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Yesterday afternoon, I went Hashing in the mountains north of Madrid with the Hash House Harriers.

We gathered in a circle before the run began, in order to receive instructions from the Hares (i.e., the two guys who laid-out the running trail earlier that morning).

After receiving the obligatory pre-run instructions about where the trail begins, when to expect the water/beer stop, etc., the Hares hit us with an eyebrow raiser:

“Please stick together and make a lot of noise when you enter the valley during the last five kilometers of the run, because it’s crawling with wild boar hunters…and they’re using high-powered rifles.”

:-O

So…as we descended into “the valley of death” an hour later, the runners all bunched together and—with notably increased frequency and fervor—began yelling the standard Hash House Harrier call.

“On on! On on! On on…!”

At which point, I had a troubling thought: “On on!” sounds uncomfortably similar to “Oink oink!”

[Note: This is an essay that I published in Expatica Spain a few weeks ago.]

Eating in Spain’s central plains region is a vegetarian’s nightmare. If there’s an organization here in Castilla-LaMancha that goes by the acronymn PETA, then it probably stands for “People for the Enjoyment of Tasty Animals.”

Sure, we have wonderful, meatless delicacies like Pisto Manchego, Queso Manchego and Alcárria honey.

But the reason why cookbook author Penelope Casas called central Spain the “Region of the Roasts” is clear. Roasts are the gastonomic celebrities in these here parts. Particularly, the “Three C’s”—cordero (lamb), cochinillo (pig) and cabrito (goat).

Each of these roast dishes have similarities. The animals destined for the dinner table are young—weaned only on mother’s milk and slaughtered at a tender (pun intended) age.

Cooking preparations are likewise similar—not to mention, simple. The animals are rubbed with lard, sprinkled with salt and laid to rest in a shallow, earthenware baking dish. They are then roasted in a wood-burning brick oven until medium-well done. Toward the end of the roasting time, the browned drippings are deglazed with water to make a thin “gravy” and the lot is usually served with roasted, sliced potatoes. There are, of course, variations—with some chefs adding garlic, onions, white wine and other subtle ingredients—but the basic preparation is…well…it’s basic.

Quite often, restaurants require you to order an animal by the quarter (i.e., half of a half of the carcass). This is where the real fun begins, because it’s a crap-shoot as to which part of the animal the waiter will bring to the table. Sometimes a leg. Sometimes the ribs. Sometimes the [gulp!] head. My personal preference is the rear leg, because there’s a lot of good eatin’ there. But then again…it’s always fun to get the head, because it allows you to gross-out the ladies at the table by eating a hunk of brain.

And in anticipation of your question, brain tastes…OK. But its texture is absolutely disgusting.

The specific region in which I live (“la Alcárria,” near Guadalajara) is famous for its cabrito. I always insist that my visitors from abroad try roast cabrito—a request that is, more often than not, met with howls of protest…if not downright disgust. This is understandable. Most non-Spaniards who’ve eaten goat did so in a curry house—and then paid the price the next morning.

But I’ve been pretty successful in convincing my guests to taste LaMancha’s preparation of the animal, and the end-result is usually the same. They love it. How could they not? Cabrito’s flavor is milder than lamb’s, yet more interesting than pork’s.

Yes, Castilla-LaMancha loves its roast animal flesh—and the US-style girth of many of my fellow townfolk will attest to this.

But then again, what did you expect from a region that considers a glass of beer to be a vegetable side-dish.

Spain has many positive attributes, but its music isn’t one of them.

Try as I might (and admittedly, I haven’t tried very hard), I’ve acquired neither a taste nor a tolerance for the schmaltzy Latino pop or barking flamenco that blanket the Iberian airwaves.

So for the past six years, my ears have had just one humble request—Psychedelia. Just a little taste of Moby Grape! Or a smidgen of Electric Banana! Or even a few bars from Ant Trip Ceremony!

And then—just when I’d resigned myself to a lifetime of misery at the bile-churning vocal chords of Enrique Iglesias—I found it! The holy grail of late ‘60’s psychedelic music! And it was sitting there all along in my iTunes software.

I’m talking about…THE TECHNICOLOR WEB OF SOUND!

Technicolor Web of Sound is an Internet radio stream—originating somewhere in the US midwest—that plays the widest, grooviest, most far-out selection of ‘60’s psychedelic music I’ve ever heard.

If you, too, are a fan of this genre, then you MUST do the following:

– Go into your iTunes software and click on “Radio.”

– Then click on the “Classic Rock” category and wait for the menu of streams (about 23 of them) to drop down.

– There! At or near the bottom of the list, you’ll find the TWofS stream. Click it! Dig it! Live it!

Ladies and gentlemen! I don’t know if you saw the latest comment under my Bash the Haggis post, but it reads as follows:

On behalf of all the regular irregulars here at the Virtual Tapas Bar, I’d like to raise a wee dram and propose a toast.

All hail Ed! The man who has done more for Haggis Diplomacy than anyone since Robert Burns !

Thanks, Ed!

…The Salivator!

Congratulations to Frau Christina the Mausi, who effortlessly rattled-off the Grand Prize winner in my “Name that Smoker” contest.

And if that were not enough, she *also* suggested the Second Place-winning name: “The PorkMeister.”

The PorkMeister will be called upon to assume full smokification duties if The Salivator cannot fulfill its obligations for reasons of illness, death or scandal.

Honorable mention goes to ChicagoKarl for his contribution, “Pepe le Q.”

The “If at First You Don’t Succeed Award” goes to Euro-Trac, who submitted no less than 87 entries—many of which were lifted directly from “The Partridge Family.”

Thanks to everyone who participated. And to Mausi…I’ll see you and the three boys at Easter.

PS: A Tupperware container full of Haggis Meatballs goes to the first person who can identify the dude pictured above. And yes…he *is* relevant to this post.

Our leiderhosen-wearing, handlebar-moustached, apple-cheeked Bavarian friend ChicagoKarl “tagged” me to participate in a meme.

Memes are a good way to fill blog-space; particularly during days when your brain isn’t up to the task of generating original content. Today is one of those days.

So, without further ado (whatever the hell “ado” means)…

FOUR JOBS IVE HAD:
– Busboy at a country club restaurant: This was my first job. Here’s a bit of advice for teenagers who’ve been offered a busboy job at a posh country club restaurant—be sure that you’ve dined in a posh restaurant at least once in your life before accepting the job.

– General jack-of-all-unskilled-trades at a steel foundry: From painting to parts counting to shovelling sand off the roof to keep it from collapsing. I even got to wear a hardhat every day. Now, I wear a skirt.

– Marketing guy in the corporate headquarters of a business forms manufacturer: You may not know this, but most chicks don’t find business forms sexy.

– Attorney for a telecom equipment provider: Did I say telecom? I meant low-carb tongue depressors.

FOUR MOVIES I CAN WATCH OVER AND OVER:
– Enter the Dragon.
– A Christmas Story.
– Any of the Pink Panther movies.
– Woodstock.

FOUR PLACES I’VE LIVED:
– Utica, NY
– Hermitage, PA
– Naperville, IL
– Barcelona and Cabanillas del Campo, Spain

FOUR TV SHOWS I LOVE(D):
– The Twilight Zone.
– Lazytown.
– Get Smart.
– Any of Michael Palin’s travel documentaries (e.g., Around the World in 80 Days; Pole to Pole; Full Circle; Hemingway Adventure; Sahara; Himalaya).

FOUR BOOKS I’VE READ THIS YEAR:
– “Catch-22” by Joseph Heller.
– “A Short History of Nearly Everything” by Bill Bryson.
– “Travels with my Donkey: One Man and his Ass on a Pilgrammage to Santiago” (aka, “Spanish Steps” in Europe) by Tim Moore.
– “A Confederacy of Dunces” by John Kennedy Toole.

FOUR PLACES I’VE VACATIONED:
– Alberobello, Italy.
– Anchorage, Alaska.
– Patzcuaro, Mexico.
– Calgary/Banff, Canada.

FOUR FAVORITE DISHES:
– Chicken or lamb vindaloo.
– BBQ’d spareribs.
– Ramen noodles (the real stuff…not the type you buy for ten cents in the supermarket).
– Thai Salads.

FOUR SITES I VISIT DAILY:
– All of the blogs listed on my sidebar.
– BBC News.
– The Virtual Weber Bullet.
– New York Times.

FOUR PLACES I’D RATHER BE RIGHT NOW:
– Jogging anywhere that’s warm, sunny and has little traffic.
– Eating Indian food on Devon Street in Chicago.
– A sauna in Lapland during an aurora borealis with a glass of vodka in my hand.
– Don’t care, as long as I’m with my daughter.

FOUR BLOGGERS I’VE TAGGED TO CONTINUE THIS MEME:
– I’ll follow Mausi’s lead, and tag any bloggers reading this who are experiencing a “bad brain day.”

That’s all four now.

It has been brought to my attention that every BBQ pitmaster must give his smoker a name.

Well…my smoker doesn’t have a name. But I’m opening the floor for suggestions.

There are no restrictions as to the gender or raunchiness of the name. The person submitting the winning entry will be treated to a multi-course BBQ dinner that may or may not include Haggis Churros, but will surely include one or more wee drams of Cardhu whisky. Oh yeah…airplane tickets are not included.

If *nobody* suggests a name, then I will choose it. How? By writing the names of the sixteen of you who regularly post Comments to this blog (i.e., Ang, Mausi, Beep, Granny Jo, Lady Di, Euro-Trac, Hippo, Big Finn, Franje, ChicagoKarl, Fran, GC, Harsh, KickShoe, Iron Man and The Original CowPie) on separate pieces of paper, dumping them into a hat, and drawing one.

That’s right. Unless somebody comes up with a clever suggestion, I’m going to name my smoker after one of you. You don’t want that to happen, do you?

I was Hashing in arctic conditions near Madrid last weekend, when the conversation turned to Scotland.

I mentioned to a fellow Hasher named “The Godmother” how much I enjoyed my first taste of haggis during a recent trip to Edinburgh, and she stopped in her tracks.

“Haggis?!” she said. “Why…I have a can of it in my car. I’ll get it for you.”

The Godmother, I should mention, is married to a Scot—although, to be honest, that still doesn’t strike me as a satisfactory explanation for having a can of haggis in the trunk. But I’m not one for splitting hairs.

And so it was that I drove home a few hours later with a can of Grant’s Traditional Recipe Haggis sitting prettily in the passenger seat of my car.

I haven’t eaten it yet. Haggis should be served with a “wee dram,” and my basement bar is currently out of Scotch whisky (I’ll plead the 5th on that one). So I’ve chosen to wait until my next liquor run before breaking out the can-opener.

But that hasn’t stopped me from scrutinizing the label on the can. And let me tell ya…there’s some “attention-grabbing” text on that label. For example:

Pretty much speaks for itself, no?

But there’s more! Turn the can 180 degrees, and you’ll find the following cooking preparation tip:

So apparently, neither dumping the can’s contents into a pot nor scooping them out with a spoon are feasible options. To prepare a can of haggis, the chef must use the Play-doh Fun Factory method.

This may not explain why a can of haggis was in The Godmother’s trunk last weekend, but it certainly explains why there isn’t one now.

Just a quick, late-night note from your smokey-smelling Virtual Tapas Bartender. The Weber Bullet has struck again…and this time, the victims were chickens.

Well…you have to admit that it’s a nicer photo than that of an aging exhibitionist contortionist.