At the beginning of November each year our local supermarket clears a space in a corner
and erects a temporary display stand: three shelves laden with 500 gm bags of paprika and balls of string in different colours. I remember being curious about these items when I spotted them during our first autumn here. Why did people buy such large bags of paprika? I use the spice fairly often in my own cooking, but a little jar of the stuff usually lasts ages. And the string? Something to do with the approaching festive season perhaps?
Of course, it wasn't long before I came to learn that these are essential items used in the annual event known as la matanza (or matança, in Catalan). November is the time when, traditionally, many rural folk here slaughter the portly pig that's been grazing contentedly most of the year in a field of fig trees.
It's when they invite family and friends to their homes to muck in and share the gory task of turning the deceased beast into sobrassada (a paprika-loaded pâté-type sausage), botifarró (another type of sausage) and cuts of pork for the coming winter months. And, of course, there's the obligatory feasting and fun afterwards. Not that I have personal experience of any of this, having never been to a matanza; frankly, it doesn't sound at all like my idea of a good time.
Since we moved here, kind Mallorcan neighbours have given us plants for the garden, and delicious fruit and vegetables in abundance. We've been invited to several homes for lunch or dinner and, amusingly, I was even once invited to a riotously noisy Tupperware party (of the 23 women there, I was the only foreigner).
But what we really, really don't want to receive from our generous neighbours - and it's why we keep a low profile in our valley in early November - is an invitation to a matanza . . . . no, gracias.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
BURNING DESIRE
It's been a long time in the planning but, today, we've had our first bonfire for months. It's not that we've been too lazy to have one before now, or that the summers are too hot to stand by a blazing fire (although they certainly are). Lighting a fire outdoors here can only legally be done during a designated period because of the risk to forests and shrub land. But finding out when that period starts and ends can be somewhat challenging, as we discovered during our first year here.
Neighbours tried to be helpful but seemed a bit vague about the actual dates. We'd already fallen foul of the Manacor ayuntamiento by illegally building a small outhouse, so wanted to avoid any further visits from the police, delivering bad news from the authorities.
At the town hall, getting a definitive answer to our simple question about the dates of the bonfire exclusion period proved to be impossible. We were referred to department after department. Staff peered at us suspiciously - did we look like prospective arsonists? - then launched into a torrent of mallorquín with colleagues, before returning to us with a shrug and an apology . . . but no dates. We even asked a member of the Guardia Civil, who happened to be cruising through the valley one day as we were out on a walk.. He referred us to the town hall . . .
Since then, we've played it safe and, once the warm spring weather arrives, we leave our pile of cuttings, dead branches and other garden detritus to grow until after the first of the autumn storms. This year, our bonfire pile has grown spectacularly with the addition of the dilapidated wooden shutters which we replaced with new ones last year. The Boss has been itching to put a match to the thing.
Today that itch was scratched. As I sat working at my computer, he stood outside, swathed in billowing smoke, periodically poking at the blazing pile with a garden fork and indulging man's primeval instincts to create and control fire. Now, all that's left of the enormous pile of garden rubbish that was an eyesore all summer is a small pile of warm, grey ash. That and the faint whiff of smoke about The Boss's person. But at least he didn't accidentally set fire to the leg of his jeans this time . . .
Neighbours tried to be helpful but seemed a bit vague about the actual dates. We'd already fallen foul of the Manacor ayuntamiento by illegally building a small outhouse, so wanted to avoid any further visits from the police, delivering bad news from the authorities.
At the town hall, getting a definitive answer to our simple question about the dates of the bonfire exclusion period proved to be impossible. We were referred to department after department. Staff peered at us suspiciously - did we look like prospective arsonists? - then launched into a torrent of mallorquín with colleagues, before returning to us with a shrug and an apology . . . but no dates. We even asked a member of the Guardia Civil, who happened to be cruising through the valley one day as we were out on a walk.. He referred us to the town hall . . .
Since then, we've played it safe and, once the warm spring weather arrives, we leave our pile of cuttings, dead branches and other garden detritus to grow until after the first of the autumn storms. This year, our bonfire pile has grown spectacularly with the addition of the dilapidated wooden shutters which we replaced with new ones last year. The Boss has been itching to put a match to the thing.
Today that itch was scratched. As I sat working at my computer, he stood outside, swathed in billowing smoke, periodically poking at the blazing pile with a garden fork and indulging man's primeval instincts to create and control fire. Now, all that's left of the enormous pile of garden rubbish that was an eyesore all summer is a small pile of warm, grey ash. That and the faint whiff of smoke about The Boss's person. But at least he didn't accidentally set fire to the leg of his jeans this time . . .
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