Trigo y cebada

In the evening, Manolo asked me to come with him on an inspection of his fields. We rode out in his small but rugged Suzuki Samurai, onto the narrow red dirt two-tracks that crisscross the rolling countryside. Manolo drove fast, and I tried not to appear concerned as we bounced and swerved over the gully-riven roads. The sun stood just above the western horizon, and the late day light turned the green fields golden. Manolo pointed and said “trigo” (wheat). Then he pointed at another field, of lighter green, and said “cebada” (barley). Up on a ridge we paused beside a small patch of small plants and he said “girasol” (sunflowers—grown for the oil). It took some discussion and recourse to my pocket dictionary before we could come to an understanding about this last plant.

Down on the flats on the other side of the village, near where a small river flows, we stopped and got out. Manolo waded into a thigh-high field of grass and I followed, trying not to crush the crowded stalks though he didn´t seem to mind. Across the field stood a large square of poplar, darker green and laid out in straight lines. Only in the thin ravines between hills and fields and along the roads does anything grow in an irregular pattern. Everything else in the landscape has right angles. Manolo stopped and put his hands on his hips. He made a noise that indicated frustration and leaned down to pick up a piece of half-eaten grass. He held it out for me to see and said, “ratones” (mice). He gestured at the ground for me to note the small burrow holes all about. A moment later I stepped into a particularly well-eaten patch and two small mice scurried away beneath my feet. Apparently the winter is supposed to keep the mouse numbers down, but this last was mild. The mice were taking a toll on this particular field, which was a mix of grasses—wheat, barley, oats, and besa (the last alfalfa-like)—and intended for hay (“por las vacas,” Manolo said). He would have to cut the field soon—sooner than planned—to limit the damage.

The sun set and we headed back to the house. Montse had dinner waiting. We sat down at the table and she ladled a large portion of something reddish and gloopy onto my plate. “Tomatata,” she said. Manolo said something like, “not too much,” concerned I wouldn´t like it. Not without reason—it didn´t look particularly appetizing. A wet mush of tomato marbled with pieces of half-cooked egg and small chunks of onion. But if not handsome in appearance, the tomatata was attractive to the palate. It was warm and soft and tasted vaguely spaghetti-y but better, and I cleaned my plate. Montse also put out a dish of lomo, small stiff and chewy slices that went well with the bread.

After dinner we sat in the living room and talked about Spanish celebrities that have gone to the U.S. and American celebrities that have come to Spain. Manolo said he did not like Almodovar´s films. I also learned that there are five Spanish players in the NBA. Manolo put CNN news, in English, on the tv, but Montse objected—I needed to watch Spanish-speaking television in order to learn. I agreed. Manolo found the Survivor show, which I learned is called “Superviventes” and is taking place in Honduras. One of the men was played a recording of his two sons and wife telling him how much they missed him; he wept.