Still a Moody Foodie

The tenth installment of my abandoned Granadino memoir, Flawed Abroad: Useless editorializing from an ignorant, close-minded American on his semester overseas.

Miercoles, 19 Ene. ’05, 17.30 (Wednesday, January 19, 2005, 5:30 pm)

[Present-day editorial: I apologize again for my early infatuation with food. Apparently, eating becomes a much bigger deal when you suddenly lose the heretofore invisible crutch of near-instant grocery gratification that most U.S. citizens unconsciously lean on for the majority of their lives.]

Dios mio, lunch today was a close call.

The first sip I took of the puréed peat moss cum pig’s urine (at least, that’s what it looked like to me) led me to believe that I might actually be able to finish this meal by the seat of my stomach lining. Then, apparently, my taste buds regained consciousness and I was immediately disabused of this highly egregious notion. Honestly, I haven’t been this close to crying since earlier this afternoon when I dropped my pencil and it rolled under the bed. Fortunately, my señora‘s daughter (a.k.a., my hermana) happened to observe a few of my less subtle bodily convulsions and took the opportunity to ask me how I liked the stew. I explained to her that, although the delicate flavoring (undoubtedly from the pig’s urine) and creamy yet grainy texture (presumably from the puréed peat moss) was exceedingly delectable, there was just something about it that—for reasons having absolutely nothing to do with my señora‘s cooking or the food itself—didn’t quite agree with my traitorous stomach. Much to my relief, my hermana took the hint and removed the offending saucer from my sight. I kindly requested that she actually remove it from the room as I couldn’t even stand to be in the same enclosed space with it, but I don’t think she understood. Fortunately, it’s not like I came to Spain to broaden my culinary horizons, so for now I’m willing to ignore this particular hole in my otherwise well-woven afghan of cultural adaptation.

CELEBRITY UPDATE: I saw Spanish David Schwimmer the other day, but I suppose his amigos were elsewhere, for he was skulking down the street alone with nary a laugh track in sight—err, hearing.

Miscellaneous Observations: At some point in the recent past I have observed the following:

  • A cripple in a wheelchair with shiny gold rims. I speculate as to the size of his lawsuit settlement and wonder if he also has a platinum pacemaker.
  • An ancient hunchbacked señora standing no taller than my bellybutton. I should mention that I do not think she would fit in the overhead compartment of your average airplane…unless you really couldn’t bear to check her, that is.
  • A dog looking both ways before crossing the street. I have developed the theory that, in Spain, dogs are considered mentally superior to their feline brethren, as opposed to in the States where the opposite belief is generally held to be true. The dead cat I saw in the gutter the other night with his eyeballs oozing out of his head did little to contradict my suspicions.
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