Eating Spain

tapa of the week: la hormiga II, ciudad real

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Ok. So technically, this isn’t a tapa. It’s a dessert. Or… maybe it’s a breakfast? No. wait. It’s a snack. Whatever it is, it’s still worth writing about, so here goes.

Remember Emilio? My knight in shining cardigan? Well, Emilio’s son, Angél offered to show me around town one day back when I was still figuring things out in Ciudad Real. After a delicious lunch (more on that in a separate post), Angél suggested that we have some churros and chocolate at one of the most popular churrerias in town.

And this is how I ended up at La Hormiga II.

This is also how I ended up learning that not all churros go by the same name. La Hormiga specializes in porras – a type of churro that is made in a large spiral shape which is later cut into smaller portions that can easily be dunked into a cup of warm, melted chocolate. These churros are different from the ones I usually enjoy in the snack bar at school, which are called churros en lazo or churros madrileños, and are formed into little loop shapes. Of course, both of these are different from the Mexican churros that I’m more familiar with from back home – that come in short, tube-like sections and are sprinkled with cinnamon sugar and sometimes filled with chocolate.

Now that that’s settled.

As we munched the light, crispy, fried treats and dipped them into the small cup of delicious chocolate that we ordered as an essential accompaniment, Angél and I discussed all of these differences. In the end, we decided that the only thing that mattered was how good you felt after eating a churro, whatever its name.

As you can see in this video about La Hormiga, there are more than a few tricks the restaurant uses in making the perfect churro con chocolate. Apparently, there’s also things other than chocolate that you can dip your churro in, as demonstrated at the end of the video.

Churreria La Hormiga II

Calle Cruz, 8, 13001 Ciudad Real

Average Price : .40 euro for a serving of porras. 1.40 euro for a small cup of chocolate.

My Rating:  Nice decor and service for a churreria. Good for an occasional visit to sate your sweet tooth.

Eating Spain

fried chicken & migas: a culinary cultural exchange

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I should know better by now than to commit to anything when I’m drunk, but, for some reason I found myself agreeing to the request that the patriarch of my adoptive Spanish family issued on a recent Friday evening while we were out celebrating my move to a new apartment.
“Kisha, you have to cook us some Southern specialties one day soon! I’ll buy the ingredients. You just come over and cook for us something that represents Geor-geee-yaah!”
On more than one occasion, I’d watched Pablo or his wife prepare a typical Spanish meal – tortilla de patata, paella, maritako – at their house; and had documented the steps, asked tons of questions, and snapped pics so that I could attempt to replicate the dishes for myself in my own modest little kitchen. I’d just finished showing Pablo the results of my culinary tutoring sessions – swiping through a collection of pictures I’d taken of the finished dishes. Included among the Spanish food photos, were a few pics of some dishes that were typical of my home state of Georgia – fish and grits, macaroni and cheese, barbecue ribs.
Upon viewing the photos, Pablo’s eyes widened with respect. Wowwww, Kisha! That looks amazing!” And then came his request.
‘Damn’, I thought. ‘That’s what you get for being a show-off’. But then, I realized that I actually would enjoy sharing a bit of my culinary culture with my newfound family. Besides, how could I possibly say ‘no’ to these folks who had given me food, shelter, taken damned good care of me when I was ailin’, and even helped me move all of my stuff not once, but twice since I’d been in town? That. Would not be southern.
A few moments later, I was entering a calendar appointment into my phone for the following weekend:
Southern lunch at Juana y Pablo’s
 
Almost a week later, Pablo sent me a message:
“Shall we have migas and southern tapas tomorrow in the countryside? We’ve all been invited.”
I squinted my eyes at the message. What the hell is he talking about? Countryside? Migas? Who’s invited us somewhere? Did I agree to do this this weekend!? Was I really that drunk?
As it turned out, I had indeed agreed to prepare the southern-style meal this weekend, i.e., tomorrow. Since agreeing  upon the date, a coworker of Pablo’s had invited his family to join a group of about 20 other people – more coworkers and their families – at his country house to enjoy the traditional La Manchan dish, migas. Instead of cancelling our southern lunch plans, Pablo had decided to just invite me – and my southern food – along for the ride. So now, instead of preparing a quiet little lunch at home for Pablo, Juana, and their two boys, I would now be preparing food for at least 20 people. No pressure.
After talking with Pablo about the logistics of the day, I discovered that this country house didn’t even have a kitchen per se. So, my planned menu of fried chicken, mac-and-cheese and cornbread was simplified to just fried chicken and cornbread. I could cook the cornbread at Pablo and Juana’s before we went to the country, and Pablo would bring along a portable cooking station so I could fry the chicken onsite. Hours later, after making my shopping list (and googling translations for some of the ingredients I’d need), Pablo and I hit the grocery store, then joined the rest of the family back at home where I marinated the chicken and prepped my mise en place for the cornbread, while listening to the James Brown station on Pandora. You know, for proper motivation.
Grocery shopping for the ‘Macon meets La Mancha’ culinary exchange
Marinating the chicken in ‘buttermilk’ and spices
The next day, Pablo came to pick me up. I had to admit I was a bit nervous about the whole thing. I know that Spaniards take as much pride in their regional culinary specialties as we Southerners do, and I felt like it was up to me to adequately represent my culture in this moment. What if the food turned out bad? I mean, I was cooking in an unfamiliar environment, without the same ingredients that I’d normally have back home. One of my worst fears is being the person who brings thatdish to a gathering. You know, the one that stays on the table, largely untouched, because it’s just… wrong.
In my nervousness, I managed to almost drop the pan of cornbread as I slid it out of the oven. In the process of saving it from falling all over the floor, I burned the sh*t out of my left index finger. When it was time to head out to the country, I was in such pain that I really didn’t care anymore how it all turned out. At least that’s what I told myself.
After we arrived, Pablo set up the chicken frying station, while our host, Manuel, started in on the migas. Soon, the other guests began to arrive. A flurry of names and double-cheek kisses followed. Everyone seemed excited about the fact that they’d be getting some authentic ‘Kentooky fried chicken en estilo Sureña’ to go along with the migas. In between breading and frying batches of chicken, I was also able to document Manuel’s process for making the migas.
First, water is added to the breadcrumbs and mixed in by hand. Greeting incoming guests – optional, but recommended.
Starting the fire for cooking the migas
Soothing my burned finger with an ice cold beer. The perfect remedy.
Unpeeled garlic cloves are sauteed in olive oil
Adding the moistened breadcrumbs
After heating the breadcrumbs, pre-cooked chorizo, pancetta, and italian green peppers are added. The mixture is tossed, and tossed, and tossed until done
In the meantime, Pablo preps the frying station
The first batch of chicken goes in…
…And comes out looking good enough to eat!
After a while, everything was done. The food was placed on a communal table, and everyone oohed and aahed over it before digging in.
The chicken and cornbread were a great success! And Manuel’s migas was one of the best examples of the dish I’d had yet.
After lunch, the festivities continued with plenty of wine, then post-lunch fruits, then coffee and dessert, then mixed drinks. We didn’t end up leaving until long after the sun had retired for the day. I returned home feeling full and satisfied that I’d done my culture proud.
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Teaching ESL

useful auxiliar tip: how to conduct your first private english conversation lesson

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A blank slate can be rather intimidating.
Signing up a new student or group for private English conversation classes is thrilling! You start thinking of all sorts of ideas for teaching the class, you dream of all the money you’ll be earning, and you imagine how awesome your new student or students are going to think you are.
But then you realize that before any of that can happen, you’ve got to make it through your very first lesson. What do you do with a brand new student? Where do you start if you don’t know where to start?
I had the same fears when teaching my first lesson, but after finding this guide for conducting your first private English lesson with a new student, I no longer feel any trace of fear or worry.
Essentially, this guide provides you a framework for treating the initial lesson as more of a getting-to-know-you session, which is what it should be. You need to figure out what level of English your student has, what his or her interests and goals are, and you need to share a bit of your experience and teaching methods. By removing the pressure to perform in the blind on your very first meeting, you’ll lay the foundation for a much more productive interaction between you and your student going forward.
I usually charge a reduced rate or even give this introductory ‘lesson’ for free to new students, and often the first lesson is much shorter – say 40 minutes versus an hour – than a regular lesson. How you modify the guide’s suggested steps is up to you.
What other suggestions do you have for successfully conducting a private lesson with a new student?
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Eating Spain

tapas protocol 101

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Since I’ve been on my one-woman tapas tour for the past few months, I’ve noticed quite a few unwritten rules of behavior that are common in many if not all of the tapas bars here. So, I thought I’d share a few:

  • Ask ‘Se dan tapas aqui?’ or ‘Se da tapas con consumicion?’ before ordering. You don’t want to be unpleasantly surprised or disappointed when your drink shows up without a free, tasty little morsel to accompany it. 

  • Throw your napkin on the floor. The first time I walked into a tapas bar and saw the crumpled up, used napkins scattered everywhere, my Southern sensibilities were a bit offended. ‘Is this ok?’ I thought to myself. I’m still not sure that it is ok, but it is certainly standard practice. I still haven’t been able to bring myself to do it without sort of letting the napkin happen to ‘accidently’ fall from my hand as discreetly as possible. In some bars, there will be a small bin under the bar or the table, so, in those cases, it’s expected that you’ll dispose of your used napkins in them. Ditto if you see a sign posted somewhere that reads, ‘No tirar papeles’ or ‘No tirar servilletas‘.
At Bar El Alcazar in Ciudad Real – the floor is your wastebasket

Other tapas bars are more ‘fancy’. If you see a wastebasket, use it.

  • Order your next round by gruffly (or sweetly) yelling, ‘Cuando puedas’ at the bartender. At least that’s how most of the old fellas I  usually find myself surrounded by do it. The universal signal of raising your empty glass and pointing to it while eyeballing the bartender also works pretty well.

  • Learn the difference between a caña, a tubo, a botellín, a jarra, and a copa. These are all different sizes of draft beer or other adult beverage, that obviously range in price. And, just to keep things confusing, all of these names (with the exception of caña) may vary depending on what city or region in Spain you’re in. No matter what shows up after you order, just drink it.

  • Figure out the rules to that dice game that you’ll sometimes see the fellas playing at the end of the bar. It’s usually accompanied by loud shit-talking.

  • Perfect your not quite perfectly pronounced drone of  ‘Ha luwayooo…’ (hasta luego), as this is the most acceptable way to exit the bar and say goodbye to both the bartender and everyone else within earshot.
Have you noticed any other unwritten rules of tapa etiquette?

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Expat Life

friend request

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I sensed there was something a bit strange about the fellow when he sat at the communal table where I was seated. Something about his constant fidgeting and frequent sighing caused my spidey-senses to tingle. But I still wasn’t quite prepared for the interaction that was about to unfold.

“Hola,” he half-whispered.
I whispered a greeting in reply, “Hola,” then attempted to turn my attention back to my laptop. He didn’t take the hint.
 “Eres Dominicana?”
‘Ah, well,’ I thought. The library was getting ready to close for the evening, so I guess I should start wrapping up my work anyway. There’s no harm in engaging this dude in a little small talk.
“No. Americana.”
“Pero, AmericanaAmericana?”
Uh, yeah, homey. From the grand ol’ US of A, born and raised.
By now, I was just trying to think of a way to politely end the conversation with this guy so I could go on about my business. My spidey-senses were tingling even stronger now. Something about the way he was looking at me – like a sickly wolf in need of a quick meal – made me want to exit this scene immediately.
“Eres muy guapaaa…” creepy library dude continued.
I issued a curt, “Gracias.”
“Can I have your phone number?”
Wait. What? That just came out of nowhere.
“Noooo,” I resisted. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Here in Spain?”
“Yes,” I lied. “He lives in Madrid.”
“Ohhhh…” creepy guy replied, despondently.
Ok. I thought. That should shut this dude down. I was sadly mistaken.
“Tienes Facebook?” At this, creepy dude stood up and walked around to my side of the table where, by chance, I had my Facebook account pulled up on my screen.
“Uhhh, si.” I muttered awkwardly. Momentarily taken aback by the sudden proximity of this guy.
“Send me a friend request,” he urged, and began spelling his name for me to look him up on the social media site.
Thinking I could just send the request and cancel it later, and that this would be the quickest way to get rid of this guy, I typed in his name and clicked the ‘Add Friend’ button.
Instead of just returning to his seat, creepy library guy decided to up the creep factor to 10.
“Can I have a kiss?”
Ok. That’s it dude. I’m done being nice.
I scowled back at him, “No!”
“Why not? Your boyfriend won’t see!”
Is this dude serious? We are in the middle of the public library and he’s doing this sh*t!? I felt my face begin to grow hot with anger. God, I wish I knew how to effortlessly cuss someone out in Spanish. In the midst of my mounting rage, I make a silent side-note to brush up on my Spanish swear words and phrases.
Instead of cussing, I give him a look that needs no translation. My left eyebrow sharply raised, my right eye squinting at him like he might actually be insane, my nose wrinkled up like I can literally smell the BS he’s dishing out, and the corners of my mouth pulling downward into a mama-don’t-take-no-mess frown. In any language, this face means, “Look MF, if you don’t back away from me quick fast and in a hurry, I’m gonna smack the taste out of your mouth.”
Message delivered.
Creepy library dude backs away and returns to the other side of the table with a sheepish grin on his face. “Lo siento, Lo siento,” he whispers and begins gathering his things to make his exit. After all his stuff is in hand, he turns to leave, but not before whispering, “Hasta luego.”
I issue a grunt and another scowl in reply.
That uncomfortable moment over, I realize that the library is going to be closing in only a few more minutes. Not wanting to chance running into this creepy guy outside of the library, I wait until the last possible moment to pack up my things and leave. But before I do, I return to Facebook and click the link.

 

Cancel Request.
 
 
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Eating Spain

tapa of the week: meson las brasas, ciudad real

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On a rare sunny and slightly warm day I decided to mount Roci and go for a leisurely ride down to my favorite park in Ciudad Real, Parque del Pilar.

I’d noticed on previous visits to the park that there was a sizeable bar / restaurant near the center, but I’d never had the good fortune to find it open. At least, not until today. So, I parked Roci, headed to the outdoor bar and ordered a glass of wine.

Meson Las Brasas – Ciudad Real

With my first glass came a simple but fairly tasty tapa of chicken stewed with onions and peppers. Not a bad start. And the little bit of sauce on the plate was quite nice when ‘sopped up’ with the bread that came alongside the tapa.

My first tapa – simple mix of chicken, onion, and peppers

I decided to order a second glass… you know, for research purposes. This glass was accompanied by a decent portion of deep fried chicken strips that had a slight coconut flavor and a little bit of a balsamic glaze drizzled on the plate. With the unseasonably warm weather, the mild taste of coconut seemed just right, and, for a moment I imagined that I was in some more beautiful, more tropical location than a park on the south side of Ciudad Real.

My second tapa – Coconut fried chicken strips with a balsamic glaze

Service at Meson Las Brasas was quite good. The bar staff was friendly and attentive – not something I’m used to at Spanish eateries. Due to a private event, I wasn’t able to see the inside of the establishment, but with the huge patio that lets you look out over the park and soak up the sun, I doubt I’ll ever want to see the inside.

I have a feeling that this place might be in regular rotation once warmer weather is here to stay.

Meson Las Brasas

Avenida de Europa, 1, 13005 Ciudad Real (inside Parque del Pilar)

Average Price per Tapa: Free tapa with drink. Glass of wine set me back 1.50.

My Rating: Great service. Amazing patio. Quality wine and decent tapas. 

Expat Life

spanish word of the day: abrigar

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Abrigar. (verb) To bundle up. To protect oneself from the cold.

As I was leaving the apartment with my bike, I ran into my elderly neighbor, Sr. Braulio.

“Vas en bici?” He asked, looking a little dubious. (Are you going by bike?)

“Siiii,” I replied. Then followed with, “Tengo mis guantes, mi bufonda…” (I got my gloves, my scarf…)

“Ahh…” He responded. “Hay que abrigar!”(Ya gotta bundle up!)

Expat Life

estoy harta (i’m fed up)

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Living in a small Spanish town is hard. Harder than I thought. I can’t believe it’s been 4 months, and I still struggle with being here. Still. I mean, I’m usually a pretty adaptable person, so I’m kind of shocked that I haven’t successfully done so here. I feel like almost every moment is a struggle. Nothing comes easily. Nothing is without a little bit of pain, inconvenience, or the unexpected element of surprise. I feel like I’ve been being (or trying to be) mentally and physically tough the entire time I’ve been here. And I don’t think I want to keep it up anymore. Or at least… I need to take a break from this sh*t.
***
Today, I left the bike behind at the house and walked to school instead. I got to school about 30 minutes late for my first class. I had no excuse other than, I couldn’t make it. That’s it. For my evening class, I showed up about 5 minutes late, and I flat out told the teacher – I’m totally unprepared today. She told me to go home. I did. This is what I call radical self-care tinged with a little bit of, ‘Yo. Eff this sh*t’.
***
Living alone was probably not the best decision after all, so I’ve started looking for a new apartment – with roommates. I spent time at the instituto this morning contacting the few shared apartments I found online last night. This evening, they both called back. I’ll be going to take a look at them tomorrow. Hopefully, at least one of them will feel like a better situation than I’m in right now. God, I hope so. I really need an improvement – just for my state of mind. I’m starting to feel so mentally worn down and raw-edged. Like, anything could make me cry these days. What kinda thug cries at the drop of a hat?
***
I watched two movies this weekend about folks locked down in solitary confinement. One was a movie with Kevin Bacon (who did his thing in the role, I might add) as a petty criminal who’d been in solitary in Alcatraz for 3 years in the 1930s. The other was the biopic about Ruben Hurricane Carter starring Denzel. Both felt like my life right now. Mumbling to myself, laughing to myself, entertaining myself with my own vivid daydreams and imaginings. Plus, something that Denzel-as-Ruben said in the movie really stuck with me. I just gotta focus on doing the time. Not on when I’ll get out, not on what my life used to be like in some other place. Just doing the time.
So far, I’ve done 4 months. I’d been thinking that I had 5 more months to go, and that there was no way in hell or on God’s green earth that I could possibly do another 5 months like this. But, then, all of a sudden I realized that the end of May is only a little more than 3 months away (I did start the program late, after all). 90 days doesn’t seem nearly as bad as 5 months. Maybe I can make it. Maybe.
***
I’m tired of fighting the cold
I’m tired of fighting the bike
I’m tired of fighting my schedule
I’m tired of fighting my shower
I’m tired of fighting my coffee maker
I’m tired of fighting my bed
I’m tired of the internet being so damned slow. Slow? No. slow would be an improvement
I’m tired of not having a DVD player
I’m tired of watching the same damned TV shows every damned day
I’m tired of the same crappy movies on Paramount channel
I’m tired of the cold
I’m tired of being sick
I’m sick of waiting a week for my clothes to dry
I’m sick of not having any clothes to wear
I’m sick of going shopping for clothes only to realize that I’m not made like a Spanish woman. (Yes, this dress is very nice. But where do my boobs go?)
I’m sick of going to the library
I’m sick of going to my evening class
I’m sick of this town
No. I’m over this town
I’m over these people who live here and the way they walk (Seriously? Can you f*ckin’ move, please?)
I’m over my students acting like slack-jawed yokels some days (What’s up with that? Think, dammit!)
I’m over this cold
I’m over this sh*tty ass food. Like, really, can I get one decent restaurant that either doesn’t have the same tired ass tapas that EVERY other restaurant has, OR isn’t ridiculously overpriced!? The f*ck?
I’m over positive self-talk. I’m over trying to convince myself that I can do this, that I got this, that I can make it if I just try. No. Enough of that. Today, it’s just me, my screwface, and hip-hop blaring through my headphones as I stomp-walk through the streets of Ciudad Real.
I can try again… tomorrow.

******
UPDATE; Since I first penned these thoughts almost a month ago, things have changed considerably. That apartment and those roommates I was hunting for? Found ’em. I now live with 3 other ladies of varying ages. It feels nice to no longer have only myself to talk to, and to have other living, breathing humans to share the details of my day with. I’ve even made some connections with other Americans living in town, and we meet fairly regularly to share tapas, drinks, laughter, and stories of expat life.

That cold that I was so very sick of? The new apartment has much better heating, and the seemingly neverending winter in my little Spanish town has magically transformed into spring – almost overnight. This means that I’ve been able to reunite with my rusty old bike that one of my coworkers loaned me. Now that I no longer have to abrigarme every day, I can actually enjoy the sometimes-challenging ride through town on my way to school or to run errands. I even catch myself humming or singing little tunes as I pedal through the streets – a much better use of my vocal chords than the under-my-breath curses that I used to emit.

That terrible Internet connection that forced me to go to use the wifi at the public library, where I was often prey for creepy library stalkers… it is no more. The wifi in my new place is about as strong as it gets. So, not only can I get more writing work done in the comfort of my own room, I can also watch a variety of TV programs and movies that just weren’t available to me before. And sometimes, when I am just sitting in my room, enjoying the relative softness of my new bed, or watching the sunlight stream in through the window, I hear the lilting sounds of my neighbor practicing the flute (thankfully, he or she is pretty damned good!) or the bells from the nearby cathedral chiming the hour… and I smile, and say a little prayer of thanks.

Through all of this, I’ve realized (or been reminded) that making a mid-course correction isn’t the same as failing; that suffering isn’t necessary, that when going through something that you know is making you stronger and more resilient, you still have the right and the power to say when you’ve reached your limit.

And that sometimes, ‘eff this sh*t’, is exactly the right answer.

A little reminder I wrote to myself and kept on my bedside table when I decided to stop struggling.
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Teaching ESL

useful auxiliar tip: the 15-minute back pocket exercise

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Keep a back-pocket full of 15-minute activities, exercises or simple games that you can whip out at a moment’s notice. It should be something that is suitable or easily adaptable for all levels, and doesn’t need any special materials or equipment. Invariably, you will find yourself in a situation where the teacher has deserted you or you have extra time on your hands at the end of a previous activity. I call them ‘gaping hole’ moments. You don’t want gaping hole moments. A few of my favorite 15-minute activities: Celebrity, Jeopardy!, conversation cards, and a little game I like to call ‘Say It, Spell It, Count It’. With this game, I write different words, numbers, or simple math problems on slips of paper. Each student takes turn pulling a slip of paper from the bag. They have to either say the word in English (it’s written in Spanish on the paper), Spell the word in English (also written in Spanish on the paper), or count something (i.e., say a number or give the answer to a simple problem).
What sort of ‘gaping hole’ activities do you use with your classes and private lessons?