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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.

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!

Photo: Flat Stanley on the Hash.

Dear [Insert kid’s name]:
 
The envelope containing Flat Stanley arrived at my house in Madrid a few days ago. He jumped out of the envelope at 2:00 in the afternoon, when I was just about to eat lunch.  People in Spain eat a big lunch late in the afternoon, then  eat a small dinner at 9:00 or 10:00 in the evening. 

Flat Stanley told me that it took almost one week for his envelope to travel from the US to Madrid in the mail…and he was hungry!  He asked what was for lunch.  I told him that we would be eating paella (pronounced “pie-AY-ya”).  Paella is a typical dish in Spain, and consists of a special type of very fat rice cooked with clams, shrimp, squid, rabbit, chorizo (“cho-REE-tho”) sausage, beans, tomatoes and sometimes…snails! 

Flat Stanley told me that he preferred rigatoni, but the paella smelled good enough.  He ate half of the pan.   What did he drink with his lunch?  Coca-cola, of course.  Even in Spain, we drink the stuff.
 
After one week in an envelope and a huge lunch, Flat Stanley wanted to see Madrid.  So we first walked to the Plaza Mayor (“PLA-tha mai-OR”).  The Plaza Mayor is a huge square surrounded on all four sides by colorful old buildings.  It was completed in the year 1620. There is a statue of King Felipe III in the center of Plaza Mayor.  The statue was carved in the 17th century.
 
Flat Stanley started feeling dizzy after looking up at the statue for too long.  We therefore decided to take the subway (which is called the “Metro”) to a different part of the city. 

We were lucky enough to find two seats in the Metro car and sat down.  Flat Stanley passed the time away by reading a copy of Madrid’s newspaper, El Pais (“el pie-EES”).   Even though El Pais is written in Spanish, Flat Stanley was able to understand some of the articles because English and Spanish have many words that are similar. 

The Metro stopped and we ran up to the street.  We were now at the Prado (“PRAH-doe”) Museum.  The Prado is Spain’s finest museum…and one of the best in Europe. It contains more than 3,000 paintings. The Prado Museum has a great collection of Italian masterpieces.  But the best part of the museum is its sections devoted to the great Spanish painters (like Velazquez, Goya and El Greco).
 
The Prado Museum is huge and Flat Stanley was getting a bit hungry walking around it.  So he went outside and bought a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of churros (CHOO-rohs) from the bar next door.  Churros are long sticks of fried dough sprinkled with sugar. People in Spain often eat them for breakfast or as a morning snack. They are not as good as snails, but they are still pretty darn good. 
 
Flat Stanley then walked over to the  Puerta del Sol (“PWAIR-tuh del SOLE”).  Puerta del Sol means “Sun Gate” and is one of the city’s busiest squares. In this square, there is a statue of a bear picking oranges from a tree.  This hungry bear is the symbol of Madrid. 

Puerta del Sol also has the “Kilometer Zero Marker,” which is the spot where all Spanish roads and highways start.  Spain uses the metric system, so distances are measured by kilometers instead of miles. 

The Puerta del Sol is also famous because on New Year’s Eve, Spanish people meet there to eat twelve grapes during the first twelve seconds of the new year.  The Puerta del Sol’s clock rings twelve times at midnight and you must eat one grape each time it rings.  If you are able to finish the twelve grapes before the last ring, then you will have good luck during the next year.
 
In the middle of the Puerta del Sol, Flat Stanley noticed a group of people doing a strange dance.  The dance is called Flamenco (“fla-MEN-ko”).  Flamenco is a traditional dance of Spain (especially southern Spain), and is often performed by Gypsies. 

Women Flamenco dancers wear long skirts and high heels.  Men dancers wear tight pants, white long-sleeve shirts and  black vests.  Flamenco music is played on the guitar, and accompanied by a singer who claps his hands and howls like a crazed dog.  To dance the Flamenco, you need to snap your fingers, stomp your heels on the floor, clap your hands and shout. 
 
While Flat Stanley was clapping his hands, he noticed that one of the Flamenco dancers was smiling at him.  Her name was “Flat Rosalita.”   Flat Stanley and Flat Rosalita started talking…then they started holding hands.  After a few minutes, Flat Stanley and Flat Rosalita walked over and told me that they would be leaving Madrid.  They were going to jump into a new envelope and mail themselves to some other place.
 
“Where will you go,” I asked them.  “Will you go north to France?  Will you go south to Africa?  Will you go west to Portugal? Or will you go east to Italy?” 
 
“We are going to Italy,” Flat Stanley said.  “They have rigatoni in Italy.”

Just in case you thought that I was the only person in Europe who has been smokin’ something funny, read this post by a blogger that we all know and love.