Big Matty

La Plus Grande Arraignée, Continued

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

"I don't want to smash it," I heard myself say, in that out-of-body-experience way only fear, or cannabis, can induce.

"Yeah, he didn't do anything to us. He doesn't deserve to die." Rob responded, sounding as calm and magnanimous as Christ himself.

"Well, I was thinking more of the mess it would make..." I replied.

"DO NOT SMASH THAT THING! WE HAVE TO LIVE HERE FOR A WEEK!" Marissa ordered, loudly.

"Use a broom! Use a broom! Use a broom!" offered Jacquie, chanting like a cheerleader on speed. I was waiting for "Push 'em back, push 'em back!" but it never came.

"No, a broom will smash it..." - Rob

"DON'T SMASH IT!" - Marissa

"Okay, we got it. No smash!" I said, the pitch of my voice rising with fear and agitation. "Maybe you two should step outside."

"Fine." - Marissa

"I'm getting the hell out of here." - Jacquie

As the room quieted back down, Rob and I scanned the rough tile counter tops and the wooden dining table. The wind blew a lone cloud across the sun, dimming the room. I immediately looked back at the spider, in case it had been waiting for darkness to make its move. It slowly lifted one long front leg, stretching it out gracefully, sexily, even, only to leave it hovering perhaps a quarter of an inch off the ground. I felt like I was being taunted:

"Moi? Je ne pourrais jamais te quitter, mon amour," it said, in my mind, with a voice fit for a David Lynch film.

We resumed our search for the right tool and as the light came back into the room both of us landed on the answer at the same time: a large, shallow fruit bowl.

I picked it up. It wasn't too heavy and the lip of the bowl looked like something those legs could easily step over. I pictured using it like a giant steam shovel. Swoop it down, scoop up the spider, transport it to the patio and deposit it over the wall. It was happening so smoothly in my head, like the climactic scene in Star Wars when Luke uses the force - and a deadly combination of flight skills and shooting prowess - to destroy the Death Star. My courage thus bolstered, I held the bowl loosely in my hands and turned toward my foe.

I walked forward slowly, crouching closer to the ground with each step. I held the bowl at arms length and upright, forming the scoop I had pictured in the heroic scene in my mind. The lip of the bowl touched the ground, just next to the closest leg.

I was getting a close-up look now. It was textbook arachnid, a spider out of casting call, the Mother of all Spiders. The word CEPHALOTHORAX scrolled across my mind:

That CEPHALOTHORAX could feed a French village. Pâté de CEPHALOTHORAX, Terrine de CEPHALOTHORAX, CEPHALOTHORAX, CEPHALOTHORAX, CEPHALOTHORAX...

The spider would not move. I pushed the bowl forward and it rested its leg on the lip. I couldn't go any further or I would smash it. It couldn't climb onto the bowl because the angle was too acute. We were at an impasse.

Crouching on the floor, arms extended, I was as a supplicant before a deity, praying for enlightenment, healing, or maybe just alms so that I might live one more day. I was completely at the mercy of this creature, silently pleading with it to cooperate so that I might have my life back. Every mistake I had ever made, every failure, every disappointment, came rushing to my mind. This was the sum total of all my fears, and it wasn't going anywhere. My arms grew heavy and my legs numb as the frustration of this stand-off mounted.

"Turn the bowl over" Rob suggested, his wits apparently well intact.

Ahhhh, yesssss. I replied as I flipped it upside down, immediately seeing that the change in angle was just what was needed.

The spider had backed up a step while I flipped the bowl, but this time I pushed the edge aginst its legs more quickly, smoothly, confidently. It stepped on board, like a maharaja mounting its favorite royal elephant.

I headed to the door as the spider slowly, gingerly walked across what was now a dome shaped throne of sorts. It stopped near the top, for a split second, as if to admire all that was its kingdom. I was just past the threshold when it headed straight for me, with blinding speed.

"Whooaaa..." I instinctively began rotating the bowl, flipping it over at least twice, keeping the spider upright and in the same place, on its own special treadmill. I made it through the door and on to the patio. Just a few more steps and I was at the wall.

I grunted unintelligibly, flinging the bowl several feet ahead with both hands, where it came to rest against the wall. I then said a silent prayer to a god I don't believe in that the spider was still on the bowl, or on the ground, or on the wall, but most importantly, not on me.

I saw movement.

There it was, walking slowly away from the bowl and into a crevice on the wall. The plan had worked. My loved ones were alive, I was alive. The biggest spider in Southern France had been evicted from our home.

I picked up the bowl and headed into the apartment. It was time to start our vacation.

This incident happened almost three years ago. I've given the details as I remember them and they are a little fuzzy. Others in my party may remember this episode differently. One thing we do agree on: it was a very large spider.

Copyright 2012, Big Matty

The Biggest Spider in Southern France (La Plus Grande Araignée Dans le Sud de France)

We flew into Nice from JFK, rented a car and hit the road for Marseilles, to pick up Jacquie and Rob, who had flown from Seattle.

There they were, sitting on a small strip of ground near the entrance to the Airport, looking a little worried, as we we were about 30 minutes late. Roughly 4,000 miles and we were only a half-hour late? I was beginning to feel a little cocky.

Hugs all around and back into the car. We then headed northwest, skirting around Aix en Provence in the direction of St. Jean de Serres. There were wrong turns, mistaken exits, and downright dangerous maneuvers (at one point I even started to back up on an onramp, a decision that was quickly and loudly vetoed by my fellow travelers - I told you I was feeling a little cocky.)

On we drove, under the bright blue Provencal sky and over the parched brown October earth, until we finally reached our destination. Mas de Puech.

Mas de Puech is an old farm and small vineyard that had recently been renovated as a summer vacation destination. Owned by a British couple, the clientele is usually British. Though the temperatures were still in the 70s, summer had long since past. The Brits were back in their rainy homeland and we had the entire place to ourselves. Well, almost.

The building was a good sized old brick structure, semi-covered in stucco, the color of which complemented the thirsty soil surrounding it. There are 7 units in two stories. Each is an independent apartment, complete with small kitchen and a washing machine. Ours was on the corner, overlooking the grapevines and with a wide terrace outside our front door. Just across the terrace was a lovely, but now closed, swimming pool. Fallen leaves shimmied across the tarp covering it.

Other than the wind in our ears and the crunch of gravel underfoot, the place was completely silent. If it hadn’t been so clean and the garden well maintained, you would have thought nobody had been here in years. The atmosphere was like an old spaghetti western - strangers rolling into a dusty town that has been unexpectedly - and recently - deserted. Trouble was surely brewing.

I opened the heavy wooden door to our apartment, slowly. Light spilled into the room, illuminating the big wooden shutters on the two large windows and the tile floor of the kitchen opposite the door, about 30 feet away. We clumsily shuffled our way in, our bags suddenly heavy as the exhaustion of the trip caught up with us. Jacquie was the first to venture more than a few feet beyond the front door, and she was now frozen in terror.

“OH. MY. GOD!” The only words to escape her lips.

Marissa was at her side in a flash. “What is the mat… oh, holy shit!”

“Is that real?” Jacquie stammered, unable to move.

“I hope not” Marissa cried, as she headed for the door. “You deal with it or I am driving back to Nice and getting on the next plane to Broad Brook.” She said to me as she bolted through the door.

“Ah, ha ha! Wow! Hey! Whoa!” Rob was there now, uttering monosyllabic expressions in a way that unnerved me. It felt as if what he was seeing was beyond comprehension. Indeed, what I saw when I arrived nearly struck me dumb.

Exhaustion was forgotten as the adrenaline of fear kicked in. My senses were suddenly sharp and I began immediately to take in details:

From the tip of the back right leg to the tip of the front left was a span of about eight inches. And these weren’t those wispy, hair-thin daddy longlegs kind of legs, either. These were eight long, muscular legs and they held a substantial body between them, like four Russian balerinas carrying a large mink duffel bag.

This was one big spider.

“Oh my,” I said, trying to sound calm.
“OH MY GOD!” came Marissa’s voice, from the safety of the doorway.
“Um, yeah, you two are going to have to do something about this...” Jacquie added, seriously, nervously, as she placed Rob between her and “it”.

“What do you think, Matty?” Rob spoke first, looking around the room.

His quick move past panic was exactly what I needed. It was time to solve a problem. Like two Clint Eastwoods in The Man With No Name, it was our destiny to rid this dusty town of its menace.

But how?

To be continued...

 

All photos and content copyright 2012, Big Matty

Bay Area Weekend

Friday Evening: Have a cocktail. You can make it at home, using spirits you purchased at the grocery store, or even the Rite Aid, believe it or not. Booze is readily available in this town, and it is reasonably priced. While California has the reputation as the ultimate nanny state, a socialist paradise, in many cases the opposite is actually true. Take the sale of alcohol. In so many states the government controls the sale of alcohol. This monopoly results in an expensive, limited variety that rivals the bakery shelves of the 1980's Soviet Union. Not so, California - alcohol can be sold practically anywhere. Need to stop at the drugstore for toothpaste and tampons? Pick up some tequila. Stopping at the Asian market for tofu and kimchee? Grab some soju and, what the heck, a bottle of good chardonnay.

You can, of course, go out for a drink. The price will be higher, but then so may the quality. The Bay Area has been part of the gourmet cocktail trend from the beginning, and even places in the suburbs feature their own mixologist, making premium cocktails using fancy mixers like home-made tonic an even specially-made ice.

The point is, have a drink. Relax. Get some rest.

Saturday Morning:Go to the farmers' market. Buy fresh stuff that was grown, raised, milked, or cultured within a 100 mile radius of where you live.  We go to the big market held at the College of San Mateo. In the winter we buy citrus that screams California with every sweet, juicy bite. In the summer we buy fresh figs - eating one is a moving, sensual experience that leaves me speechless every time. Year-round we buy dates, and whatever vegetable is in season, planning our meals around what is good now. And every week I buy a shot of kraut juice. One of the vendors sells small-batch, organic sauerkraut (which is out-of-this-world good). They also sell shots of the juice. Packed with live cultures, it is purported to have multiple heath benefits. It also tastes fantastic - my favorite is the smoked Jalapeno.

Saturday afternoon: Make date bars with the dates you bought at the market. Eat half of the roasted chicken you picked up there too. Have a glass of pinot noir. Take a nap.

Or, head to the beach for a picnic. Take the blood oranges you bought at the market, and the date bars. Watch dogs jump around in the chilly surf as the light bounces off of everything. Work up an appetite by throwing the football with your spouse.

Saturday night: Go to any one of hundreds of great ethnic restaurants. Want a fantastic (and fancy) Indian meal? Go to Dosa, on Fillmore. Enjoy the lovely food, stylish setting and beautiful people.
After dinner, walk up and down Fillmore, stopping for a frozen yogurt at Fraiche, where they make it with high-end ingredients and fresh, organic fruit.

If you would rather go more casual, head to a taqueria, like El Grullense in Redwood City. Try a cabrito (goat) burrito. The rich, juicy meat will have been stewed for hours, the beans and rice will be flavorful without being salty, and the salsa will be fresh and smoky, adding enough heat to balance out the sweetness of the goat. It will make you cry tears of gratitude.

Sunday morning: Go out for dim sum. San Francisco and its surrounding area has a long history of Chinese culture and a large Chinese population. You can find good dim sum up and down the peninsula. Go early, to beat the crowds.

For those who don't know, dim sum is the original small plate experience. It is the Chinese tapas. Traditionally, women push carts through the restaurant, offering baskets full of dumplings filled with delicious varieties of pork or shrimp, or pork and shrimp, as well as other types of meat and even vegetables. You can also get chicken feet (Yum!) or turnip cakes, or congee. Try to go with friends, so you can sample a wide variety of dishes.

Sunday afternoon: By now you will have had a great weekend. You will be rested, sun-kissed, and well-fed. Try to keep that relaxed feeling as you finally deal with real life and get ready for the workweek ahead. Call your mother. Pay your bills and check your finances. Clean the bathroom. Run to the drugstore to pick up your prescription.

Oh, and while you are there, grab a bottle of gin, just because you can.

All content and photographs copyright 2012, Big Matty, except where noted. Special thanks to Dani Fenske, for supplying many of this week's pictures. You can hang out here any time.

Night of the Dragon

City councilmen in classic convertibles. Marching bands, sponsored by local businesses and blasting big hits like "Beat It" and "Bad Romance". Children in costume, charming even those who have chosen to remain childless. This must be a parade.

In fact, it is the San Francisco Chinese New Year Parade, a tradition since the 1860s and the coolest parade I have ever seen.

What makes it so cool? It is held at night, for one thing, when even the mundane can become more interesting. Spotlights create vibrancy in colors and distortions in shapes. The flash of the firecrackers is as dramatic as the sounds of the explosions. And the lights of the city, the bridges, and the moon shine above like the eyes of supernatural spectators.

I could almost believe that dragons really do exist.

And it is a long parade - one of the longest in the world, beginning at sundown and stretching late into the evening. In fact, after about 90 minutes, Marissa had to use the loo, so we left the parade, walked blocks and blocks to find a place to pee, stumbled across an old Belgian-esque brasserie I had been to years ago on a business trip, drank a beer, walked blocks and blocks more, bought some late-night bao-zi, ate them, and began heading for the BART station - only to realize the parade was still going on. It is a marathon of an event.

While watching this spectacle, I couldn't help but think of the big ol' parade I grew up with: The Days of '47 Celebration. Dating from just 11 years before this parade, the Days of '47 celebrates the trek of the pioneers who settled in Salt Lake City after an arduous journey across the plains. It, too, is a monster of a parade, lasting hours and hours and representing groups from every corner of the state. It, however, is held at a very sober 9AM, in the cheerful sunshine of a Salt Lake City July. The Chinese New Year parade is illusion and magic - the Days of '47 is realism and clarity.

As I thought about these two seemingly opposite events - literally night and day - I began to realize just how alike, and even connected, they both are.

Both were born in the 19th century, each by distinct groups of people who had faced difficult odds in strange lands and, through hard work and perseverance, built strong, unique communities that they could both be proud of. Both groups - Mormons and Chinese immigrants and their descendants - have had profound impacts on their regions and even what we know of generally as "the American West." Both have developed a tradition of celebrating this history by throwing a big-ass parade, even though each does look distinctly different.

I've promised myself - and Marissa - that we will go see the Days of '47 Parade as soon as we can. I also plan to see the Chinese New Year parade every year while we still live in the San Francisco area. After all, it has helped me appreciate the one from my youth, and my history, more than I ever had before.

All content and photographs copyright 2012, Big Matty.

Eat the Moon

That, my friend, is one of the greatest contributions to humanity - and there are many - that thousands of years of Chinese history has delivered. It is also one of the best things that autumn has to offer. It is a mooncake. This particular mooncake is one of the best I have ever eaten.

Your bite starts with a thin shell of soft pastry, then moves into a delectable outer core of lotus seed paste - sweet, slightly nutty and with a creamy mouth-feel - and then POW! it hits the inner core with a nicely rich surprise from a whole egg yolk. It is the original sweet and salty, balanced against each other in a thrilling, high-wire embrace. Wash it down with a cup of strong tea and you will wish for autumn to never end.

Mooncakes are typically eaten during the Autumn Moon Festival, which happens around the 15th day of the eighth month of the lunar calendar. In other words, it is a harvest festival thrown during the time of year when the moon is at its brightest. I took the picture above the night before the festival, while out on my weekly ride along the Bay Trail. The moon did look big enough and round enough for me to reach up and take a big bite.

In San Francisco, the Moon Festival draws quite a crowd, which Marissa and I discovered went we went.

We wove in and out of the throngs, keeping an eye out for each other as we got separated with regularity. We would meet back up to say, "Wow, look at this crowd," scanning the street signs for hints on where we had ended up.

There were people everywhere - small groups of pretty young women in traditional Chinese clothing, the "Miss Autumn Moon" shining just a bit more than her retinue; old men sitting in shops, laughing; and tiny but fierce middle-aged women, darting around to pick up the best char siu at this shop, the best roast duck at that, or the best mooncake in the city. This last group - the women - they are the ones to watch, and to follow. They will lead you to the good stuff every time.

It was a day very well spent - and we enjoyed the fruits of our labors for a whole week after. Because while the traditional moon cake is made with lotus seed paste, there are many other varieties - pineapple, taro, and mincemeat (which was awesome, by the way) to name just a few - so we bought miniatures in a variety of flavors.

This all happened last fall, and I have been wanting to write about it since. I just hadn't gotten to it, which is a good sign. There is a lot to see and do for us these days. In fact, this past weekend was the Chinese New Year parade. One of the top 10 parades in the world - and it happens at night. Once again I got to celebrate with the moon. More about that next time.

Masterpieces de Madrid

This whole room is a work of art. "Equal Parallel:Guernica Bengasi" by Richard Serra. It is at the Museo Reina Sofia, the same museum that houses Picasso's Guernica. I do not pretend to know the technical aspects of this work, or its artistic lineage or any of the intellectual information about it, or many other pieces of art, for that matter. But I do know I liked it.  I liked the use of perspective. I liked the contrast between the windows with light flowing in and the dark windows, which seem to be sucking the light away. I also like the solid weight of the metallic slabs, grounding the whole scene. Finally, I just dig the fact that the whole room is the work.

I was not allowed to take pictures of the Picasso for which this work was at least partially named, but I can say it is one of my favorite pieces of art ever, and I will strive to see it whenever I am in Madrid. For those who don't know, Guernica was created in reaction to the bombing of the Basque town of the same name during the Spanish Civil War. To me, Picasso captured all of the horror of war in a way that one can immediately and profoundly understand. While this work by Serra is solid, calm, and orderly, Picasso's Guernica is charged, chaotic and emotional. It was fascinating to see them both in the same afternoon.

Madrid is filled with museums, but the best known are the Museo del Prado, the Reina Sofia, and the Thyssen-Bornemisza. Each is fantastic, each is different than the other, and none of them should be missed. I can't say one is my favorite over the other, but I have favorite works at each. At the Prado, I have to see Goya's "The Second of May" and "The Third of May",  "Las Meninas" by Velazquez, and "The Garden of Earthly Delights" by Bosch. At the Thyssen-Bornemisza they have maserpieces like "The Dream" by Franz Marc, "Swaying Dancer" by Degas and "Quappi in a Pink Jumper" by Max Beckman.

Any one of these museums alone is worth a trip to Madrid. Having all three is almost an embarrassment of riches.

All of that art can wear one out, so afterwards, I recommend you find one of the hundreds of another type of museum. This kind houses works of art in small bites, composed from materials like ham, sausage, anchovy and garlic. These media, in turn, mix magically with liquids like beer, vermouth, sherry or wine. Whether a taberna, bodega, or bar, Madrid offers no shortage of beautiful settings in which to enjoy beautiful food. On this particular day of art, we went back to Taberna La Dolores.

With its floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with an impressive - if somewhat inexplicable - array of German beer steins, extravagantly tiled front exterior, and sexy vintage signage, this taberna is one of our favorites. The tapas are tasty, the beer cold (and cheap) and the vibe relaxed and unpretentious. A perfect place for an afternoon pick-me-up following a morning of Goya, Velazquez, Picasso, and El Greco.

Many of the best taverns and bodegas are the oldest. In fact, I would venture to say you don't see many new ones.In any case, on this trip we had the good pleasure of enjoying a couple. In addition to La Dolores (open since 1906), we ate what is generally considered by Madrillenos to be the best Tortilla Española in all of Madrid at this place:

Well over 100 years old, Bodega de la Ardosa is a wonderful, tiny little joint selling booze and, yes, the best Tortilla Española on the planet. It is so good you have to call and reserve one ahead of time, as they disappear immediately otherwise. My cousin reserved the tortilla and two tables - wine casks with table tops attached, actually - in a private little spot located behind the bar. We actually had to crouch down and step under the bar itself to get in. It felt very VIP, sipping vermut, eating an eye-watering array of sublime food, and laughing as envious Spaniards looked on inquisitively.

We would have made a great subject for a painting.

All words and images copyright 2012, BigMatty.

Not-So-Angry Birds

Say hello to my little friend. He is some sort of woodpecker. My nickname for him was Rojo Loco, or Crazy Red, for his crimson head and that devious look in his eye.

Señor Loco was hanging out - with about a million other birds - in the backyard of the Brewery Gulch Inn in Mendocino, California. The late afternoon sun was giving just enough warmth to sit outside comfortably in a sweater, and multiple flowers, feeders and baths were drawing birds from seemingly everywhere.

I took their pictures shortly after we arrived.

Mendocino is a quiet little town about three hours drive north of San Francisco, along some of the most spectacular coastal scenery in the world. The route from the city takes you through the Anderson Valley wine region. A bit further north and you are deep in the redwoods. It is a singularly lovely place for a winter retreat.

It is also where Marissa and I spent a night - at the very same inn - almost 20 years ago, on a road trip down the coast from Seattle. A lot has happened in the two decades since, but the area - and my wife - is still just as lovely.

Señor Loco - and the rest of the guests of the inn - enjoyed this view:

It was Christmas weekend. I didn't have more than a day of vacation time left, which meant a trip to see family was out of the question. We don't have children, so nobody was expecting Santa. But we wanted to do something. So we opted for seclusion, a getaway. We haven't had this kind of trip in a long time:

Get up slowly. Eat a made-to-order breakfast prepared by the inn's chef. Stroll along the Mendocino Headlands, listening to the waves crash below you while the breeze kisses your eyes and the sun caresses your cheeks. Contemplate your happy insignificance. Head back to the inn for a light lunch on the deck, taking pictures of the birds as they alternately flirt with you and give you the stink-eye. Putter around the giant fireplace while you wait for dinner, again prepared by the inn's own chef and served with your choice of wine from a world-class Anderson Valley winery. Read, for a long time, sitting by the fire. Go to bed. Sleep. Repeat.

I've decided I am a big fan of a secluded Christmas getaway. I am definitely a fan of the Northern California Coast, Mendocino in particular, and the Brewery Gulch Inn. All of this has given me an idea. Maybe, just maybe, this should become our holiday tradition. Like Señor Loco and his fine-feathered compadres, perhaps we will return to this idyllic spot each year. We will do it to feast, on the view, the food, the wine, and the feeling that it is good to be alive.

 

All photographs and content copyright 2012, Big Matty. Use without persmission prohibited.

Swedish State of Mind

One of the things I am liking about California is the tremendous mix of people. This great big jumble of humanity is considered normal inside California, though I know outside one hears about it frequently, mostly in over-simplified terms. When I lived in Nashville, some folks would not-so-subtly allude to California's diversity as a warning to us all. California = multicultural. Multicultural = evil. Therefore, California = evil.

Aside from the idiocy of claiming that multiculturalism is evil, multiculturalism is one of California's greatest strengths. Case in point? The Swedes.

We have been fortunate enough to have met some real, dyed-in-the-wool (and if anyone knows about wool, it is they) Swedes. I don't know if our new friends are representative of all Swedes, but if they are, I understand why Sweden has one of the highest standards of living in the world. Intelligent but modest, clever but soft-spoken, open-minded but game for debate - they are wonderful people.

A few weeks ago, our new Swedish friends kindly invited us to experience a Swedish Christmas with them. This meant going to the Swedish Women's Education Association's (SWEA) 28th Annual Swedish Christmas Fair in San Francisco and then a week later to their apartment in Mountain View for a cozier, homier version.

The Christmas Fair? Awesome. Complete with a Lucia procession (seen above), Glögg, baked goodies, and traditional music and dancing. According to Jennifer, one of our Swedish tour guides for the day, this fair is the most traditionally Swedish Christmas event she has ever been to, including in Sweden.

As fun as the fair was, however, the small open house was even better. We stayed for hours, eating homemade Swedish treats (Martin, Jennifer's husband, made saffron buns that all of Sweden would be proud of) drinking homemade Glögg, and enjoying intelligent, thoughtful conversation. One thing I learned at the party? Swedes are not crazy about the Swedish Chef.

"Why couldn't they get someone Swedish to do the voice? There are millions of us to choose from, you know," said Martin, Swedish heads around the room nodding in agreement. They take it in stride, but I could see that the Swedish Chef is a bit of a sore spot. And while I am as big a Muppet fan as anyone, I can now understand why. "Hor-dee-hoo-dee-hor..." Swedish sounds nothing like that. 

I also learned a new word: lagom. The word lagom has no translation, in English or any other language, but I am told it is at the heart of what it means to be Swedish. It is a close approximation to say "not too little and not too much," or to refer to balance, diplomacy, or to simply say "just right." My favorite description of lagom is, "enough is as good as a feast."

That, to me, is a great way to go about life. It also reminds me, strangely enough, of one of my favorite lines from the Tao te Ching: "He who knows enough is enough will always have enough." Ancient Chinese philosophy and the roots of Swedish culture describing the same outlook on life? Sounds awfully multicultural to me.

So, where does this story lead? What does this all mean in the end? In addition to showing us a great time at the holidays, and contributing to California's wealth of diversity, our new Swedish friends have moved their country way up on the list of places I must travel to.

And just to make sure I am ready, I am practicing a little Swedish, beginning with the following phrase:

Att Svenska Kocken, vad en bastard. Translate.

 

All content and photographs (with the exception of "The Swedish Chef") copyright 2012, Big Matty.

Spanish Food Porn

Dear Big Matty:

I never thought this could happen to me. I was in a little place in Sevilla, hanging out with friends, sipping a sherry, when all of a sudden they arrived.

They lay all together, bathing in hot Spanish olive oil. The warm, sensual scent of garlic kept rising as their bodies slid seductively against each other. My taste buds stood to attention as I heard them call out:

"Eat us! Eat us now!"

Yes, it was a big earthen bowl full of Gulas al Ajillo, and I was their new love slave.

I spooned them with gusto and tasted their juices lustily. They told me to dip the bread into their sauce and I complied with ecstatic abandon. I was drawn by all of my senses: the sight of their white undersides, the sound of heating flesh, the slithering softness as they caressed my tongue and slipped down my throat.

What are Gulas? They are the imitation cousin of the rare - and really exensive - angulas, which are tiny little eels found almost exclusively in Spain. As I am but a humble traveller I did what a lot of Spaniards do and got the next best thing to angulas. And as anyone who has been to a really good drag show will tell you, sometimes the imitation can be just as exciting.

Signed,

Feelin' it in San Francisco

 

Dear Big Matty:

As a guy who didn't grow up near the sea, I never had much interest in seafood. I've come of age since then, and take pride in my love of the fruta del mar. That's why, when I met the dish pictured above, I knew I was in for a tasty treat.

Her name was Bacalao. Bacalao y Naranjas. The richness of her salty white flesh was perfectly balanced against the citrusy tang of her juicy orange wedges. Bathed in the finest Spanish olive oil and studded all over with hot bits of white onion, she was simultaneously naughty and nice.

As if she wasn't almost too much to handle, she invited her friend Salmorejo to join in the fun. Salmorejo is Gazpacho's Andalusian cousin, and she is a beauty. Yes, she is made of cool tomato purée, but she is creamier than her cousin and today she was sporting a whole boiled egg. Already at a fever pitch, I just about lost it all when she covered herself in tasty little bits of jamón.

I went at them both with fork, spoon and bread. It was an Andalusian threesome I will never forget.

Signed,

Still Salivating in San Mateo

Dear Big Matty:

I had always been told it was dirty. But I had experimented with it now and again. There was an encounter in Hong Kong in the late 80's and again in Seattle a few years later. In '96 I had some in Madrid that really opened my mind. And the time in 2009, in Boadilla del Monte, at Easter, with family involved no less, turned this taboo into a passion that could no longer live in the shadows.

YES, I HAVE A THING FOR TRIPE AND I AM NOT ASHAMED!

Look at the spongy rich texture. See how that flavor-loaded sauce drips through those nooks and crannies. Spy the patatas on top, mingling their salty crispiness with the silky texture of the tripas. It is a love I cannot deny and the dish featured above may just be my favorite version of it yet.

I was able to freely express my love while I was in Spain. Since I am back home I am finding myself living not quite in shame, but in a state of shyness. Are there others like me in my neighborhood? Maybe even at work? How can I find out? Who can I talk to? Is there a Web site I can go to?

Please help me find others so I can share this strangely wonderful sensation.

Signed,

California Tripe Lover.

Do you have a tasty love that dare not speak its name? Leave a comment below...

All pictures and content copyright 2011 Big Matty

La Mezquita de Córdoba مسجد قرطبة

We had a choice to make for a side trip from Sevilla: either a jaunt to Jerez for sherry tasting or a dash to Córdoba to check out La Mezquita, the Visigoth church turned Muslim mosque turned Catholic cathedral. We went with Córdoba, a decision we will never regret.

We spent a lovely day in Córdoba, complete with an amazing lunch (dishes of which will be featured in an upcoming post) and a stroll through the lovely town with a relaxed, welcoming energy. But the highlight was La Mezquita.

This is one old building. It began as a Visigothic Church in the year 600. The columns are salvaged from earlier Roman buildings. You can tell as they are mismatched and often either stacked on blocks or resting in holes to make them even.

It was converted into a mosque around 782, and built upon for two centuries thereafter. And it is beautiful. Arch after arch resting on column after column, stretching what seems like miles into the dark expanse. This spare, almost austere beauty is punctuated by side rooms that are breathtaking in both their design and decoration (see the picture on top).

Córdoba was captured by King Ferdinand III of Castile in the early 13th century, and the Mezquita began its change over to a Catholic cathedral, beginning with the minaret being turned into a bell tower, and small chapels being inserted into the mosque. Then, during the Renaissance, an enormous cathedral nave was inserted right down the middle. The result is startling.

The dark, subtle archways give way to a soaring, brightly white space with stained glass, angels and crucifixes ascending as if to heaven. It is a shock to the system, but not an unpleasant one.

The contrast, to me, is what makes the Mezquita. Yes, the mosque is sublime on its own and yes, as cathedral naves go, this one is rather average, which is made even more evident by the masterpiece of the mosque, but that isn't really the point.

First, the contrast in feeling - from subdued, almost internally focused to the upward-looking, heaven-centric - is something to be pondered for hours. Second, the history of religion in the Western world, from its roots to the modern day, is captured and displayed inside this one beautiful building.

The cacophonous combination of religions, customs and beliefs is what make the Mezquita so special to me. Take the picture above, with the Moorish arches framing the crucifix. Trust me, that was not in the original design. But it is striking, and beautiful, mostly because it wasn't planned. Like history itself, it just happened. That is what I like.

My understanding is that Muslims have asked if they could once again pray in this building. This request has not yet been granted. While I am not religious at all, I do understand the desire to do so. I also understand the reluctance to allow it.

In the end, I'd be all for this becoming a multi-faith site, with Muslims and Catholics praying side-by-side. (If there are any Visigoths still around, they should be welcomed, too.) I don't know if it ever will, but I don't see why not. There is a shared history in this region, and it would not be the spectacular place with the wonderful people, food, customs or attitude that it enjoys today, without it.

Just imagine what its shared future could become.