When food makes you weep
I’m standing in front of a room of my peers trying to remember what it was I was supposed to be doing.
Power Point. Click next.
Job completed my brain returns all focus to what I’m eating. It is amazing, transformative, and I can’t quite handle myself.
Tortilla Espanola! Real tortilla!!*
This is amazing!
I think I might even cry.
Oh, Lord. I am crying.
I duck behind the computer screen. Press next, as my partner continues to present and try to pull it together. It really is just eggs, oil, salt and potatoes, but it is also so much more.
This one bite brings me back to spain more than anything else I have found in the US. I am sitting at the small wooden table in the kitchen with my spanish family, discussing boys with my host sister and polytheism with my host dad. I am enjoying a tapas night out with friends. I am eating it with my hands and sitting with my feet in a stream at the end of a long day on the camino. I am sitting on my favorite bench by the duck pond at my university and contemplating the ethics of feeding ducks eggs. This is my spain and I miss it. These are the little moments.
Spain for tourists might be paella, but dishes like this and pa amb oli, these are the real spain. And its absence is an ache. But I am not in any of these places, I am in a basement classroom in Iowa and it is my turn to present.
So I hike up my big girl panties and I pull it together and I tell everyone in my class why the Baleares are a cool freaking place to visit.
I do what I have to and I do it will, but a part of me remains in Spain all day and I can’t say I hate it one bit.
Until next time I am off to ride my own wave of memories.
*This post talks about tortilla Espanola, not the kind from the Americas. Edjumacate yourselves with this Wikipedia link on Tortilla.