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Ladies and gentlemen, meet “The Original Cow Pie!”

The Original Cow Pie is Wisconsin’s finest export since “Laverne and Shirley.” It’s a heavy-duty hunka mind-blowing confection—and one that I don’t recommend eating within an hour of jogging (which, unfortunately, is exactly what I did this morning).

But what is “The Original Cow Pie?” From the box, I quote:

In other words, it’s like a candy Turtle on steriods. And man-oh-man! Is it GOOD!

Yep…in India, they cook on cow pies. In Wisconsin (and now, Spain), they eat them.

Now, you’re probably asking yourself, “Are Cow Pies really sold in Spain?”

Nope…they aren’t. I received three of these babies in the mail this morning from my good friend (and good samaritan) Lisa—Wisconsin’s finest citizen since…since…“Laverne and Shirley.”

Gracias, Lisa! I don’t think I’ll need any Conguitos this week.

During any given hour, how many times do you forcibly remove your cat from the computer keyboard?
(a) None
(b) 1-5
(c) 6-10
(d) 11-20
(e) The question is moot, because the cat fell into a wood-chipper.

The tenth person to respond will win a quality, pre-owned litter box…manufactured in Spain.

I’m back from a two-week trip to Chicago. It was a good trip for my daughter and me, and man-oh-man…was it nice to be in an English-speaking place for a change.

I’d love to tell you all about the trip in a fluid, James Michener-like manner—but my brain still has the numb, disconnected feel of one that has recently flown across seven time zones in the middle of the night.

So…I’ll do what other lazy writers do (particularly in the business world), and simply provide a bullet-pointed “executive summary” of the highlights. Here goes…

* I ate like a damn pig for the entire two weeks—with heavy emphasis on the type of spicy, ethnic stuff that has neither supply nor demand here in Spain. Do you want details? Do you? OK, here’s what I ate:

* By the way, the foregoing list is only the stuff that I ate outside my family’s respective homes. The stuff I ate *inside* the family compound included venison roasts, apple-brined smoked turkey, beef stew, prime rib, honey-baked ham, lasagna and rigatoni.

* And then there was Christmas Eve dinner. It had all the dishes that I described in my earlier childhood food meme post…plus a large platter of Cajun crawfish that was added for purposes of ethnic diversity. There were no jugs of Carlo Rossi dago-red, however. Even nostalgia has its limits.

* Despite the shameless display of gluttony that I’ve so meticulously described above, my Grandmother STILL complained that I am too thin.

* My grandmother and Uncle Tony made the fourteen-hour trip on Amtrak to spend Christmas with us. But as any seasoned Amtrak-traveller might have guessed, it wasn’t a fourteen-hour trip. It was nineteen hours. That’s the beauty of Amtrak. Their travel time-tables must be converted to dog hours.

* My daughter arrived in Chicago speaking 90% Spanish. She left speaking 90% English. It was an amazing transformation. That which she did in two weeks, I haven’t been able to do in six years.

* Ten years and two daughters later, my relationship with my law school roommate (Tony) hasn’t changed a bit. My daughter and I spent a night at his home in Evanston (near the Northwestern campus). After a fabulous Asian dinner cooked by his wife, we put the babies to bed and tiptoed out the front door. Two pubs and 78 pints of ale later, Tony and I were slouched on his living room sofa watching “Full Circle with Michael Palin” on the VCR. This, by the way, is EXACTLY how we spent four impoverished, stress-filled years at the University of Illinois in the early ‘90’s.

* Nothing says brotherly love like three slabs of ribs on the BBQ smoker. Check out the photo above. That’s me and my nerdy hat on the left, my brother Todd on the right, and a very unlucky pig in the middle. We used the same smoker to cook an apple-brined turkey on Christmas day.

* Health issues run in many families. In mine, it’s skiing-related shoulder fractures. My mother must have envied mine, because now she has her own.

* Although I’m no fan of Starbucks coffee, I had to—just HAD TO—walk-around town with a big paper cup of Latte in my hand. I was feeling self-conscious. All the other pedestrians on the sidewalk kept staring at me as if I were nuts. I reckoned it was because I was the only one without a Latte in hand. Then—on the airplane flying back to Spain—I suddenly realized the true reason that they were staring at me. It was the friggin’ hat.

On behalf of Inés and myself, I’d like to wish all you Virtual Tapas Bar-hoppers a groovy Christmas/Hanukah/Kwaanza…or whatever other flavor you sprinkle onto your holiday sundae.

But given our close relationship, I felt that a mere holiday wish was a bit…inadequate.

So—as I warned you earlier—I decided to go the extra mile and write a Christmas poem. If you really, really want to read it, then click here.

The poem assumes some minimal knowledge of Spanish holiday practices (i.e., the kids here get most of their gifts on January 6th, which is Three Wise Men’s day), but you’ll get the gist nonetheless.

Make it a merry one!

Love,

Sal…Your Virtual Tapas Bartender

I am constantly amazed at the Spanish male’s ability—and willingness!—to drink 80-proof alcohol at times of the day when my own body wants nothing more than a large dose of caffeine.

I’ve seen this scenario repeat itself in Barcelona, Madrid, Guadalajara and nearly every other town that I’ve visited during my six years here.

There I am…sitting bleary-eyed and saggy-cheeked in a bar. It’s breakfast-time, and I’m holding a café con leche and a chocolate chip muffin. All around me, however, are beefy men in coveralls smoking cigarettes, reading “Marca” and—as God is my witness—guzzling snifters of brandy, orujo and anís.

Brandy, orujo and anís! First thing in the morning!

I’ve told this to my friends and family in the US, and they are likewise astounded. Some even doubt that I’m telling the truth. So one morning several weeks ago, I went to my favorite Sanchoville bar at 10:15am armed with a pen and Moleskine notepad. My mission: To conduct an earnest (albeit unscientific) survey of what the bar patrons were drinking at that tender hour.

There were thirteen men in the bar, and this is what they were drinking:

– Five (5) coffees.
– Five (5) mugs of beers.
– Three (3) snifters of anis dulce (i.e., a sweetened, licorice-flavored liquor).
– One (1) snifter of orujo (i.e., a grappa-like liquor).
– One (1) snifter of brandy.
– One (1) bottle of alcohol-free beer (he either had a very difficult
night, or mistakenly thought it was Lent).

And then—just like that—they finished their drinks, paid their bills and returned to their welding torches and construction scaffolding.

Quite honestly, I don’t understand how these tequila sunrisers were able to keep their eyes open (let alone, work) after such a “breakfast.” Alcohol is, after all, a depressant. And one would assume that a mug and/or snifter full of depressant so early in the morning might lead to thirteen drooling heads snoozing peacefully on the bar’s countertop. But that wasn’t the case. In fact (and ironically enough), the only person in the bar whose posture and demeanor resembled those of Abe Vigoda was…ME!

Anyway…I showed my survey results to José—the owner and bartender extraordinaire—and asked how is it possible that these people can drink so early in the morning…EVERY morning.

“It’s crazy!” he said, banging his fist onto the bar. “They’re doing a lot of damage to their bodies!” José’s moral outrage at the manner in which these men were slowly killing themselves was, perhaps, only exceeded by his delight in that they were doing so at his profit.

But I wonder…are they really killing themselves? I assumed so, until I did a little research and discovered that the life expectancy in Spain—not only for women, but also for men!—is higher than that of the US. Those thirteen men in my survey are likely to outlive the thirteen spandex-clad men who, at this very moment, are huffing and puffing in a Kickboxing Aerobics class in Van Nuys, California.

The Spanish Paradox? Could be. Just imagine if the television show “60 Minutes” should get ahold of this information. I can see it now. All throughout the US, Human Resources Departments will supply employees with morning-time glasses a brandy, orujo and anís as part of their corporate “Wellness Program.”

Dilbert won’t just live longer; he’ll live a whole lot happier.

Pusties have been spotted in Wisconsin!

Repeat!

Pusties have been spotted in Wisconsin!

Our good friend and VTB-VIP, Culinary Fool, has been blogging lately about her grandmother’s Christmas cookie recipes. That got me thinking about my own Nonnie’s holiday specialty—pusties!

I’m not sure if pusties (also known as “pasticcioti”) are an Italian or Italo-American invention…although I suspect the latter. And I’m not sure if they’re available in other parts of the US or only in the Utica, NY area…although again, I suspect the latter.

Pusties are little, baked pastry tarts filled with chocolate or vanilla custard, and capped with another layer of pastry dough that’s brushed with egg yolk. They look like a frilly meat pasty…but, of course, taste nothing like one.

In a rare moment of common sense, I had the foresight to ask Nonnie for her recipe several years ago. And it’s a good thing, because I don’t think that anyone else in the family had previously thought to do so.

And so, my friends…I include Nonnie’s recipe below. I like sharing family recipes, because it lessens the chance that they will be lost forever. And now that Nonnie’s pusty recipe is safely aloft in cyberspace, I can stop worrying that the original handwritten version will meet an untimely death at the hands of my finger-painting daughter.

Since our friend Angie raised the bar for Christmas-time blasphemy this year, I thought I’d contribute one to the cause.

Click here.

[Thanks to Henry at Potter’s Bar in Nerja, Malaga for sending me the link.]

Here’s one for those of you that can read Spanish: click here.

It’s the head-scratching story of a man who visited a circus near Madrid last week and decided to stick his arm into a tiger’s cage. I’m not sure what this guy was expecting, but what he got shouldn’t have been a surprize. The tiger tore-off his arm and devoured it.

But here’s the thing. In 2003, the same thing happened to *another guy* at *another* circus near Madrid.

Puzzling? Perhaps…but not from the legal perspective. There is, after all, nothing in Spain’s Constitution concerning the right to bear arms.