SWEET HOME CHICAGO.

So…as I mentioned in my earlier post, I’ve just returned from a week-long trip to Chicago. And now that my body has caught up with four of the seven time zones that I flew across, I feel somewhat empowered to tell my story.

Not that it’s an especially interesting story, but I suspect that most of you have grown tired of reading my recycled Expatica posts and would welcome any change of pace.

The reason that I was in Chicago was that my employer—Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc.—held its Legal Department Olympics at the corporate headquarters. This meant that it was the best kind of business trip—one for which I had no responsibilities, other than to stay well-behaved and awake.

But alas, staying awake wasn’t much of a problem, because the conference was fabulous. And I’m not just saying that because my boss (a) organized the conference, and (b) is a regular reader of this blog. Although you might be forgiven for assuming as much.

We sat through a number of top executive presentations on the state of the low carb tongue depressor market and its latest technological trends. Did you know that low carb tongue depressors can also be used as shoe horns for people with narrow feet?

And as shoes for people with flat feet?

And when burned at temperatures exceeding 350º, they smell like rosemary? The tongue depressors, that is; not the feet.

Midway through the week, our entire department took a field trip to downtown Chicago to (a) see the brand-spankin’ new Millenium Park and its Frank Gehry-designed sculpture, “The Bean;” (b) eat a great Cajun dinner at Heaven on Seven; and (c) swing to the vocal-stylings of the talented and foxy Dena DeRose at the Jazz Showcase.

BTW…when was the last time you saw the word “foxy” used in someone’s blog?

But the best part of the conference was having the opportunity to hang-out with my colleagues not just from Chicago, but also from Singapore, Ireland, Finland, Indiana and California—some of which I haven’t seen in four years, and others that I hadn’t previously met at all. And I don’t just say that because some of them are regular readers of this blog. Although you might be forgiven for assuming as much.

SAL’S BACK. BREAK-OUT THE VERMOUTH!

One or two of you probably noticed that I’ve been a bit quiet lately. That’s because I was in Chicago, where my employer—Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc.—was holding its global Legal Department pow-wow.

I’d love to tell you about it, but am going to wait a day or two. The all-night, no sleep flight across seven time zones has turned my brain into haggis for today.

But in the meantime, you can peruse my scholarly dissertation on sweet, red vermouth—which was published in The Spirit World last Friday. The essay also includes a poem that is guaranteed to touch your heart…or bring a tear to your eye…or something like that.

Check it out by clicking here.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll return to sitting on the sofa and staring at my knees.

ANOTHER POST FOR POSTERITY: NONNIE’S ITALIAN SAUSAGE RECIPE.

Long time patrons of this VTB know that I have—from time to time—released prized family recipes into the public domain in order to assure their immortality.

Most of those recipes have been Nonnie’s—including The Oliva Family’s Macaroni Sauce and the now-immortal pusties.

In today’s installment, I am releasing another recipe. This is one that I couldn’t (or wouldn’t want to) live without. It’s…Nonnie’s Italian Sausage!

What’s the big deal about Italian sausage? Three things:

1. Outside the US, it’s not easy to find Italian sausage in supermarkets.
2. Inside the US, it’s easy to find Italian sausage in supermarkets…but much of it is poo.
3. Who needs a friggin’ supermarket?! Making Italian sausage is so easy that even an Italian can do it.

And so, I give to all of you…another post for posterity.

NONNIE’S ITALIAN SAUSAGE

4 lbs. Coarsely-ground pork butt (i.e., pork shoulder)
2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons paprika
2 teaspoons fennel seed
2 tablespoons hot red pepper flakes (optional)
Sausage casings, soaked in water to soften and remove salt (optional)

Step 1. Mix pork and spices in a bowl.
Step 2. Cover and let sit overnight in the fridge.
Step 3. Form into patties if you’re a lazy-ass—otherwise, stuff into casings.

[See, Franje? I wasn’t kidding when I told you that I make my own sausage.]

LIONS AND TIGERS AND…OH MY!!!

Believe it or not, this elegant collage is proudly displayed in the reception area of the daycare facility at which my daughter takes swimming lessons. Let’s all take a moment and look closely at the photo.

Amazing, isn’t it?

Twenty-four hours after taking this photo, I’m still not sure what message the Day Care’s management was trying to convey. Perhaps it was intended to encourage students to eat more fiber.

But let’s look on the bright side, shall we? We should be thankful that the arrows aren’t pointing in the *other* direction. That type of activity is still considered a felony in certain parts of Georgia and Alabama.

THANKS FOR THE MEME-RIES (EXPATICA EDITION)

[Note: This is an essay that was recently published in Expatica Spain. The title is the same as an earlier post, but the content is different.]

It seems that no self-respecting, twenty-first century blog can survive without posting an occasional meme.

What’s a “meme?” To be honest, I’m still not 100% sure. It seems to be the blogging-world’s equivalent of a chain letter…but with an important difference. The typical meme involves a series of personal questions, and the blogger who is “tagged” to participate is expected to contribute his own soul-searching ramblings before forwarding it to others.

I’ve been tagged with many memes in my personal blog. And to be honest…I quite like them. Memes are an easy way to produce blog content with a minimum of brain strain.

So…if it’s good enough for my personal blog, then it ought to be good enough for my Expatica blog. Right? I’ve therefore taken the liberty of tagging myself with the suspiciously topical meme below.

WHAT’S THE MOST SURREAL EXPERIENCE YOU’VE HAD WHILE LIVING IN SPAIN:
That’s an easy one. I once spent a weekend in the Mediterranean coastal town of Javea; located between the Spanish cities of Valencia and Alicante. I was there because the Madrid Hash House Harriers held an “Away Hash” that was attended by nearly one hundred participants—some of whom flew in from Germany, Switzerland and England.

Our Saturday run took place near a large orange grove in the middle of nowhere. Before the run began, we gathered ‘round for a briefing and were informed that we would—at one point—be jogging through the scenic grounds of the Fontilles Leper Colony.

“Leper Colony?” I thought to myself. “Ha ha…nice try, but I’m not buying it. It may have been a leper colony a hundred years ago, but I’m sure it’s a Parador or museum or other tourist trap now.”

And so…the run began. Forty-five minutes into it, we passed through an old stone gate and into a large, walled complex of columned buildings, intricate ceramic works and wide lawns. We ran down a tiled walkway and around a corner. And as we rounded the corner, who do you think was there to greet us?

A smiling old man in a wheelchair. Waving to us with his right hand. Which, I should mention, was missing all of its fingers.

WHAT HAVE YOU LEARNED ABOUT YOURSELF SINCE MOVING TO SPAIN:
That my talent for written languages doesn’t transfer to spoken languages. No, no, no…not in the least.

IF YOU COULD CHANGE ONE THING ABOUT SPAIN, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
I’d require that stores stay open on Sundays. Yes…I understand that Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. But a day of rest seems pointless if there’s no NFL American football to watch on TV.

[Author’s note: To be honest, I can’t stand watching NFL football. But the conditions of my US citizenship require that I pretend to love it.]

WOULD YOU CHANGE ANYTHING ELSE?
Yes. I’d forbid all supermarkets from playing David Bisbal songs over the intercom. I suspect that I’m overreaching on this one.

WHAT IS YOUR MOST UNFORGETTABLE DINING EXPERIENCE IN SPAIN?
I’m afraid that it involves…paella. Yes, yes…I know that paella has become Spain’s national cliché. Whenever a tourist returns from a Spanish holiday, he’ll surely rave about the unforgettable paella that he ate there. Then, upon cross-examination, he’ll grudgingly admit that said paella was served and eaten at a Pizza Hut in Benidorm.

Cliché or not…the fact remains that a truly great, authentic paella can be a life-altering experience. And my life was altered twice at family-run a restaurant in Parcent, Alicante called “Restaurante L’Era.”

I was there for lunch. It was one of those typically-Spanish, criminally-inexpensive, three-course fixed menus. The main course was paella; which was the specialty of the house. And when the server laid the pan on the table in front of me, my entire head was enveloped in a fragrant cloud of fresh seafood and wood smoke.

Wood smoke!

I knew that authentic paellas were *supposed* to be cooked over a wood fire (ideally, one fueled with grape vine clippings), but none of the seven or eight thousand that I’d previously eaten had been prepared in this manner. This was the first, and in a single instant…those previous seven or eight thousand paellas were immediately relegated to Pizza Hut status.

After lunch, the server agreed to let me tour the kitchen. I just *had* to see where this magnificent work of art was created. I opened the kitchen door, poked my head inside and was hit full in the face with what felt like the exhaust of a steel mill’s blast furnace. Running along the length of kitchen wall was a long, open hearth. It was ablaze with wood fire after wood fire—and cooking above each fire was pan after pan of paella. It was a scene more befitting a North Carolina pig roast than a family restaurant in rural Alicante.

I’ve been ruined for paella ever since. Once you’ve had wood, nothing else tastes as good.

AFTER LIVING IN SPAIN FOR SO MANY YEARS, WHAT’S THE ONE THING THAT STILL BOGGLES YOUR MIND?
Water bottles in front of doors! Why do homeowners place water bottles in front of their front doors? I’ve posed this question to countless people, and nobody has provided a rational explanation.

IF YOU COULD GIVE ONE PIECE OF ADVICE TO SOMEONE VISITING SPAIN, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
Don’t miss the opportunity to stay in a Casa Rural. These are bed and breakfast-type places located in rural areas of Spain. There are hundreds—if not thousands—of them scattered throughout the country. They are often large, rustic, centuries-old houses that have been refurbished to their past glories. I’ve stayed at many throughout the years. Quality varies, of course, but most have been very nice. Some were absolutely fantastic! And the prices tend to be incredibly reasonable—often ranging from thirty to sixty euros per night.

ANY OTHER ADVICE TOURISTS?
Yes. Don’t…drink…the Sangría!

Well…I could go on for another fifty pages, but I think that I’ll end the meme here. It’s getting late, and I’ve been typing so much that my fingers feel like they’re going to fall off.

Wait a minute! My fingers HAVE fallen off!

Damn you, Fontilles Leper Colony!!!

WEDNESDAY IS “HAGGIS DAY” IN SPAIN!

I finally opened that can of Grant’s Traditional Recipe Haggis tonight.

Here is a pre-dinner photo. Dig the “Master Po meets Charlie Trotter”-esque presentation!

And the taste? Well…let’s just say that the I’ve reached an important conclusion. The haggis that I ate and loved in Edinburgh must’ve been neither Grant’s nor Traditional. Why? Because five minutes after snapping this photo, I was boiling a pot of water for spaghetti.

Sorry, Godmother.

CALLING ALL FLAT STANLEY TOUR GUIDES!

Photo: Flat Stanley on the Hash.

It seems that the whole Flat Stanley thing has struck a chord with some of you. And smelling blood, my sister left the following oh-so-subtle comment to the previous post:

“Sal’s little sister in Chicago has a third grade class of 25 students who will be sending out their “Flat Bodies” in two weeks. Any volunteers to receive one???”

“Flat Bodies” are the same concept as Flat Stanley, except that it is a life-sized tracing, coloring and cut-out of the student himself.

So…if anyone wants to be the temporay tourguide for a Flat Body from my sister’s third-grade class, then just send your mailing address to my personal email address (virtualtapasbar@yahoo.com).

I will forward it on to my sister (and no one else), and she will assign one of her students to you.

Who says the world isn’t Flat?

Show Buttons
Hide Buttons