CULINARY DIGRESSION #2

By Fir0002 (Own work) [GFDL 1.2], via Wikimedia Commons

POMEGRANATES are gorgeous. When you open one, the faceted seeds with their transparent flesh spill out like so many rubies and garnets. Bite one and a tiny explosion of flavour, tart and sweet at the same time, surprises your tastebuds. I have loved them since I was six, especially because they're a rarity, and expensive, as if they really are little caskets of jewels.
But they're messy to eat. The bloody juice spurts everywhere! A child is banished outside to the back step to enjoy one. This is not all bad, because it gives free rein to the desire to spit out the bitter pips. But in November and December when they are most common in the supermarkets of the Great White North, its also quite cold.
I was thrilled today to open a cookbook and discover a method for juicing pomegranates which is mess-free. Not to mention dead-easy!

It goes like this. Roll the intact pomegranate on the counter until it is flaccid. That's what they said! Then, once it has achieved full sogginess, pierce it with a sharp knife, gently, and suspend it over the mouth of a glass. A gentle squeeze is enough to let out the juice, in surprising amounts. No fuss, no mess, no pressing, no straining. And,like any freshly squeezed juice, it tastes SO good!

GERNIKA = GUERNICA

Guernica seems like a funny place to head for some R and R, given its tragic history. But it also seemed like a place one ought to visit because of the same tragic happenings. It seemed important to stand where such an outrage happened, to bear witness, more than seventy years after the fact.

Gernika (I'm using the Basque spelling, since it's a Basque town), was an important place to the people of Biskaia (Viscaya) as a market town and the equivalent of a county town where legislators assembled and justice was meted out. In the olden days, justice courts and assemblies throughout the Basque country met outside under imposing trees. The tree of Gernika was one of the most famous. When the Basques became part of Spain, at least two Spanish monarchs had to come to Gernika to stand under the tree and swear to preserve various liberties of the Basque people. Most days Gernika was a market town with access to the sea, and beginning in the nineteenth century, had a couple of factories. Bilbao was close by, only thirty kilometres away.

Other than that, it wasn't much to write home about. But things changed in the nineteen thirties when General Franco and his rebels seized control of the Spanish government. In 1937, Gernika became important strategically, in a most temporary fashion, due to its proximity to the area of Markina to the east, where a group of Republicans, the enemies of Franco, were hiding out in the folded, green, and remote hills. Suddenly Gernika was a potential refuge and supply line. General Franco allowed Italian and Nazi air strikes on the town. Instead of destroying strategic targets, during the course of a couple hours,they held carpet bombing raids, destroyed the entire town in a fiery maelstrom, and killing somewhere between two and sixteen hundred people, depending on who you believe. The handful of buildings to survive included the Andra Mari Church and the Hall of Justice,with the Tree of Gernika on its grounds. One of the raid's stated targets, The Renteria bridge over the Oka River was undamaged too. There was, and remains, the feeling that the raid was punitive; an attempt to break the spirit of the Basque people, and bring them into line.

I've been reading the stories of some of the survivors, and even though I've seen the photographs of the destruction, and seen the maps of how little survived, it wasn't until I walked through the streets that I could even begin to imagine the horror of it. Even then, its difficult to believe that this sunny, well-kept little town was nearly obliterated in the course of a market day afternoon. But, if you look closely you can begin to notice the lack of older buildings. If you go to the marketplace, you'll see a large round modern building, strange in itself. Go inside and sit on one of the benches. The glass walls surrounding you are imprinted with photographs of the devastation. You look out through these ghostly images onto the busy rebuilt streets. Then you really get the picture.

I didn't go to the Peace Museum. I didn't need to, and I certainly didn't want any more information on just how horrible it had been. Instead, I chose to go to the Museum of the Basque Culture up near the church. Wars come and go, but the people endure. That is what is important.

YOU CAN'T GET THERE FROM HERE

The next morning was grey. I felt a bit grey too, as I left my compatriots. They went to find some breakfast, while I went to find a bus to Gernika, the next town of any size. I negotiated that with little trouble, though the amount of nervous energy that surges through me while I strive to ascertain for absolute certain that I’m on the RIGHT bus is quite ridiculous. On a holiday like this, it wouldn’t even matter if I were going on the RIGHT bus, because everything is an adventure! It turned out to be a journey of mythical proportions, and very nearly proved the old adage that “you can’t get there from here”. In fact I could, but I had to ride into the outskirts of Bilbao, wait for an hour and a half, and then backtrack to Gernika, which despite its size, was not on any direct bus routes. This in a country which is very well served by its buses!

The journey went in stages. The first stage ended in the fishing town of Ondarroa, a mere 8k from Deba. The bus followed the path of the cyclist's Camino through Mutriku. The walkers would be taking a very steep and somewhat remote track through the mountains to Markina. From Ondarroa, I took a different bus which passed through Markina on its way to Bilbao. In less than an hour, I had covered the territory that the other peregrinos would spend a whole day slogging through. I didn’t envy them the mud that the rain was surely creating, but I did envy them the gorgeous countryside that we passed through, and I cursed my swollen knees.

The bus trip itself was an interesting cultural immersion. Basque people seem to sing aloud on buses just to pass the time. I was enchanted to hear a grandmother soothing a cranky baby with lullabies in Euskara. For a language so full of k’s and t's and x's, it has a lovely sing-song cadence. On the second bus, I met a very fine elderly lady named Garmendia, which means “fire on the mountain”. What a name to conjure with! She was headed into Bilbao for the day, very smartly if conservatively dressed in a tweed suit. We communicated in English and Spanish, tried French, but gave it up; my fault, not hers. Garmendia was equally comfortable in them all, and then some. For years she had lived in New York where she taught French. Like most Basque people I met she had been to Canada. The Basques, like the Galicians and Newfoundlanders, had itchy feet, it seemed. They’d been everywhere, man! The next day I met a guy who'd been to the Sault and had lived in Smooth Rock Falls!

I felt very lucky to be sitting with this tiny cosmopolitan, learning the local lore as we passed various villages. I got a pang of remorse when she pointed out the way to the very beautiful monastery of Cenarruza, which I’d had my heart set on seeing. I’ve since seen the video diaries of other pilgrims showing just the kind of hiking I like, rough and rural. The pang returns.

When we got to the transfer point at the big hospital in Bilbao, Garmendia (I just like saying that name!) entrusted me to a young woman who ensured that I was standing at the right stop. I stood there for forty five minutes, having just missed a connection, but it felt good to sit in what I knew was the right place. Bus number three took me halfway back the way we’d come, and then took a left up the road to Gernika.

DEBA

Once we got to into the town proper, we had to find the police station, where the keys to the albergue were kept. The police were out fighting crime somewhere, so we decided to get some lunch. Ana soon winkled out the location of the restaurant we’d been told about, and that was a good thing, because we would never have found it on our own. It was on the second floor of an office building; there was no sign, and you had to ring a bell to gain admittance. We stomped in, packs and all, and created a bit of an uproar among the very conservative wait staff. Evidently, this was a “local” restaurant. Once the sticks were in the umbrella stand, and the packs had been banished to the geranium bedecked balcony, things settled down and everyone was quite civil. We had a bang-up lunch for 10 Euros, wine and bread included. I ate menestra de vegetales, merluza a la romana; battered hake, and my beloved arroz con leche; rice pudding.

Eventually, the policeman came back and we were able to get a room in the small albergue next to the Red Cross station, at the end of a little seaside park. A good thing too, because if it had been full, and I had had to climb the hill into Deba Alta to the large albergue, I might have packed up and gone home.

This albergue had a tiny room with two triple and one double bunk in it. Thank goodness everyone took pity on my poor knees and let me have the bottom bunk. We crammed in with our two Norwegians, whom I called the Viking Women in my head, and one young Brazilian cyclist, who was finding the going quite challenging, as much because of the dangerous highways as the hills, but the hills were no picnic either. He wasn’t sure he wanted to continue.

No amount of alcohol of rosemary, prescribed by the Vikings, nor Reiki, administered by Gisbert, seemed to help my knees. Like the cyclist, I was questioning my fitness for this adventure. It didn’t help that it was raining and cold.

We decided to find our own food for supper. Bread, cheese, apples, pears, olives and wine were found by various explorers of the town. When we got them back to the albergue we realized that it would be impossible to eat in that room, it was just too cramped. So, in our raingear, and lugging our many plastic bags, we set out to find a picnic spot. We ended up in the arcaded courtyard of the town hall, sharing the space with young kids playing pelota against a wall on which a sign strictly forbidding the playing of pelota was prominently displayed.



We tried to “borrow” a table from an outdoor café which was closed, on account of rain, but the owner rushed out and took his table back, so we were stuck with the stone bench which ran along the wall of the arcade. As darkness fell, we looked out on the townspeople under their umbrellas, scurrying home to supper.

We were cold, but the atmosphere we created was warm and full of laughter. I was only sorry that I was going to have to leave our merry band, because I just could not go on.

BEAUTIES OF GUIPUZKOA: or What goes Up must come Down!

From Zumaia, it was another steep climb through the suburbs to the high farms and vineyards. Without exception, everywhere you looked was so beautiful that it gave you a lightened feeling. Here a beautiful white farm with its giant caserio, a communal farmhouse cum storehouse cum stable; there an ermita on the top of a bluff overlooking the sea. I was continually amazed by the remote locations of the houses; how did they haul the materials up there? Ana emphasized what I was thinking when she explained that when the Basque language came to be written down in the nineteen twenties, there were nearly as many dialects as there were caserios.

It was a great walk, mostly on unpaved tracks. We had to cross the N-634, a national highway a couple of times, which was terrifying, but the rest of the day was spent in farmland, with the occasional hamlet. We had a rest stop in a park just outside Elorriaga, where a public works truck was also parked. One of its two occupants was taciturn and grumpy, but the other was more than happy to converse about the area. He told us the good places to eat in Deba, the next big town. We knew that we’d have to stay there that night, even though it was only thirteen km from Zumaia, because the next stage was 22km, and the hills were terrifically hard work, and not just for me.

There was something quite magical about the little country roads which turned into footpaths. I remember one segment on the outskirts of the village of Itziar which began in a little river valley with sheep grazing on either side of what was a very old road. From here we travelled into a damp little dell, very green with ferns and flowers underneath huge old trees, then up a steep incline, past a magically friendly horse, who didn’t even get up while we passed, but who sniffed our hands and let us pet his velvet nose.

We had thought about lunch in Itziar, but the one choice was a hotel by the main road, which didn’t appeal. At my insistence we went up and up into the village proper because I wanted to see the thirteenth century statue of the Virgin, associated with yet another of the tales of miraculous discovery which have been a theme along both my Caminos. It was worth the climb. The sixteenth century church was huge. Since the Virgen de Iciar is the protector of sailors, there was a model of a full-rigged sailing ship hanging from the ceiling. I wondered how old that was! The back wall of the nave was decorated in geometric wall paintings in dark blue and red and white, on either side of massive wooden retablo, so dark as to be almost black. In the centre of this, backlit, was the golden statue. The story goes that a boy met with an apparition of a woman and child, who told him to build a church on the height of Itziar. Somewhere along the line, he received a gilded statue. The people of the village, seeing the miraculous statue, did as they were told, but decided to put the church in a place less awkward to reach, lower down, and not covered in scrub and thorns. They made a start, but in the night angels descended and moved the stones to the place the apparition had mandated. The people realized that they’d better follow the instructions and a church was built on the site where the current church stands today.

When we came out of the church, it was right into a spirited game of soccer in the courtyard. Children from the ikastole, the Basque-language school were having recess.



We threaded our way through them and headed further upwards. One of the things I liked best about these walks was watching the towns and villages recede as we climbed. I took lots of pictures, but they hardly ever replicated the experience. The lens foreshortens everything and makes the distances look like nothing at all.

It wasn’t far from Itziar to Deba, only about three kilometres. Unfortunately, it was nearly straight down.descending nearly three hundred metres to the sea.



The way was lovely, with the road banks crammed with wildflowers in bloom. Ana and I feasted on wild strawberries. But the last section, on paved roads, and what was likely a 1 in 3 grade literally did me in. Gisbert and Margi went on ahead, while Ana insisted on keeping me company. I felt like such a wimp but I was in extreme pain. I was thrilled to see the town at the foot of the last hill, until I saw that to get to it I had to go down several sets of stairs. When I got to the foot of those I had to laugh because before me was an escalator, and just beyond that was a series of two elevators which led to the town proper. Somehow, seeing those made me feel better. Even the people of Deba recognized how ridiculous it was to be climbing down a cliff.



Elevators. Best. Invention. Ever.

A DIGRESSION OF SORTS

While I'm thinking about food, I want to wax poetical about membrillo, a most unlikely confection. It isn't a very nice word, admittedly. It sounds more like the inside of a cow's stomach than the jewel-like cube of sweety fruity goodness that it is. In English it is quince paste. I don't really like the sound of that either, as it conjures up memories of flour paste and primary school craft projects gone wrong.



Quinceslook like a cross between an apple and pear, and smell like flowers. Unfortunately, when raw, they are dry and coarse to the touch, more like cardboard than anything else I can think of, and I haven't yet got up the nerve to put one in my mouth. But if you boil them up with lemon peel and water and then add an equal volume of sugar to the resultant puree, you get a beautiful ruby coloured gel, which holds its shape and can be sliced or cubed, and paired with cheese. I've eaten it sliced thin and very dry with an aged Manchego, and bright yellow and fresh tasting. My fondest memory of it was at a communal dinner in Ribadiso. It had come from a local cafe, and was soft and salmon pink. We had it with a huge round of the local Arzua Ulloa cheese, which was buttery and seemed to melt in our mouths. A peak culinary experience if ever there was one.

The closest thing I can get to membrillo here is the Portugese mermelada, which is essentially the same thing, but since its mass produced and comes in a plastic tub, it lacks the vividness of colour and essence of the good life in Iberia.

So, to remedy that, I decided to make my own. I had trouble finding quinces locally so I begged some from my daughter, who works in a toney Italian grocery store in the big city. After that it was easy. Boil, puree in the food mill,



add the sugar, boil and boil and boil and simmer and simmer and simmer, and bake in a slow oven....unfortunately, not quite slow enough. After several hours of this nonsense it was the right colour, except around the edges where it was decidedly blackened. It didn't look like it would set into a block, but I let it cool and hoped for the best. It tastes delicate and looks fresh, but is definitely jammy rather than gel-ly. It should look like this.





But, it looks like this.



I have found some more quinces, and will try again, since I seem to have eaten the whole batch! Membrillo Mach II, coming up!

ZULOAGA, ZUBARAN, ZUMAIA

After lunch, we reconnoitred on the main street and headed for the hills. We travelled up and up passing by small aldeas, or hamlets, some with oranges and roses growing in the gardens. In one small place, San Prudentzio, we passed a large building where we heard gorgeous singing coming from a basement room. The windows were frosted so we couldn’t get a look at the singers, but since it was Sunday, and the music sounded liturgical (angelic, even) we decided it must be a choir practice or a church service in progress. We passed vineyards planted with grapes for txakoli, the famous local white wine, too sour and resinous for my liking.



We entered a small village with friendly gray ponies and a donkey pastured near a a church so squat and square it looked fortified.

We met lots of farm animals that day, especially donkeys, some of whom were eager to beg for scraps of food; others more intent on “horseplay” or “pequenos jaleos”—little battles, about sex mostly.

After Azkizu, the land started to drop off sharply, and by the time we reached the paved road on the outskirts of Zumaia, the slopes were very steep indeed. I had fallen behind the other three, and was in a lot of pain. I had to go down the last hill (read cliff) backwards, with Ana and Margi taking turns to steer me by hanging onto the ends of my hiking poles, while I held the grips. We must have looked like some kind of crazy train! It sure helped with the pain though.

As we walked into the town, where we had decided to stay, we passed an ancient ermita with beautiful lush gardens which had become an art museum featuring the works of Zuloaga, a famous local artist, with some Zubaran and El Greco thrown in for good measure. Despite our tiredness, Ana and I determined to come back the two kilometers and see it when it opened at 5.00. In the meantime we crossed a bridge over the Urola River, where locals were fishing, hopelessly and disgustedly. All they were catching were shrimp. This was the second time we’d been told of the failure of the local fishery. As if to prove it, there were rotting fishing boats on the river bottom. It was a shame to see these beautiful wooden craft, gracefully curved at each end, holed and covered in green algae. We also saw a large blue shipyard building with BALENCIAGA emblazoned on it. Apparently they specialize in tugboats. I guess the marine heritage of Zumaia isn’t completely lost.




There was a really attractive promenade along the far shore of the river. Zumaia looked pretty prosperous, although there were a few streets away from the front which looked a bit grim. There were lots of bars and restaurants, and even at 10 at night I found a farmacia where I could by ibuprophen crème for my knees. We found a private albergue in a grand old house. The owner was very kind, and if the surroundings weren’t quite up to scratch, his openness and willingness to be of service had to count for something. He let me use his own internet to send a message home. His kids had left it sticky and with missing keys, but it was better than nothing. Internet cafes, which had been all the rage on my last visit, had been replaced by texting. Eventually, I joined the ranks of those who had no cellphone in the locutorios. Me and the African and South American immigrants.

There were loads of Senegalese all along the north coast. Some had come as fisherman, while others arrived looking for any work at all. One fellow with whom I had a long conversation told me that he and his brother had come to Spain because it was too hard to get papers for France. He had made great progress in learning Spanish, in less than a year. In another village, I saw children with deep brown skins, some African, some Arab shouting in Euskara with the other children, completely integrated. To be a Basque, you must speak Basque.. It appears to be a sufficient condition. My respect for these people was increasing daily!

We had arrived fairly early in the day, so there was time to do laundry before going out to find supper. We had decided to eat out, since we didn't really like the look of the outdoor kitchen in the albergue. We did have some tea there, and got to know some more peregrinos. One pair of Norwegian sisters whom I'd seen in Orio were there, and were quite friendly and eager to chat. They were redoubtable women, aged 63 and 74. I think this was their sixth Camino, and they'd done others in Norway too. They gave me some ointment for my knee, along with the story of how the older of the two sisters had walked two hundred kilometres on a broken leg on her last Camino, after a fall. They were to become our walking companions as far as Bilbao.

Later, Ana and I went back across the river on complaining legs to the museum, only to find it closed. Such a disappointment! I'd have to wait until Bilbao to encounter paintings by Zuloaga.



I forget what the reasons were, perhaps just that it was Monday, but none of the restaurants seemed to be serving food. We went to a couple of bars, and got whatever we could. We were too early even for tapas. I had some merluza and some sidra. Its a funny thing but walking reduces rather than increases one's hunger.