Ignacio's life is a reminder that the acts of kindness and generosity you express toward others during this holiday season have a life of their own. You make it a better place for all of us.

My family and I wish you a warm and satisfying Holiday Season with those whom you love.

Felices Fiestas,
Don

I imagine that these days you are thinking about what you are going to prepare for Thanksgiving Day, when many of you will gather with your extended family and friends. I thought you would be intrigued by the story of a remarkable couple, Angel and Cristina.

Angel and Cristina live in the Province of Toledo, where they renovated a rustic building in the rural village of Malpica de Tajo. They retained the traditional whitewashed appearance and terra-cotta floors and then added all the touches of a modern commercial kitchen. Each day they go into their kitchen and cook the most extraordinary products by hand - just as their families have for generations.

Earlier this year my good friend Esther, an excellent post-graduate student in Madrid, suggested we go visit them. Since we were not planning to go to Spain soon, we asked our friend Jamie to go to their village. When he arrived, he saw Cristina take a large wooden spoon and carefully stir a vast paella pan that was bubbling with fragrant tomate frito sauce. They allow it to simmer for eight hours so that the flavors blend to their exacting standard.

He was so impressed with Angel and Cristina's talent and integrity, that I asked him to get to know Angel and Cristina even better. As you read what Angel says about his life, I hope you appreciate the romantic spirit that this couple embodies -- it is the essence of being a Spaniard.

Angel recounts that as a young child he and his brother would spend the summer with their parents at El Hoyo, an ancient rustic estate in the heart of the Sierra Madrona Mountains. It is an area in Córdoba that is one of Spain's least populated places. It is so remote that when the Spanish Civil War ended in 1939, most villagers were unaware that a war had even erupted three years earlier.

The village of El Hoyo is in the center of the old estate of the same name. When his father would make a trip to the village to pick up supplies, Angel would tag along and buy caramelos (little wrapped candies) and pipas (sunflower seeds) -- 50 centimos for the caramelos and 5 pesetas for the pipas. Then, each winter, when he was back at school in Madrid, he would sell his caramelos and pipas to make a small profit. In those early years money was short, food was scarce and time seemed to stop.

While at the finca/farm Angel and his brother would spend some of their spare time helping their parents. There were the usual routine chores to be done around the house, but the task Angel liked best was when he was helping in the family kitchen. He fondly remembers lingering there after his chores were done, because, as in any country home, the household kitchen was the center of activity. He loved to hear older members of his extended family engaging in long conversations while gathered around the kitchen hearth.

"These precious experiences I had as a child," Angel said with typical Spanish fervor, "I mean the aromas and flavors which enveloped our family gatherings - they are forever imprinted on my soul." As he grew up during the next few years, Angel dreamed that somehow he would recapture these the happiest days of his life. He knew one thing, it would have to be linked to the hearth.

One day Angel, now a young man, struck up a conversation with a young woman in a café in Madrid. Her name was Cristina. Their conversation turned out to be one of those exhilarating exchanges that occur when two strangers accidentally meet and find in each other a soul-mate.

Angel recounts with great emotion how their chance contact and the conversation that ensued embarked them on a dream from which they still have not awakened. They were on a quest to recover the traditions, the flavors and memories they cherished from the cradle and to share them with others.

With an intense sense of purpose, Cristina and Angel embarked on their journey to learn all that they could about the traditional food each enjoyed as a child. They traveled the byways of Spain, visiting many farmers, witnessing the sacrifice of the Ibérico pigs and getting to know fine family bodegas and cellars. Best of all, they shared the finest and most delicious of foods throughout Spain. When they returned home they applied their experiences to the kitchen hearth, learning to recreate what they had learned.

Angel reflects that sometimes he and Cristina ask each other whether they have been blessed or cursed, because they cannot rest from their quest for perfection. They know that their sense of warmth and family love, which began in the crib, is destined to be shared with those who search for the same. And so they started a small enterprise called La Cuna - which in English means, "The Cradle".

The aromas of a traditional Spanish kitchen waft throughout the neighborhood. The recipes they prepare in their La Cuna kitchen stem from these childhood memories and senses forged in the souls of Angel and his wife Cristina - fruit marmalades, honey, herbal tea, and marvelous sauces such as tomate frito, rich vegetable pisto and garlic.

La Cuna is Angel and Cristina's effort to relive those moments they loved. "They are moments," Angel explains, "that easily slip between ones fingers for lack of time - or perhaps more importantly - one does not know how to identify those moments and those small special things in our lives which truly anoint the soul and spirit."

After all, Angel told us: "To share three hours in the kitchen with those you love is probably more therapeutic than a thousand medicines, and as an old Spanish proverb says, 'The kitchen is the best medicine of all.'"

My family and I hope that many of you are able to experience some of those special moments when you gather together on Thanksgiving Day. Hearing about Angel and Cristina's life will encourage me to treasure the fleeting moments around the Thanksgiving table and to be grateful for those whom I love who are with me.

With best wishes to you and those whom you love,
Don

My family has covered the byways of Spain for over forty years - first my wife Ruth and me, then traveling with our children, and in recent years our adult sons with their families. We enjoy experiencing the ways of life of the families we meet from the many parts of Spain. With this accumulated understanding we are able to identify the best of Spain - we look beyond the obvious in order to bring you what is truly authentic.

Over the past few months I have been sharing with you some of these personal encounters, which I hope will give you a window into the rich and complex culture that is Spain. You may remember Pepe from Murcia, who is the maestro of paella rice. Or José and Amalia, who produce artisan peppers and other vegetables from the ancient kingdom of Navarra.

I also introduced you to Antonio, a jovial scholar and gourmand, who teaches at the University of Cáceres. We also went down to Malaga to meet Jorge, the irrepressible shepherd of wine.

Today I would like you to meet my friend Esteban, whose family roots go back almost 1,000 years. He is a warm and gentle man, whom our family has met on several occasions.

He and his brother Javier work together with his father, Esteban Salvadores who founded a small business, El Maragato, in the ancient stone village of Castrillo de los Polvazares, which was first an encampment of the Roman legion. Later, in medieval times, the villagers welcomed pilgrims traveling along the Camino de Santiago.

The Salvadores family takes take great pride in their fabes de la granja - the legendary fabada beans grown for centuries in the neighboring kingdom of Asturias. La Granja beans from Asturias are the crucial ingredient for authentic Fabada - the bean and sausage stew which has been emblematic of Asturias for over one thousand years.

What makes La Granja faba beans unique is that they have an uncanny ability to absorb the complex tastes that the chorizo and black sausage lend to the broth, in much the same way as Bomba rice absorbs the rich broth of a paella. When cooked, the beans double in size and have a unique buttery flavor and smooth texture.

Production of Fabas de la granja is extremely limited because they need to be planted and weeded by hand along the fertile valleys and riverbanks of Asturias. They take 150 days to mature, in contrast to ordinary beans, which take 90 days. They have to be hand tied to the vines, hand husked, and then dried in raised stone barns, called hierras. As with many of the finest products of Spain, there is no substitute for individual attention - you need to follow centuries-old procedures.

Esteban and his family could not be more rooted in the history and culture of Spain. They are direct descendants of the enigmatic people known as the Maragatos. In medieval Spain they established trading networks so that goods or gold could be transported in safety.

The national epic El Poema del Mio Cid, gives evidence that the Maragatos were entrusted by El Cid and the Court of King Alfonso VI of León, to transport the dowry for his daughters, and the riches gained from El Cid's conquest of the Moors in Valencia and Alicante. One of the transfers involved more than 200 horses!

Three hundred years later, Esteban's Maragato ancestors were indispensable during the reign of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. They were commissioned by the Catholic Kings to transport munitions down through the rugged mountains to aid in the reconquest of Granada in 1492. In recognition of their contribution to the liberation of Christian Spain, his family was given the title of nobility and was known locally as the 'Salvadores de Castrillo (Saviors from Castrillo)'. Salvadores is still their surname today!

So these are the historical and cultural roots of Esteban and his family -- these early traders and people of commerce. And what a privilege it is to listen to him as he proudly recounts how his grandfather and great grandfather were very much of the tradition of their Maragato forebears.

He describes how they traveled throughout northern Spain from Galicia to Navarra and Huesca trading wines, oil, dried goods, bacalao and other salted meats and fish (salazones).

Over time dried goods and particularly beans become the backbone of their enterprise, since they were easier to haul and store than salazones, and weighed far less than wines. So following in the tradition (how could he not?) Esteban's father founded the present day company, El Maragato, and is now working together with his two unmarried sons. (At La Tienda I have a similar sense of satisfaction working with my sons - but Ruth and I have been blessed with even more -- four frisky grandchildren!)

Esteban says that they chose the name El Maragato for their business because it suggests honesty and evokes a sense of continuity. (It was not that long ago when goods such as beans were moved about by mule train from one region to another.) But most of all, the name was chosen because the Salvadores family is proud of their cultural and historical roots as full-blooded Maragatos. To demonstrate their commitment to their community, they have included a beechwood spoon with many of the bags made by handicapped people in their village.

Ruth has been reading The Bible in Spain, an account by 19C English linguist and traveler George Borrow, about his travels in Spain -- some of you might enjoy reading it. In this fascinating memoir, the author wrote the following:

"In a word, almost the entire commerce of nearly one half of Spain passes through the hands of the Maragatos, whose fidelity to their trust is such, that no one accustomed to employ them would hesitate to confide to them the transport of a ton of treasure from the sea of Biscay to Madrid; knowing well that it would not be their fault were it not delivered safe and undiminished, even of a grain, and that bold must be the thieves who would seek to wrest it from the far feared Maragatos, who would cling to it whilst they could stand, and would cover it with their bodies when they fell in the act of loading or discharging their long carbines."

When we first met Esteban we were attracted to the quality of his artisan products. We had no idea that we would have the honor of working with such a solid and noble family, deeply rooted in the traditions of Spain - they reflect the best in Spain.

My best to you and those you love,
Don

For hundreds of years a few villagers of a tiny town in La Mancha have picked crocuses and roasted the stamens to produce saffron. And with the click of a mouse La Tienda can deliver the fruit of their labor to your kitchen. I find that quite amazing.

How is it that we, an American family, began ten years ago to bring the best of Spain to America via the internet? Our early knowledge of Internet technology was very American, of course. But our appreciation of Spain came from our intimate involvement with her people.

My first contact with the Spanish culture was in early 1965 when, as a newly commissioned Navy chaplain, I made my first deployment aboard a destroyer. Among our first ports of call was the bustling maritime port of Valencia -- for centuries it has been a hub for Mediterranean commerce.

I wandered cobble-stoned streets of the gothic quarter late one night, stopping in a small café named Casa Angel. The place was empty except for the waiter behind the bar. We struck up a conversation -- both of us with just a few words of the other's language. Soon he brought me gambas al ajillo - tasty garlic shrimp served sizzling in a small terra cotta cazuela. What a wonderful introduction to Spanish cuisine!

A little while later a garrulous group of gypsies stopped by. It was not long before they filled the small bar with the characteristic syncopated clapping and mournful singing of their native flamenco. For some unfathomable reason I felt at home - as if my soul had always been in Spain.

I could hardly wait to introduce this wonderful land to my new wife. We began to scour the countryside together in a tiny SEAT 600 sedan. It was the late 1960's, and Spain was still heroically struggling to overcome the ravages of their civil war and isolation during World War II. The roads were rough, but the towns were timeless, and the people we met were exceptionally warm and gracious.

Eight years later, the Navy issued our dream orders to the naval base at Rota - not far from the place where Columbus and his successors embarked for the New World. Ruth and I rented a traditional home with a patio for our young family among the sherry bodegas in the oldest section of El Puerto de Santa Maria, a nearby town.

Our son Tim was 5 years old and Jonathan was only 2.The house was located along the main street, around the corner from a Moorish castle. The air was laden with the heady aroma of aging wine, and often we heard happy children clapping flamenco rhythms as they walked down the cobble-stoned street. Later we moved to a chalet in a more secluded area where our youngest son Christopher was born.

Our brief time living in Spain made a deep impression on all of our family. We included our young sons on our many treks into the countryside - they were absorbing Spain almost from birth. We enrolled our eldest son in a school where Spanish and English children played and learned together in both languages. In later years when Tim was in college, he returned to spend a summer with a Spanish family in Sevilla.

When our second son Jonathan was still in college, he deepened his love for Spain by walking from France all the way across northern Spain along the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela. (Later he returned on his honeymoon!) Christopher, our native born Spaniard son, spent a summer in La Coruña as a student.

When I retired from the Navy, in 1988, we settled in Williamsburg, Virginia, where our eldest son Tim was a student at William & Mary. As many of you know, Williamsburg is very orderly and very English -- so we decided to enliven our home by installing classic Moorish tiles such as those that surrounded us when we lived in Andalucía. Our kitchen, baths and fireplace were transformed. A taste of Spain had come to Virginia!

1996 was the time when the Internet was emerging. (Amazon had just started selling books the year before.) As an experiment with the new media, we decided to post the pictures of the tiles on the Internet. We hoped we could help people avoid the difficulties we experienced finding them. Jonathan designed a website and posted examples of colorful tiles such as one would see at the Alhambra. It was not long before we began to hear from across the nation, especially from native born Spaniards - but there were others as well, who had discovered the beauty of Moorish art through their visits to the country.

Coincidentally, our eldest son Tim was working in Smithfield VA as a company representative for their historic country ham. A group of ham producers from Madrid was visiting the company to discuss Serrano hams, and he was asked to be their translator. He came home that night inspired with the idea that there might be some interest in America for these Spanish country hams.

So we checked out his idea on the Internet. Jonathan posted a picture of a Jamón Serrano on our Tienda website, incongruously next to rows of colorful tiles, with the question, "If we could find a serrano ham from Spain for you, would you like it?" The response was immediate and enthusiastic. It seems all the nostalgic Spaniards who had been dreaming of tiles, were even more excited with the prospect of enjoying a traditional Spanish ham.

The catch was that at the time the hams could not be imported since the US government had not yet approved them. But we were undaunted. We did our research, traveled to Spain to get to know people in the ham industry, and met some meat importers in America. It was an exciting quest that involved the whole family.

Each month I would write an update to our La Tienda friends with news about our progress in bringing Jamón Serrano to the States. The excitement generated by our customers was palpable: the wait was almost like a vigil. It reached its climax in late December 1998 when the first Jamón Serrano arrived, and La Tienda proudly delivered the first hams to every corner of the country. Because of the Internet, this was not going to be a product confined to elegant cafes, Jamón Serrano was for all America.

While the La Tienda patrons were waiting for this ham, they requested many favorite products from Spain: Nenuco and María cookies from their childhood, almond and honey turrón for the holidays, classic soaps such as Magno, Heno de Pravia, bonito tuna, anchovies, boquerones, Marcona almonds, Magdalenas, Manchego cheese and more.

One item that was at the top of the list was Jamón Ibérico- the coveted "pata negra" Ibérico ham. Clearly, if we were to have the best of Spain in America, we needed to embark on yet another quest. So we returned to the byways of Spain to follow the trail which has led to La Tienda now offering the celebrated Ibérico pork products, and ultimately Jamón Ibérico.

As La Tienda began to have many more enthusiastic patrons, Tim was free to join in our efforts full time. He brought his knowledge of hams and his skills learned during the early days of Internet commerce. Gradually our whole family began to mobilize. First Ruth learned about accounting. As we continued to grow, most of the family began working together. As an added bonus, Grandma enjoyed being with the youngest grandchildren some weekdays, so that their mothers could help out in the office. Six family members are now involved, along with a great staff in the office and in the warehouse.

Early in this evolution our son Christopher was involved as well. With some background in internet marketing, he designed our first customer survey. Since then he and his wife have both joined the Foreign Service, and their involvement has been more as enthusiastic members of the family than as hands-on workers. Chris and Rian share in our decisions, when the whole family has an opportunity to be together.

As La Tienda has grown, so has the La Tienda community become more varied. Our first native speaking Spaniards were soon joined by Americans who had lived, traveled or were stationed in Spain. As tapas and paella has become popular, all of America is learning about Spanish food. Now half our customers are purely lovers of good healthy food - their connection to Spain is solely through her cuisine.

I have a sense of wonder about this amazing era in which we live. It is as if through technology we are able to telescope time - bringing medieval products to 21st Century tables! Our family has enjoyed making friends with some of the people of the land -- the heart and soul of traditional Spain. From them we have learned about olive oil, and the traditional artisan Manchego cheese. We have seen farmers mill their smoked peppers to make pimentón and visited with wine makers in the North and the South. The long quest for Jamón Ibérico has enabled us to meet many more people who, although modern in their vision, embody the soul of traditional Spain. Because of the Internet we are able to share these traditional products with you.

These have been a gratifying ten years for me. Working side by side with my family each day at La Tienda is a blessing. We enjoy bringing the very best of Spain to your table. There are more roads to travel, more traditional products to discover. Thank you for continuing to be a part of our journey.

All the best from my family to you and those whom you love,
Don

It was dusk that evening in early June -- about 10 PM. I stood on the beach where the Guadalquivir River merges with the Atlantic Ocean and watched the last group of pilgrims disembarking from the barge that had brought them as a group from the La Doñana marshlands on the other side.

They reassembled their procession and proceeded down the beach toward their homes in the village of Bonanza. It was led by a man holding high a cross. Next, on foot, came a small group of other men who must have been the town fathers, or the leaders of the religious brotherhood devoted to the romero. They were followed by a group of people of all ages mounted on beautiful Andalucían horses - and I mean all ages.

For me as a father, the most poignant scene was a little boy, aged 3, who was riding confidently next to his father on his own full sized horse. His father leaned over in his saddle and kissed his son, so proud that his son was now a full-fledged part of the procession of young horsemen.

The procession continued with a group of men and women singing devotional songs to La Paloma - the White Virgin of El Rocío. Several walked with long silver encrusted staffs. They preceded a wooden cart bearing a 'float' of their local Virgin pulled by some of the stronger men, with some women on the other end pushing to help it along in the waterside sand. They were followed by three pairs of magnificent oxen, and most of the rest of the people of the village.

They were a part of the El Rocío pilgrimage, in which each year up to a million ordinary people, as well as gypsies in colorful carts, converge on the remote town of El Rocío. They sing and dance, flamenco songs fill the air -- all leading up to the climactic moment when the 'La Paloma' (the Dove) -- the White Virgin emerges from the church. Some women break into tears and sing mournful saetas; others hold their infants and little children up to touch the Virgin so that they may be blessed by her presence.

Then it is over for another year. The people return home by bus, cart or van singing and visiting with one another. It is a very communal event, which has been going on for over a thousand years - some anthropologists maintain that the origin of this annual gathering is pre-Christian! The liturgical rhythm of the centuries is reenacted each year, and will be for years to come. That little boy on horseback will grow into a young man, then a father, and then perhaps a leader of the brotherhood with his son by his side.

What makes the scene even more remarkable is that 500 years ago this sleepy sherry town was the center of the expansion of the Spanish Empire to the New World! In the first five years of the 16th century between 300 to 400 ships set sail from this bustling port (including those of Columbus and Amerigo Vespucci).

For over 200 years, caravels bound for the Indies would cast off their moorings and head into the treacherous Atlantic from Sanlúcar. Many ships returned laden with treasure in their holds. All the gold was weighed in the neighboring town of Bonanza before being sent up the river to Sevilla. Now Bonanza's glory days are over. It is just a little village -- the final destination of the small group of pilgrims I saw processing down the beach.

Another example of continuity is the stately house in which we spent the month of June. It was built by a sherry family about 100 years ago - with its high ceilings, marble floors, tiled kitchens and patios overflowing with cascades of Bougainvillea. There was even a small lemon tree against the white wall, laden with fruit, to the delight of my grandchildren.

The delightful landlady, María, welcomed us with such grace. She and her five sisters had grown up within these walls. Her husband Miguel told us how he used to come by to see her when she was a very young lady. One thing led to another and now they are a married couple of 40 years or more. He went on to say that his forebears were among the 24 knights who liberated the neighboring sherry town of Jerez de la Frontera from the Moors in the 13th C. His family has been in the area ever since.

We dropped by to see our friend Juan Hidalgo, whose family has been making sherry since 1792 when they came down from the Basque Country. Originally, they were interested in refining salt, but fortunately for all of us they decided to plant vineyards of palomino grapes that now yield La Gitana manzanilla -- the overwhelming favorite wine of Andalucíans at the famous spring fair in Sevilla. Juan showed me and some of my family the bodegas with their endless rows of black American Oak barrels full of the juice of the manzanilla grapes now mellowing into the celebrated wine.

Rumor has it that when the handful of emaciated survivors of Magellan's round the world voyage finally arrived back to Sanlúcar, the first thing they asked for was a healing glass of manzanilla. Of course the story is apocryphal, since that type of wine did not exist at the time! However, we do know that the officers and men of the fleets of Lord Wellington and Napoleon depended upon the Hidalgo family to replenish their supplies of wine.

When Juan showed me the office of his older brother, Luis, who now heads the company, it was if we were stepping back in time. It was the same airy, beautifully tiled office that his father and grandfather occupied when they directed the company. Among the gallery of family members whose pictures were mounted on the wall was a portrait of Luís's and his grandfather. The family resemblance was uncanny!

One final tale - and to me the most engaging. If you visit Sanlúcar in the summer, you will be surrounded by small swarms of young teenagers buzzing around on their 'motos' (motor bikes). They seem to be everywhere, the boys and girls moving together in groups. My Spanish friend explained that they are only repeating the tradition of their parents who do much the same thing - going to their favorite café to visit with their same friends year after year. When these young people were much younger they were with their parents in the cafes and played together around the tables. Now they are coming of age.

I find the thought of such continuity very appealing. This stability may be what first drew me to the culture of Spain so many years ago -- experiencing families who ties go back for hundreds of years. Kids who grow up bonding with the same friends from infancy have no need to posture at the Malls pretending to be what they wished they were. Their friends are life-long. They know who they are.

Except for small pockets of rural America, this is not our experience here in the United States. We do not have the continuity that an age-old culture holds as a common trust. My grandparents were immigrants from Yorkshire, Ulster and Armenia. My wife's are from Holland and Friesland. Our kids have quite the combination of genes!

My family has been enriched by our immersion in different cultures and ways of life. The experience fosters a certain flexibility of worldview. On the other hand, we have not experienced what traditional Spaniards enjoy: that continuity and grounding which comes from living together for generations. As in a close family, many things are mutually understood in a society such as theirs. It encourages a sense of order.

A balance between flexibility and continuity serves us well. There is strength in this fusion of different ways of life. Had my family not come from varying backgrounds, and had we not been willing to live in many different cultures, we never would have discovered the traditions of Spain. In fact, the concept of La Tienda would never have come into being! As in many things, I am grateful for both ways of life - their blending is a wonderful thing.

My best to you and your family,
Don

I have enjoyed many personal contacts with Spanish artisans and families over the past ten years of La Tienda -- it is a source of deep satisfaction. Through the bonds my family and I have formed with families throughout the many regions of Spain, we have grown to have a profound respect for the values of the traditional Spanish culture.

Today I would like to introduce you to another remarkable person, Antonio Gázquez Ortíz. He is a man of extraordinary breadth: scholar, author, research scientist, renowned gastronome. He is also a man of depth: a father and a friend with a generous heart. He and his wife Purificación have two adult sons: David, 27, a professor of music and Miguel Angel, 21, a photographer and designer who has a musical group; and three daughters: Puri, 22, a university student; Yia, 21, who is married and Lola, 10, who is in primary school.

Antonio represents the best of Extremadura -- one of the most attractive parts of Spain. I particularly enjoy the village of Trujillo, home of conquistadores, and the shrine of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe, a favorite of Ferdinand and Isabella.

The region is the home of ranchers and breeders as well as the fabled black-hoofed Iberian pigs -- which have made this land their home for centuries. These animals are the source of the mythical Jamón Ibérico, and provided the impetus for our ten year quest to bring this precious product to the tables of America.

The last ten years have taken our family along many a path throughout these southwestern reaches of Spain. My wife Ruth and I began our family's journey into the realm of the antique black-hoofed Ibérico pigs in 1997. First we made a pilgrimage to the village of Jabugo in western Andalucía, and much later to the Las Pedroches Dehesa pastureland north of Córdoba. In addition, my sons Tim and Jonathan and I have been privileged to meet some of the most famous producers of Jamón Ibérico in Salamanca, including in the ham city of Guijuelo and the rugged mountain village of La Alberca.

But it was when we met Antonio Gázquez in Cáceres that our experiences seemed to coalesce. And what better place to meet him than in ancient and noble Cáceres. The city was founded by the Romans in the 1st Century; it weathered barbarian and Moorish invasions, and then regained its original splendor when the returning Conquistadors built señorial houses within its walls. During all these changes wrought by men, the black-hoofed pigs were minding their business fattening up on delicious acorns from the local cork trees. Perhaps we can learn something from them!

Dr Gázquez's roots are in the soil of Extremadura. It is there that he has devoted his life to unraveling and expounding upon the myth of the Iberian pig -- which has roamed the Iberian Peninsula from the time of the cave men. Holding the chair of Histology (the study of animal tissues) at the University of Extremadura in Cáceres, he has approached these legendary animals in terms of pure scientific analysis, and has inspired many of his students to continue the search for greater understanding of this unique animal.

My sons Tim and Jonathan, friend Jamie and I were traveling through the region in order to learn as much as we could about this "pata negra" black hoofed pig. My friend Peter Kaminsky, a writer for the New York Times, told me of his experience with Antonio while doing research for his fascinating book Pig Perfect. After reading this book I resolved to meet this man about whom Peter spoke so highly, and so by e-mail we made contact with Dr Gázquez. I received an enthusiastic reply from Antonio, in which he suggested that we meet at a venta/café on the outskirts of Cáceres.

When we arrived at the roadside café that morning we were greeted warmly by Antonio and his rancher companion. We got to know one another other a little while enjoying churros and café con leche, and then set out in two vehicles to explore a nearby ranch where Ibérico pigs were being raised. In one car, my sons soon became lost in animated conversation with Antonio about animal husbandry. (He is ever the teacher). My friend Jamie and I were in the other car with the rancher, a cordial and knowledgeable gentleman who told us all that there was to know about the practical concerns of raising these remarkable animals.

After all of us rejoined and met the pigs at a waterhole, it was time for the traditional Spanish mid-day meal. I would not call it a lunch; I would call it a feast. The Spanish know how to "break bread together." As we left the pigs glanced at us with only passing interest -- their feast would come in the autumn when the surrounding acres of cork-oaks would provide them with an abundance of bellotas (acorn treats).

Antonio took us to the medieval section of Cáceres with its narrow streets and stone battlements. Adjacent to the handsome cobble-stoned Plaza de San Juan was Antonio's favorite restaurant, El Figón de Eustaquio. The venerable building, with dark wood paneling, was filled with expectant diners and skilled waiters darting from table to table. As we were ushered to an elegant private dining room in back we passed by the kitchen from which came aromas of roast meat and herbs.

At the dinner table Antonio the professor was transformed into Antonio the gastronome as he presided over a sumptuous feast. Before us were local cheeses, fresh shellfish, wines, and plates of paper-thin sliced Jamón Ibérico which were glistening due to the warmth of the room -- its monounsaturated marbling turns to liquid at 70º F -- truly extraordinary! Always the teacher, this time Antonio was in the role of the gourmet. In a genuine and unassuming way, he was acquainting us with the fine art of enjoying the fruits of the earth.

Antonio Gázquez is a man for all seasons. A genuine enthusiast, he enjoys equally being an author, a gourmet, a scientist and a historian. Most of all, he loves to teach. He has written many scholarly articles and books, some of which are the definitive texts in his field. Three recent books are particularly engaging: Porcus, puerco, cerdo -- a history of the pig in Spanish gastronomy; La cocina in tiempos del Arcipreste de Hita: -- an account of the medieval cuisine of Christians, Jews and Moors; and Conversations with a Gastronome where he reflects on the cuisine of late 20th C.

I was much impressed with the knowledge and grace of this man, so I asked him if he would be willing to write a series of reflections upon Spanish cuisine and especially his greatest love, Jamón Ibérico. Antonio generously consented. He has written two essays and another is on the way. I will post them periodically on our web page, so that you may enjoy them as well. I consider it a great privilege to have such an eminent, yet unassuming gentleman contribute to La Tienda.

Un Abrazo,
Don

It is June, and soon in America we will be celebrating Father's Day. In Spain Father's Day is in March, appropriately coinciding with the day set aside for St Joseph. It is a truly significant day, for fatherhood is the linchpin to any spiritually healthy society. Fathers who honor their wives and children, who take responsibility for their protection, and who are willing to serve their family and the community at large are crucial and irreplaceable.

José 'Pepe Ruíz' Egea is just this sort of a paternal figure. I do not mean to imply that he is some sort of saint - he is a regular man: a father of two young daughters, the leader of an association of 160 rice-growers.

Pepe is a man of the countryside of Murcia, with strong rustic features, dancing eyes and a jovial smile. Should you attend any of the major food expositions in Spain, probably you will see him, with a glass of wine in one hand and a spatula in the other presiding over four paellas simmering simultaneously at his cooperative's booth. That is, if there is not a traffic jam in front of his stand.

Before you know it, he will catch your eye and invite you in. Donning a simple apron, made of the same cloth used to bag the cooperative's rice, he will move to the rear where he will scoop out a portion of homemade paella and serve it to you with a warm and generous smile. His favorite is a family recipe made with snails and rabbit. During the time of any fair, perhaps 5,000 people will enjoy paella made by an unassuming paella maestro!

Pepe is happily married and is a proud father of two young daughters, 5 and 9. He was born and raised in Calasparra - the home of his father and of his two grandfathers. Pepe was handpicking rice at the family plot even before he reached school age! When as a young married man he became a rice grower himself, he was following in the footsteps of many generations of his family. This kind of social stability we seldom see in America today.

To the casual visitor the town of Calasparra may appear to be like any other agricultural town - akin to one you might see in the American heartland. It is located in rural Murcia in the southeast part of Spain and consists of a few essential stores: one for hardware and farm necessities, a pharmacy, a small food store and a gasoline station, which has a modest restaurant adjacent to it. My wife Ruth and I visited there several years ago and enjoyed a delicious 'down home' meal. We were eating amidst several local families who made us feel at home.

Calasparra is not merely another farm town, however. For thousands of years the area has hosted many cultures: Neolithic people from the Stone Age, Argars from the Bronze Age, Iberians, Romans, Moors and then Christians since 1412, when the Prior of the Crusader Order of San Juan de Jerusalem granted Calasparra the privilege of settling 50 farmers along the riverside.

It is here that rice-growers cultivate the most celebrated paella rice in Spain. With all the lowland rice paddies that dot the eastern Mediterranean shores, you may wonder how a remote inland mountain town ever got into the business of growing rice. It seems that a couple of centuries ago a malaria-like epidemic became rampant in the renowned Algarve rice fields in Valencia. The amount of deaths was so devastating that in the interests of public health, the government decreed that rice cultivation would have to be relocated outside heavily populated areas.

In search of a remote rural setting suitable for farming, some of the rice-growing families happened upon an exquisite micro-climate a few miles from the XIII Century monastery of Caravaca de la Cruz. The area is 1500 feet above sea level, with readily available mountain water flowing from the Sierra del Puerto Mountains.

Over the years, the rice-growers restored an abandoned Roman aqueduct to feed water from clear mountain streams into the fields below. At first, they followed the traditional four-phase cycle of preparing the land, sowing the seeds, weeding and harvesting, which has been done from time immemorial. However, in order to solve the health problem associated with standing water, they diverted the nourishing mountain streams to flow over a series of descending enclosed terraces or steps, before returning to the main stream. This was quite a departure from the standing water of the Algarve.

An unanticipated consequence was that the rice took much longer to mature, making the grains of rice exceptionally dehydrated - perfect for absorbing high amounts of the rich broth needed to make great paella. Today the Cooperative of Virgin de la Esperanza is one of two sources for this unique paella rice - highly valued for the amount of broth it can absorb without becoming creamy or sticky. With the help of the Cooperative's director José 'Pepe' Ruíz, we are able to package our 'Peregrino' brand Bomba and Calasparra rice - a precious grain unique to one tiny area of the world.

Therefore, we come full circle to Pepe. He is a proud and protective father of two little girls. He comes from a long tradition of rice cultivation. Rice growers are his neighbors and friends. He appreciates the trust the growers have placed in his leadership and is committed to serving them. Nonetheless, I imagine that when most people think of Pepe they picture a warm and generous man with a glass of wine in one hand and a spatula in the other as people crowd around his paellas. He is a man of integrity: he enjoys who he is, and what he and his neighbors contribute to the cuisine of Spain.

Your friend,
Don