Famished

Amarguillos a la verdad.

Soplillos de gabinete.

Esperanzas de aire.

Alfileres dulces.

Pronto hecho.

Pronto comido.

Pechuguillas de dama, en salsa a lo jefe.

Pollos al amor, salteados.

Cangrejos a lo ministro.

Pavos de salón en papel.

Escombros a lo ama de casa.

Palos de sorpresa.

Caracoles al diputado.

Revueltos a la moderna.

Alondras al minuto.

Pasteles de banquero.

Pepitorias a lo editor.

Agujetas clásicas de limón a lo literato.

Mermelada de general.

Manzanas infernales.

Pudding supremo de la victoria, a lo botas azules.

~ Rosalía de Castro, El caballero de las botas azules [1867]

Chapter XXIII of Rosalía de Castro’s strange (her words, not mine) novel includes a nonsensical menu for a banquet in Madrid attended by aristocrats. I don’t have time to translate it now because I’m busy in the kitchen myself. Besides, the irony of the dishes, their names, is hard to comprehend without the novel as a context. Let’s just say the choice of food for the fancy gathering is not meant to feed the attendees but rather to laugh at their society. The dishes are not at all edible.

Why mention it, then? Well, it has inspired me to create a menu of my own. You see, I’m working on my memoir, and the dishes I’m preparing are a story I’m hoping to share with a special group of people, none of who resides in Madrid. It’s not a large group - Rosalía’s rich guests were far more numerous and were lacking the dignity they thought they had. My guests are very important to me and I hope they’ll accept my invitation to the banquet.

My memoir had to be based on food and hopefully the reason why will be clear as I describe the dishes, their ingredients, their occasions. It’s just a list, but it’s more than that and I’m hoping nobody will go home hungry.

Curry pizza with valley, served on a terrace in Cordes-sur-ciel. Drizzled with hot oil, soaked in perfectly golden sunshine, sprinkled with basil that only speaks French. Pure joy. Perfectly designed painting. Time ordered to stand still while the gaze takes in the Tarn scenery. Fields that allow themselves to be devoured like an exquisite crust.

A pint - or a quart - of beer in Episkopi, Cyprus, only drinkable because of the 110 degree heat and the fear of water. Sunstroke avoided by concentrating on a café sign that reads Redrum. Flavor improves if the sign is recognized as having been made by Stephen King.

A salad exactly like the ones at Buján Carbía restaurant in Cuntis, province of Pontevedra. Lettuce like moth wings and onions that know how to fly. Tomatoes that rival the blood of the stones of many houses in the area.

Ghost Potato Salad only visible to those who knew the Candilejas restaurant in the Praza de Mazarelos. Ingredients include cobblestones and clattering hand carts of workers transporting items along the medieval curve nearby.

Elderberry mineral water that reaches the nose, rises, then expands. Intoxicatingly non-alcoholic, intimate, divine in the glass and surrounding shadows. Best not to overdo it, however. Intoxication is not a good thing, however tempting.

Empanada of scallop and octopus, made following the recipe of Xan of the María Castaña. So well choreographed that it dances and sings. The scallops sway gently and the octopus smiles as it moves beneath the crust.

Ceviche that demands attention, but requires silence for the flavors to be understood. It us not like the ones in Peru or Ecuador, pale versions of my recipe. It has a bit of a Chilean swagger because … well, it should be obvious why. Bits of cilantro wave from the glass rectangle and offer themselves to discerning mouths. It needs to be eaten with haste, because waiting too long can turn it into cardboard or potatoes, and then it’s no longer ceviche. The hot pepper bits are like little knives that tease the teeth and make eaters laugh.

Maultaschen filled with meat and spinach. Nothing more Swabian than that. Mouse pockets, some call them. There may be a little mouse inside, but it’s not cooked dead, only sleeping. It can be removed and will scurry off, if anyone is squeamish. This dish includes the second floor of a 16th century restaurant and has low ceilings. That doesn’t affect the flavor, which is improved by the napkins of white linen with local embroidery. There is a bit of black pepper that speaks a German dialect and offers a warm embrace of legitimate DNA. I suspect it tastes differently to others than to me because it has my ancestral memories baked inside. Still, its flavor should appeal to most people.

Labarthe-Bleys patio treasures that include artichokes, salmon, and a few more things I don’t want to reveal. There’s wine from Gaillac to accompany these little jewels, but the only part that’s drinkable is the rosy gleam nestled in a chilly bottle. The lavender beside it is edible if anyone wishes to consume it. The fragrance pairs well with the glint of elderberry water, even though the water is Welsh.

Salted, buttery, steamy, grainy oatmeal like they serve in St. Andrews. Porridge for the ages, standing stiff and edgy in a handmade clay bowl. Very filling, warm enough to take it back to bed and crawl under the coverlet, cold with the June frost of Scotland. Muscle-maker. Lover. Perfect morning food.

Pupusas modeled on Honduran shack food, accompanied by vinegary curtido. A choice of fillings: cheese, black beans, chicharrón. Has a hint of long, crowded tables, infinite chatter, humidity. Limit of three per person, but only because I don’t have time to make more. Aftertaste has a bit of dusty streets, stares of people on the streets, embraces. If desired, banana or egg can be added.

Spaghetti sauce with three types of tomatoes, green peppers, onions. Cooked for four hours with meatballs that have bread crumbs, egg, a toss of oregano. The key to this dish is the four hour cooking time, so there is a hint of old kitchen and vintage clock that has a taste that resembles little girl tears. Barely a sprinkle of garlic, heavier on the chili powder. If the tomatoes aren’t home canned, the sauce is bad. Somewhere inside the sauce is a hand on a shoulder and a huge slice of happiness.

This is only a partial list. I plan to serve nineteen dishes, but there’s not enough room in my kitchen until I move the ones already prepared into a better place, like the refrigerator or maybe a book or album. If it’s an album, I can include the full recipes, which I’ve barely included here. If it’s a book, I can put it on my big bookshelf and get it out to share as much as I want with as many people as I like.

Right now I’m famished. Hoping people will show up to help me eat my memoir.