Tomatoes Again

When my daughters were in the grammar school, I liked reading the books they had to study.   Laurie Lee was new to me.  I loved  'Cider with Rosie' so much that I went on to read 'A Rose for Winter' and 'As I Walked out One Midsummer Morning'.

I thought of Laurie Lee this morning, when I came down to a kitchen warmed by the scent of tomatoes.  For Lee, the smell of peppers meant he was in Spain. He might have said the same about tomatoes, the ones I bought in Fishguard yesterday.

I haven't been to Spain, but I've holidayed in Pollensa, in Northerm Majorca, a few times. The market stalls there are laden with huge, gleaming brutes of tomatoes.

Six years ago, the  last time we went, we stayed in a villa and  the only meal we cooked was breakfast, which included fried tomatoes.

After eating we liked to go out  before it became too hot. There was a laundry room just off one of the outside balconies and my daughters enjoyed washing clothes, shaking them out, carefully pegging them to the washing carousels, knowing they would be dry in a few hours.

One day the cleaner sought me out to say, in no uncertain terms, that she cleaned to the standard the agent required, not to anyone else's standard.  I don't know if she  had been frightened by the girls' laundry standards but we left her to it!

Behind us was the church of Calvari and the shops just a five minute walk away. Mid morning usually found us at a pavement cafe, under sun shades, sampling  the 'caffe and cwchen', (coffee and cake)  offer.  Air Berlin flies regularly to Pollensa and the menus are printed in different languages, including German.  

One evening, the church held a fete and old ladies, dressed in black, sat outside selling cakes. We were too late for the cakes but we went into the church, where there were lurid  paintings of the martyrs covered in blood, which the younger ones studied very carefully.

I went outside and sat on the wall, while the others had a wander.  An elderly couple came and joined me  and, though I could speak little of their language and they spoke no English, I managed to tell them where I was from.

Then the lady mentioned the Spanish Civil War and how she'd come to Pollensa and never gone back to Spain.  She had known a lot of sadness, all a long time ago.

Oliver and Harry appeared then, hot and damp after running up and down the three hundred and fifty steps of Calvari.

Realising they were twins, she cheered up.  They told her their names and we did finger play to show their ages, then the rest of the family came and she wanted to know which daughter was their  mother and then she saw my granddaughters and she liked everyone and we were all happy. 

Her husband was getting restless now, so I bade them 'Buenos Noches'.  With much amusement, she explained it was early evening, so I should have said 'Buenos Tarde'. I repeated it, gave her a hug and off they went.
Once they were out of hearing, my daughter, said. 'Caw, you do your best and then they correct you!'
 
Back in Haverfordwest, I made a stew with chorizo sausage from Ultra Comida in Narberth, tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, white pepper, and chopped lamb.  The chorizo gives a robust  flavour to the stew. Chick peas and  lentils will thicken the stew or you could mash a slice or two of bread into the stew, like the Spanish do.

 A stew requires long, slow cooking, to tenderise the meat and for the flavours to meld together. Broad beans are a good addition, cooked separately and not overcooked.  A sprinkling of chopped parsley on top of each portion makes everything sparkle.

In Pollensa, one of my sons-in-law was impressed when he saw me drink a can of beer before breakfast. Later, he realised it had a very low alcoholic content and I went down in his estimation.  My advice is, don't drink beer just at breakfast. Have it with your stew, too.

I read a book last winter about the Spanish Civil War.  I don't remember the title, but I do remember the images of desperate poverty and food shortages that the war brought.  Most household had very little meat or vegetables, so their stews were flavourless. A man with a ham bone went about dipping it into people's stews for a few minutes, to add flavour.   I thought of the couple I'd met in Pollensa and the shortages they must have faced.  I'd rather forget things like that.