[churros and orange juice] cinnamon cake with dulce de leche frosting and salted caramel shards

I am just realizing that 11/11/11 is happening tomorrow. I am also realizing that this was a Facebook group I joined at least two years ago, thinking "oh, that's so far away, I have forever to think up the most epic wish I can conceive."

Yet, an odd-two years later, I don't know what to wish for. Two years ago I thought I'd be more mature, with a concrete path laid out for my life, knowing exactly what I'd want to do and how long it'd take me to do it. Two years ago I thought that being in my 20s meant I'd be an independent adult, fully-functioning social paradigm of grace and poise, with a repertoire of meritorious experiences under my belt.

*snort*

All I've learned since then is that I'm likely not at all capable of surviving even a week in the real world without parental guidance, financial support, or an academic counselor telling me what I should do with my life. Perhaps I should wish for some direction. Or coming up with an adequate thesis topic before Thanksgiving break. Or being proposed to by a handsome prince with loads of cash.

I kid, of course. Okay, perhaps not so much about the rich prince, but as for the rest, I'm not concerned. Still growing up, after all. And learning, and experiencing, and all that important stuff.

All that's more useful than wishing, anyway. Where will wishing get you, save for crushing disappointment when laziness trumps pro-activity? Not that I'll stop being lazy, of course, but best not to put all your eggs in one basket. Particularly when that basket is just a socially constructed label of "epicness" for one of the [admittedly] coolest numerical dates in existence.

But I digress. This post isn't about wishes. It is about a date, though, and an important one, at that. Specifically, my dear friend Zach's birthday. Which was yesterday, but whatever.

[Also my father's, incidentally, but that celebration is for another day when I'm actually at home. Nevertheless, all my love and best wishes, dad!]

Zach loves dessert. I know this because he and Jerm often serve as my human garbage disposals for leftover baked goods. But when I bake for Zach, it has always been with peanut butter. It's a safe bet, since the only thing Zach loves more than dessert is peanut butter. But I'm tired of peanut butter and predictability. I wanted to do something unique, and different, and special, and totally and utterly for Zach.

So I decided on churros.


...okay, so, not really churros. But a cake totally and utterly churro-inspired. I had been pondering for a while earlier in the week about what I could do outside of the realm of legume butters, and suddenly it struck me. And I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it earlier.

Cinnamon Cake with Dulce de Leche Frosting and Salted Caramel Shards
A bakedbeen original.
Yields one 9-inch cake.

For the cinnamon cake, you'll need:

• 4 eggs
• scant 1 cup sugar
• 5 tbsp whole milk
• 2 tsps vanilla
• 2 1/2 cups flour
• 1 tbsp cinnamon
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1 tbsp baking powder

For the dulce de leche frosting, you'll need:

• 11 oz cream cheese, softened
• 3 tbsp butter, softened 
• 1 14-oz can dulce de leche
• 2 cups powdered sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla

For the salted caramel shards, you'll need:

• 1 cup sugar
• 1/4 cup water
• 1 tsp fleur de sel

To prepare the cinnamon cake:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and grease and flour two 9-inch cake pans. In a large mixing bowl fitted with the paddle attachment, mix eggs and sugar on medium speed until blended. Add in milk and vanilla and incorporate. Lower speed and add flour, cinnamon, salt, and baking powder. Mix until just blended. Divide batter equally among both pans and smooth with a spatula. Bake for 35-40 minutes, until golden brown and a toothpick comes out clean when poked in the center. Let cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then invert cakes onto wire racks and let cool completely.


To prepare the dulce de leche frosting: 
In a large mixing bowl fitted with the paddle attachment, cream butter and cream cheese until fluffy. Add dulce de leche and mix on medium speed for about 3 minutes, until fully blended.  Lower speed to low and slowly add in powdered sugar. Gradually raise speed to medium-high and beat for 5 minutes, until light and fluffy. Add vanilla and beat another 30 seconds. Frosting can be prepared up to a day ahead and kept refrigerated until using.


To prepare the salted caramel shards:
Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil and set aside. In a medium-sized saucepan over medium-high flame, whisk sugar and water until sugar dissolves. Once the syrup starts to bubble, stop whisking. Allow syrup to heat, undisturbed, until the mixture turns a deep amber color. Quickly remove the pan from the heat and slowly pour the syrup onto the aluminum foil, allowing it to spread out into a thin layer. Sprinkle fleur de sel evenly over the sugar. Let sugar harden, about 30 minutes. Peel sugar off of the aluminum foil and, with your hands, break it apart into shards. Set aside and cover loosely with cling-wrap until using.


To assemble the cake:
Place one of the cake layers on a serving plate. Spread a generous layer of the frosting on top of the cake. Sprinkle some of the shards on top of the frosting. If the shards are large, break them into small pieces [but be sure to reserve a few large shards to decorate]. Place the second layer on top. Frost the top and sides of the cake with the remaining frosting. Refrigerate until serving.

Right before serving the cake, pierce the remaining large shards around the center of the cake.

Zach and I spent 4.5 weeks in Spain earlier this summer, which, if you know me at all, are familiar with in excruciating detail. We had a marvelous time, of course, from exploring Valencia to trying new foods to visiting Granada to actually being able to converse with the locals. One of my fondest memories, though, is on one of our walks back from university.

It was a nice walk, about 2.5 miles, strolling past familiar old bookshops, banks, and boutiques, chatting about anything and everything. Zach had been telling me, since day one, that he wanted nothing more than to eat some good, Spanish churros, but we had yet to have done so. So we decided, probably about halfway into our trip, after having come to that startling realization, to stop at one of the unassuming cafes by our apartments to eat some flipping churros.

And they were delicious. Fresh and crispy, still hot and leaving traces of cinnamon sugar on our fingers, a mug full of warm chocolate sauce for dipping, and a tall glass of Valencian orange juice for patriotism. A perfect 15 minutes of sitting in the center of the plaza with nothing on our minds save for realization that we were actually in Spain, sitting in the center of the plaza, eating churros.

And so it was a no-brainer that I wanted to give some of that perfection back to Zach for his 21st birthday. Not exactly churros, but a cake unequivocally inspired by that afternoon. Perhaps not the answer to his epic wish for Friday, but intended to remind him of something meaningful.

Unparalleled deliciousness was only a bonus, really.

[But seriously. One of the best cakes I've ever made. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but seriously.]


Though I think I'm settling with the rich prince wish for 11/11/11. No harm in trying, right?

Only crushing disappointment can come out of this, after all.

hola, buenas, chao, y hasta

Over the course of the past few weeks, I've learned quite a lot. That is, of course, the general aim when one studies abroad, but what I've learned stretches far beyond the limits of an entire semester's worth of two classes condensed into four short weeks.

I've grown to love a new country; I've gained a level of confidence in my speaking ability which I never would have had otherwise; I've learned many useful [mostly inappropriate, though colloquially acceptable] new phrases; I've adjusted to a new eating, sleeping, and academic schedule; I've been introduced to beautiful architecture, delicious foods, and amazing sights; I've met incredible new people; I've found myself feeling lost and uncertain; and I've found myself breaking out of my comfort zone and adapting to a new way of life.

But most of all, I've learned that I still have so much to learn about the world.

Liz and my incredibly sweet host-mom for the past 4 1/2 weeks, María. I dread having to say goodbye tomorrow morning.

This past week, in particular, I was skimming through some newspapers. There were the expansive articles covering the uprisings for economic reforms here in Spain, a movement I don't understand half as well as I wish I did but one I've had many a conversation about with professors, my host mother, and an anarchist at one of my favorite cafes [who later on invited us to his flat for special brownies, but he was a tad drunk and so Liz and I gracefully declined his offer]. But there were also articles on Greece's looming economic downfall, Obama's announcement to withdraw troops from Afghanistan, Saudi women fighting for their rights to drive, ash clouds in Australia, and a plane crash in Russia, and after scarcely 10 minutes of skimming, my eyes were wide as saucers and I realized that I have been living in a cozy little bubble for the past month.

[Ironic, really, when going abroad makes one even less aware of what's happening in the world.]

And then I felt a surge of guilt, and an overwhelming desire to want to be a part of it. Of everything. Of the world.The sad part is that I don't even know what I mean by it. But it doesn't lessen my desire to do it. Perhaps work for the government, or volunteer, or teach abroad, or even just continue learning. For the time being, at least. I'm not even twenty yet, after all. I have plenty of time to go through the list of potential post-undergraduate career paths/travel itineraries/applications for higher education.

[And give my parents even more reasons to worry about my looming unemployment and further plummet into financial dependency.]

top: view of Granada from the Alhambra.
bottom: Mediterranean Sea from Peñíscola.

But in the mean time, I look back and realize that, although I may not understand macroeconomics well enough to fully grasp the severity of what Greece and Spain are going through, nor politics and foreign affairs well enough to weigh the pros and cons of Obama's planned withdrawal, I can help a stranger out at a train station and bridge a gap between two languages. Or chat with passengers on trains, hearing about their fascinating lives and what journeys have brought us to the same place. Or make friends with the owner of a small gastronomy shop and discuss the best flavors of marmalade and olive oil.

Or, most recently, spend upwards of an hour talking to the amazingly sweet owners of a fruit and vegetable market, two blocks away from my apartment, after having surprised them with a cake.

Literally some of the nicest people I've ever met. After a fair few days of walking home with free peaches and apples, Liz, Zach, and I decided to repay the favor and purchased a torte as a "thank you." We ended up talking for quite a long time, in both Spanish and Hindi, chatting over slices of cake, hearing about how they moved to Spain in '05 from India [their Spanish is impeccable], their optimistic image of the world [even after facing tough economic times in '08 that would leave many people feeling hopeless], their love for Valencia and traveling, their lives here now, and their hopes for the future. My only regret is that I didn't get to know them sooner.

And for now, that's enough. Life is what you make of it, in the end. Take every experience to heart, and you'll learn so much along the way.

I mean, look at what four and a half weeks has given me: a crispy tan, seven new scarfs [not an exaggeration, I'm still struggling to pack them all], and a head full of new dreams.

And an extra 10 pounds around the gut, but at least I enjoyed the ride! [Plus, what good is it being home for the rest of the summer if I don't experiment with healthy cooking? (Code, of course, for I can't wait to have my KitchenAid at my disposable once again, but nuances.)]

On a lighter note, though somewhat more depressing, today is my last full day in Valencia. The fact that this time tomorrow I will be on a stuffy plane, heading back to the States, with a severe lack of exciting in-flight entertainment, hasn't really hit me yet. But I am quite sure that this time tomorrow I will be in tears.

Nevertheless, it has been an incredible final week. Browsing Valencia's bustling streets with Zach during lunch breaks resulted in [even more] food for me to bring back home, mental debates about purchasing [even more] new shoes [debates which I lost, in the end (or won, if you're my bank account)], and eating [even more] carbohydrates in every form imaginable. Yesterday was final exam day, and I can't lie and say that it's not nice to finally be out of class for the summer.

It was also a day of fiesta here in Valencia: el día de San Juan. Around 11 last night, we took a bus down to the beach, to be met with thousands of people dancing and drinking, huddled around bonfires both large and small. I don't know much about the historical significance of the festival, but nowadays you meet up with friends and enjoy general merriment [read: chupitas and meriendas] until around midnight, when you're supposed to write down a wish on a piece of paper, throw it into the fire, and jump over waves in the sea. It was loud and crazy and breezy and beautiful, and we still managed to make it home by 2:30.

Okay, admittedly, we didn't stay out very late. But we were exhausted after a long day of finals, so we decided to take it a bit easy. Saw the sights, had more than a few laughs and chats, and then came back.

As for today, Liz is currently on a train to Barcelona to meet up with family [she, the lucky girl, has another four weeks of travel-time across Europe], and so I am soaking up the last few memories I will have here in this apartment. Zach insisted [and I won't lie and say that it didn't take long at all to convince me] that we go out tonight for one last hoorah, meaning I will likely get little to no rest tonight and suffer the consequences of this decision with a bad headache and desire to drug myself to sleep whilst on the plane tomorrow, but what good is it coming to the party capital of Europe if I waste my last night in Valencia sitting at home? Packing, dinner with María, visiting a few bars with Zach, going to a discotheque, and one last dance to the best song I've heard here. Although not ideal, since I will be leaving it all behind in a few short hours, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Besides, it's only a matter of time before I'm back.

arabian nights in the south of spain

I've already mentioned the dichotomy between Spain and Portugal, two completely different environments for two countries so close to one another, but I didn't realize that the same feeling could exist within Spain itself. Of course, in the back of my mind it was obvious; after all, the United States is an enormous mixture of cultures, accents, cuisines, and ambiance, so it would only make sense that a country as old as Spain, rich with a history of regionalism, would be similar.

Mostly, though, I think it was the prevalence of Arab culture permeating through the narrow streets of Granada, subtly transparent as it was, that really struck me.

I know a fair bit about Spanish history to understand the reasoning behind it, of course, what with Arab occupation of the Iberian peninsula for hundreds of years, but I hadn't really been expecting to experience it alongside Spanish culture. Walking through the streets of Granada to be met with the musicality of Arabic being recited from open windows of the Islamic Center took me by pleasant surprise, and I found myself leaning against the wall of the building, taking it in. And then, scarcely an hour later, weaving through colorful bazaars, shawls and handcrafted pillowcases piled along the foot of small shops, hookahs and leather bags lining the walls, met with shopkeepers fluent in Arabic asking me if I'm from India or Pakistan ["Salaam, sadeeqa"]. It was like being thrust into a Middle Eastern Spain [or likewise a Spanish Middle East?] in a most wonderful way.

And left me aching to visit Pakistan again.


Nostalgia aside, our short visit to Granada was breathtaking. Particularly our trip to the Alhambra, a place that I had been longing to visit for ages.

There's not much to be said about the Alhambra save for that it was even more amazing than I expected it to be. Gorgeous architecture, lush gardens, beautiful scenery [the Sierra Nevada was an incredible backdrop to the already-incredible Moorish palaces]. We only spent around 2 and a half hours there, unfortunately, but long enough to get a good look at both the palaces and the Generalife.

It only cements my desire need to return to Spain in future to see it again.

Saturday night we went to a Flamenco show, which took place in a cave [or at least a location akin to one], as authentic performances were typically held. It was ridiculously fun and beautiful to watch; although I've been exposed to quite a lot of Flamenco music and have seen many dances via a television screen in numerous Spanish classes, I had never seen one live. I was expecting there to be a stage front and center, with all of us watching from seats, akin to a theater. Instead, there was one long hallway with chairs lining the walls, and the dance took place in between. The dancers were literally an arm's length away.

What I wasn't expecting was to be approached in the middle of the show by one of the dancers, hand outstretched, expecting me to take it and be led onto the 'dance floor.' Needless to say, it was horribly embarrassing, and I definitely made a fool out of myself in front of everyone in the vicinity [it's bad enough that I dance like a cardboard gorilla, let alone having to replicate one as free and artistic as the Flamenco], but I was extremely honored [as made obvious by my foolish grin and, what I'm sure were, bright red cheeks (which is really saying something since I'm almost physically incapable of turning red)] and had an amazing experience.

[I'm not sure many people can say that they've been made to dance the Flamenco in the middle of a cave in Granada, alongside gorgeous professionals, in front of at least 50 tourists, with no idea what they've gotten themselves into.

At least I can cross that off of my list now, right?]



Food-wise there isn't much to be said. Not that what we had wasn't all delicious [you can't really go wrong when you have some of the tastiest gelato in the world (second only to Italy) on a daily basis, coupled with enormous bocadillos de tortilla de patata], but also wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

still mouthwatering, of course.

My main concern right now is figuring out how I'm going to successfully pack the copious amount of food items I've bought for myself without going over my luggage weight limit.

Also to see if I can some how finagle my way into fitting a few more jars of fig jam in before it's too much of an issue. And maybe another bottle or two of olive oil. And definitely still need to get some Italian honey while I'm here.

Or perhaps I should focus a bit more on looming final exams.

But that would take the fun out of my last few days here, now, wouldn't it?

of paellas and bullfights

Well, not so much the bullfights, since there aren't any going on currently. But it had a nice ring to it.

[Creative license?]

I can't say I've been up to too much since getting back to Valencia 3 nights ago, but I had the urge to write. And, nonetheless, Zach and I finally visited the Catedral de Valencia during our Monday lunch break, and that was quite a trip in and of itself.

The Valencia Cathedral is one of Valencia's greatest treasures: an ornate, Gothic church built in the early 13th century. Today, the Cathedral sits in the Plaza de la Reina and is an enormous tourist attraction, for good reason. It is quite possibly the most beautiful church I have ever visited [and let me tell you, we visited a ton of churches during our tour of Italy a few years ago]. Zach and I paid 4 euros for an audio tour, which was actually very pleasant [not to mention the woman at the counter handed me the audio in Castellano, so the lack of having been asked if I would prefer the English was a good confidence-boost].

We were only able to spend about an hour at the Cathedral, since we were pressed for time between classes, but I probably easily could have spent at least another hour there, just admiring all of the artwork and architecture.

Perhaps if I get the time, I'll make another trip.

But now on to the food.

The night we flew back in from Portugal, María prepared some homemade paella for us, which was a very sweet gesture seeing as how the dish takes a pretty friggin' long time to make.

Specifically chicken paella [since I am not the pork-eating type] with veggies.

Now, paella and I have an interesting relationship. I've had paella twice in my life prior to coming to Spain, and on both occasions I was sorely disappointed.

Not that the dish was bad, per se, but rather...bland. Not a fan of the texture of the rice, nor the spices [lack thereof] that go into the dish. But, I'm always open to trying [or retrying] new things, and so I had been anticipating a reintroduction to paella upon coming to Spain.


Honestly, it was good. At least, significantly better than the paella I had had before. But I think...paella just isn't my thing, over all.

[Not to mention it reminds me hugely of biryani, which I'm not a huge fan of either, so I wasn't totally surprised at my inability to fall in love with the dish].

But Liz loved it, and Zach loved it when his host parents prepared it, so it's definitely just me.

The potato salad that María prepare to go with it, however, was irresistibly delicious.

In the end, though, I gave it a second shot, and so I'm satisfied.


In other news, Liz and I took a stroll to the train station today in order for Liz to purchase her ticket to Barcelona next weekend. We did end up having to walk a bit to a different train station, for reasons that are still an enigma to me [the main train station apparently isn't selling tickets to Barcelona anymore, although the one she ended up purchasing departs from that station], and then ended up having to wait behind about 40 or so people before going up.

So we made ourselves comfortable on the floor, leaning against the glass wall separating the ticket room from the platform, sitting and chatting while awaiting our turn. After 10 or so minutes, we were approached by a nice Australian gentleman who spoke absolutely no Spanish whatsoever.

["Excuse me, but do you ladies speak English by any chance?" "Yes, of course!" "Well, I really don't have any idea what's going on..."]

So we chatted with him, found out he was in the same boat as us [having been deferred from the main station], and we gave him the 4-1-1 on the situation. He was very pleasant [I really enjoyed the accent], and then walked away, still seeming to be somewhat unnerved but at least more at ease.

Ten or so more minutes passed, and then Liz and I were approached by our Australian friend and one of his friends, and the two of them very sweetly asked if we would be so kind as to accompany them to the counter and translate for them. We were, of course, more than happy to do so, grinning in acceptance and enjoying a very nice English/Spanish conversation with our new friends and the jolly man at the counter. After they had secured their tickets, one of the men helped convince jolly-counter-man to go ahead and get us our tickets right then and there, as there were still a good 30 or so individuals in front of us. Jolly-counter-man was totally for the idea, so we thanked our Australian friends, wished them a pleasant trip, and left soon after, ticket secured.



Sad as it may be, that little encounter earlier this evening definitely has been one of the highlights of this trip. I'm not even sure why I was so - moved? happy? - because of it.

I think it's the feeling of mutual understanding that we sometimes share with others; the ability to ask for help when uncertain and lost, the joy from being able to help that person, and the laughs shared over the counter of a train station in a foreign country, English in one ear and Spanish in the other. It's a reminder that, at the end of the day, although we come from different places and head to different places, we're all in this together.

And it's only a matter of time before we run into each other at a train station in Valencia.

It seems as though pre-depression Francisco Goya would agree with me.

In other other news, tomorrow is our last out-of-Valencia trip for this adventure. To Granada, in fact. I am bursting with excitement to see what beauty the city has to offer.

Here's to hoping my plan of staying out all night won't backfire on me during tomorrow's 8-hour bus ride.

I suppose this is when sleeping pills are an appropriate decision.

carbohydrates and spanish weekends

There are two reasons I'm updating today:

1. I will be laptop-less for the weekend, and
2. I am doing everything in my power to avoid studying for tomorrow's midterm exam.

I assure you, though, that this is mostly due to #2.

I've been in Spain for approximately two full weeks now, and there are a few things I've learned. Of course, there are the obvious cultural differences, language barriers, adjusting to a new school and sleep schedule, and the fact that I can hardly afford anything and yet continue to spend copious amounts of money on things that I don't need in the least.

[My total scarf collection is now up to eight. And by that I mean literally eight. That I have here, with me, right now. Not the twenty-odd scarves that I've left at home.

If you didn't believe me before when I told you that I have a problem, rest assured: I have a problem.]



But above all, I have, as of late, come to notice something in particular. Something both wonderful and disconcerting.

And this is that I have eaten more carbohydrates in the past two weeks than quite possibly my entire spring semester of this year.

Dear lord, you can just see the carbohydrates radiating off of these demonic, deep-fried, doughy concoctions; sugar glistening in the Mediterranean sunlight; warm chocolate sauce tempting you to bring its cup to your lips and drink the sinful liquid in one gulp, before you have time to think about what you're doing to yourself, to realize that nothing short of delicious, shameful regret awaits this terrible decision. Repeat.

Not that I haven't been enjoying it thoroughly, because I have. It's just... so many carbohydrates.

It helps that, oftentimes, the pastries are cheaper than small coffees. One euro as compared to one-fifty! And I need to be fiscally responsible, here!

[So that I can save my money to spend frivolously on nonsenses like scarves.]

Plus, when I'm studying for a midterm in the world's most adorable [and lined with bizarrely erotic cartoons of loleita girls, but as my art professor so eloquently states every class period, "Spain is different!"] cafe, I need to satisfy my stress-induced needs for sugar.

Zach's and my lunch-break today began as it normally does: a visit to Cuenca, where he orders a pastry and I eat my bocadillo [foot-long baguette filled with whatever host mom has decided to surprise me with; today happened to be tuna and sliced tomato (yum)]. Then we go out for our 4-mile or so walk through central Valencia, stopping occasionally to browse some of the numerous shops that invitingly line its narrow streets [and consequently buy another scarf, but I couldn't help it because this one was striped and somewhat warm and it was chillier out than I expected and I was beginning to get cold, so naturally it was necessary].

But today, we stopped at a tiny cafe. Cute, homey, and sparse at the corner of an inconspicuous road, almost unnoticed amongst the sidewalk traffic of lunch-hour. And there, we happily purchased some Valencian orange juice, buñuelos, and churros. The orange juice was my order, while Zach opted for the treacherous fritters and chocolate dipping sauce.

Of which I ate about a quarter. But it was alright; it was just a quarter. Half of a buñuelo [sweet fritters that are quite common in Spain and other Spanish-speaking countries], and half of a churro. Not a problem. Walked it all off, for sure.


But when you meet up, 4 hours later, at a cafe to study for exams and one of your friends, Zach, happens to have stopped at the cafe next door to pick up more churros and chocolate, and another friend, Liz, happens to have ordered an enormous pastry from the cafe counter, and you, who happen to have greatly enjoyed both the churros and the pastry and decide to order another one for the table to split, 10 miles of walking isn't quite enough.

20 miles of walking probably isn't enough.

And to go home for a dinner of tortilla de patata [Spanish omelet stuffed with nothing but sliced potatoes] served with sliced bread and cream cheese, you know you may just die of carbohydrate overdose.

But, you know what, I'll go with it.

And deal with the consequences of an expanded stomach and enormous appetite for carbohydrates when I'm back home.

And not think about the issue further until I come to it.

Valencia is full of lush gardens, an incredible way to break up the monotony of city sidewalks and speeding cars. It honestly makes me want to move here someday.

In other news, today we visited the Valencian Fine Arts Museum. The amount it will help me pass tomorrow's contemporary art exam is virtually none, seeing as how we studied Gothic and Renaissance religious art and not the sad excuse for modern art that happens to be cubism contemporary art, but I loved it.

One of my biggest regrets about not attending university in a large city is the lack of available art museums. I would spend hours upon hours in an art museum, if I were given the chance. There's something beautifully calming about it, but at the same time I'm always struck by the brilliance of some artists. That some divinely gifted individual, hundreds of years ago, was able to craft something so amazing, so inspiring, so lovely, with just their two hands?

Leaves me speechless.

Though my favorite artistic movement is the Baroque period, I loved all of what we saw today.

In other, other news, this Thursday evening Liz and I will be hopping on a plane and flying to Porto, Portugal. We will be spending our entire weekend there [we have this Friday off from classes], staying in a hostel in the heart of the city, attending gorgeous wine tours and visiting one of the oldest and grandest bookstores in Europe. I grin like a fool every time I think about it.

[In retrospect, I suppose the title of this post is misleading, since I won't actually be in Spain for the weekend, but it has an artistic, literary flair about it (or so my delusions lead me to believe), and so I'll stick with it.]

I won't have the laptop there, but the DSLR will be, more or less, glued to my hands, so there will be many photos to come. Stay tuned.


And now I'm going to attempt to spend the next two days detoxing sugar and simple carbs out of my body, so I feel less guilty about indulging once I'm there. Odds of success are dwindling into the single-digits every time I think about the above churro.

food markets and siestas

Oh dear. It's beginning. I thought it wouldn't happen so early, but I was gravely mistaken. Headaches, heartaches, and anxiety can only mean one thing.

Kitchen withdrawal.

Okay, so admittedly, that was a bit overdramatic. But I've always had a propensity for literary melodrama.

Keeps life interesting, non?


Really, though, after finally stepping foot in el Mercado Central, Valencia's largest public market and one of the oldest running markets in all of Europe, I was in a state of kitchen withdrawal. It's a huge local and tourist attraction, and for good reason. The building is enormous, filled with nothing but rows upon rows of food vendors, and even a few gift shops and mini-restaurants. It was honestly one of the most breathtaking sights I've ever seen.

Oh, I was in heaven. I'm not sure you can imagine my elation. I easily could have spent the entire day just browsing between rows and vendors [and I'm positive I'd still be unable to see everything in that short of a timespan], but Liz was with me, so we kept our visit to about an hour or so.

At least I walked away with some strong, Spanish olive oil and paprika.

olive oil, and wine, and honey, oh my!

Mmmm I still daydream about the sights and smells. I realize I just visited the place yesterday, but even still, I think the memories are here to stay for quite a while. Fresh fish, jamón ibérico [supposedly one of the best types of cured ham on the planet], rainbows of fruits and veggies, chicken and rabbit, spices, nuts, cheese, bread, eggs, milk; literally, everything.

I dare you to look at all of this and tell me that you don't have an overwhelming urge to whip out a large pot to prepare some fish and mushroom chowder and peach cobbler for dessert. Not that I have this planned out or anything.

Nevertheless, today, we [Liz and I] got to enjoy some good old Valencian food first-hand, which was nice. After visiting the beach, we walked a bit into the city and went to lunch at a small little restaurant off of the main road.

[Please note how I cannot actually recall the names of any of these places, but the food was still delicious.]

We enjoyed a 5-course meal for about 15 euros each. Pretty good deal, I thought. And amazingly tasty.

1. Mixed salad with the usual dressing of olive oil and salt.
2. Stuffed red peppers in an incredible sauce.
3. Probably the best potato salad I've ever eaten, due to the addition of raisins, walnuts, and balsamic vinegar.
4. Gazpacho, of course.
5. Arroz meloso: a type of rice stew with rabbit and snails, typical of Valencia.

Okay, no, I did not eat the snails. And not because I was afraid of them.

[Fine, maybe I was a little bit.]

But mainly, I just don't like the texture of shellfish, and Liz told me that snails are similar in that department. So...I decided to ignore them, and ate around them. Snails aside, though, it was one of the best meals I've had in a while.

Followed by a long time spent at the Oceonográfico afterward was also icing on the cake.

And now, a short word about siestas. Oh, siesta, siesta, siesta.


...I seem to have developed a love-hate relationship with siestas.

I love them because I am the epitome of lazy, and having time during the day set aside for napping seems like the best idea anyone has ever had. I spend all morning in class daydreaming about siesta time, and then cursing my luck for having my second class right when I should be sleeping. And then usually end up taking one around 6pm when I get home, anyway, so it pans out quite well in the end.

But I hate them because in the off-chance that I'm not in the mood to nap, absolutely nothing is open. The streets are literally deserted. It's unnervingly quiet. I realize that Spain is not the most populated of countries, but regardless: Valencia is a major city. It's as if someone has hit the off-switch on every inhabitant here between the hours of 2pm and 5pm. I can't imagine this sort of thing happening in the U.S.: I feel like even the consideration would cause widespread panic and chaos for a country that seems hell-bent on doing work 24/7.  And believe me, when I'm out and about and there is literally nothing to do, I get antsy.

...And then end up going home to take a siesta because it's really the only option.

This is basically what all of Valencia is like during siesta time. Vast and void of life. Part of me revels in it. The other part of me wants to cannonball through the surface and break the silence.

On a somewhat related note...

Well. I guess I should preface this by saying that I don't eat fast food. Normally, anyway. But, I like the option of being able to hop in my car at 3 in the morning and drive to a McDonalds and grab an order of large fries and a strawberry McFlurry.

Not that I ever do that, but, you know. The option is out there. In case I feel so inclined.



In Valencia, it is not.

Seriously, what is the point of McDonald's going global and spreading worldwide obesity if they don't have the decency to stay open 24 hours a day?!

...a portion of last night's post-discotheque fun was wandering for [quite literally] miles in search of any sign of food-life.

After about an hour, we gave up.

I had never felt so disappointed in my life. Less really for Valencia's lack of open cafes, and more for my overenthusiastic willingness to barge into a McDonald's and order a strawberry McFlurry with large fries at 3:30am.



So perhaps, all things considered, it was good news that they were all closed.

And I can go back to eating fresh cherries after dinner without knowing that I've swallowed my pride for American food whilst abroad.

...hope my willpower [and Valencia's lack of options] keeps this up.




In other news, this week is midterm week.

I definitely thought I was done with this nonsense in May.

It's times like these that I hate remembering that I'm here for college credit, and not to spend my days wandering around the city, ordering orxatas.

Looks like tomorrow evening's going to be full of linguistics and stress-induced pastry eating.

[It could be worse.]

orxatas, tapas, and pastelerías

I have this problem: it's called me being obsessed with all things gastronomy.

Luckily, this little obsession is well-tended to in Spain.

Actually, I vaguely recall being told that the food in Spain leaves much to be desired. I find this quite far from the truth.

Granted, I haven't yet eaten paella, and my previous experience with paella was not ideal, but I have high hopes. Particularly since I'm in the paella region of the world. And since rabbit tastes delicious. But that post is for another day.


Truth be told, my gastronomic adventures outside of the home have been limited. This is a combination of the fact that via this program, I'm given three meals a day, and also the fact that the exchange rate is terrible and I can barely afford the daily cup of coffee I order at Cuenca.

[I could, of course, not drink the coffee, but at this point it would be a disappointment to the dear women who work there and more or less start preparing my café con leche before I even have a chance to order it.]

No, I do not order the pastry on a daily basis. Usually I just mooch off of Zach.

But over the course of the past few days, I've become more exposed to the gastronomic culture of Spain. Zach and I have begun walking back towards our apartments during our 3-hour lunch break after our Cuenca coffee and pastry [mainly because the WiFi in the building is so terrible and there's little else to do], and along the way stop and explore. A few days ago, we were doing just that when we decided to enter the Mercat Ruzafa, which, much to my elation, is more or less an enormous, indoor market.

Imagine: rows upon rows of street vendors chatting and bagging produce for busy mothers; a rainbow of color dancing along your line of sight from bright red strawberries to glistening heads of lettuce, and everything in between; smells of freshly baked breads and pastries warming the air in the most enticing manner; crates full of every nut and dried fruit you could imagine; meat and fish lining glass cases, waiting to be bought and cooked. And all of this lies hardly a quarter of a mile away from where I'm living.

The amount that I wish I had a kitchen to my disposal is almost physically painful.

But the idea of being able to visit and walk around whenever I'd like is enough for now.

An epic fail of a photo awesome shot of the market taken creepily, albeit subtly, with the iPod.

Today was also a good day for food [not that every day isn't a good day for food]. On our [now] usual noon walk through the city, Zach and I stopped in a tienda de gastronomía, literally a "shop of gastronomy." They are actually pretty common around where I live, though I had never stepped foot in one until today [when I visited about four].

Interestingly, many of them specialize in Italian food. By this I mean uncooked pasta in all shapes and sizes, jars of truffles and marinades, and honey. Now, when I visited Italy 3 years ago, I bought some honey to bring home. Let me just tell you, it was the best damn honey I have eaten to this day.

Needless to say, I will be buying another enormous jar to bring home with me. As well as Spanish honey, which I've never had before [there is a store that sells only Spanish honey about half a mile from me, which is supposed to be quite renowned; I'm bursting with excitement to try some].

In the final store we visited, I caved. Walked around the small shop for about ten minutes, probably literally picked up every single jar to scrutinize, and eventually decided to purchase peach marmalade and a can of fleur de sel [called flor de sal here]. However, I think the shop owner was pretty baffled by my enormous interest in food items [I can't imagine he has too many college-aged students visiting his store to buy things like homemade marmalade or fleur de sel], so we chatted some. I told him about how I'm here on study-abroad, trying to improve my broken Spanish, that I'm visiting from good old Va, etc. It was a very lovely conversation; he was the sweetest man.

And then he told me to grab a few baby jars of marmalade gratis.
And so I did. Valencian orange and more peach, to be precise.
And now I am basically in love with this man and plan on visiting him every morning on my way to school to say hello and [hopefully] be offered more free goodies like truffles and artisan cheese.

Word of advice to all foodie travelers: if you look at all anomalous in a gastronomic shop and speak the country's native tongue in such a broken manner that appears somewhat charming, you too could walk away with free goodies.

Our next gastronomic adventure of the day was to go by a cafe close to Zach's apartment for some orxata. Orxata is basically the Valencian version of horchata, which, though I'm sure many of you have heard the name courtesy of Vampire Weekend (which is actually how I first heard the name, sad to admit), is a drink traditionally made from ground almonds, rice milk, sugar, and cinnamon. Valencian orxata is made from chufa nuts [tiger nuts] rather than almonds, and lacks the cinnamon.

[Also, the spelling variation is due to the fact that the street language here (by that I mean the language almost all street signs are written in) is Valencian, rather than Spanish. Never mind the fact that Valencian is more or less equivalent with Catalán, but regionalism is pretty big here in Spain.]

It's quite a good drink, but I'm not too keen on the intense quantities of nut flavor that you get with orxata. I actually think I would prefer the Mexican version [made with the almonds and cinnamon], but this one is surprisingly refreshing as well. Today I drank my third one of the trip, and I think I may have fulfilled my orxata fix at this point.


Nonetheless, I was happy to cross it off my list.

Here comes a feeling you thought you'd forgotten
Chairs to sit and sidewalks to walk on

And our final adventure of the day was to hit up a tapas bar. I very much enjoy the concept of tapas. For the longest time, I just thought it was a small, family-style meal; a variety of little plates ordered and shared amongst friends. The concept in reality is more or less just this, but the point of tapas, really, is to prevent oneself from getting too drunk. This is why they're eaten alongside copas, or small glasses of alcohol. A pretty clever idea, I'd say.

[And not in the least bit surprising that the Spaniards would be the ones to come up with it.]

The tapas that we had were pretty delicious: stuffed peppers, bacalau [fish in a spiced sauce], fresh bread, some pork items that I did not partake in [though which smelled heavenly], and Liz enjoyed some red wine while Zach and I had water. Good food, good talk, a perfect outing for tapas.

I appreciate the Spanish appreciation for passing the time away in this manner.

In other related news, the Spaniards are quite keen on the carbohydrates. Bread with every meal, which itself often centers on rice or pasta [Italian food is strangely popular here], and not as many veggies as I'd typically enjoy. I can't complain too much, although my jeans may start protesting quite soon. But I have grown to love small, pre-meal salads: lettuce and sliced tomatoes dressed with a generous drizzle of olive oil, salt, and oregano flakes. Definitely something I plan on making a routine when I go back home.

Simple and delicious. Just as all meals should be.

playas and ñamñams

Peering out through the open window is always a thrill; a reminder of where I am, six stories high, wind breezing in through drawn curtains, light filling up my quaint room with a comfortable glow. Every morning I wake up and look down below, at cars strewn in organized haphazardness across the narrow streets, at the tops of people unlocking shop doors for the morning, at the now-familiar sights of bikers expertly whizzing through leafy trees and autos, just to make sure it's all still there.

That it hasn't all been a dream.


That I'm actually in Valencia.

The last time I had left the country, aside from for Canada, was for Italy. That was about 3 years ago this summer. Since then, I've missed the thrill of waking up somewhere new and beautiful, a feeling that I thought I'd never have again. I remember the utter depression that struck me once I got off the plane and returned home, not for being back, but rather for leaving it behind. And I still have dreams of cerulean blue Mediterranean beaches, walking past local vendors and buying as much produce as possible to carry, visiting fish markets permeated by the smells of brine and summertime...these are the memories I have of Sicily, and the ones that I missed the most when I came back home.



[I really am madly in love with Italy, in case you couldn't tell.]

Taken while visiting Peñíscola.

And yet... that feeling has returned.

And I haven't been happier in a long while.



Spain is a country I've wanted to visit since, close to, the beginning of high school. I've been studying Spanish for about 9 years now, which to me is somewhat of a surprise, since when I first started taking it I didn't realize I would love it enough to continue. And now, it's become a part of my life, in a way. So after coercing the parents [and agreeing to pay half], I've escaped to Valencia for one month, to hone my speaking abilities and experience a new culture.

It's been a little under a week since we stepped foot off of the airplane, but I already feel as though I've been here for months. Though there's something to be learned every day, after hours upon hours of walking through narrow streets and lush parks, I've become pretty familiar with our home in the city. My host mother is one of the most adorable women I've ever met [Particularly after watching the recent final match between Barça and Man-United in which I remember her repeating at least 10 times how guapísimo Messi is. Mind you, this woman is 56 years old.], and the apartment that Liz and I are living in is just as lovely.

Valencia is rather famous for its sweet orange trees.

My day-to-day schedule during the week is pretty static; wake up at 7am, shower, eat a simple breakfast of cornflakes and milk, walk the 2 1/2-ish miles to University with Zach, study linguistics for 2 hours, take a 3-hour lunch break at my favorite cafe, study contemporary art for 2 hours, and walk the 2 1/2-ish miles back home with Zach and Liz. From around 8:30-5:30, I'm in the campus area, and after 5 my schedule is pretty up-in-the-air. Currently, filled with [additional] city-exploration, but perhaps in a week I'll have more of a routine.

If I want one, of course.

Which I'm not sure that I do. I enjoy the spontaneity and freedom to do whatever I please in the evenings, particularly if a small siesta is involved.

The routine is different from what I'm used to, but it's becoming easier to adapt. Nevertheless, it's the eating schedule that's most different. I had known of it prior to visiting, after taking Spanish Culture & Civ last semester, but studying is nothing like experiencing.

Basically, the Spaniards eat three main meals per day: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Snacking is highly uncommon, and I don't even think the concept of "grazing" exists at all. Some people will take a small merienda during the late afternoon, but that's typically a very small snack or coffee. My eating schedule normally goes as follows:

• Breakfast of cornflakes and milk at around 7:30, before I head out. Aside from cereal, I'm not very familiar with what's typically eaten for breakfast. I would assume coffee and perhaps a pastry of some sort, or toast and jam or butter, but since I'm the first in the house to wake up, my mom lays out the cereal and milk while I'm in the shower and then heads back to bed. I don't mind it at all; it's light and filling enough to tide me over until lunch...
• ...which is normally enjoyed sometime around 2. During the school week, though, my second class starts at two, so I eat sometime between 11 and 12, normally at my favorite cafe.
• Finally, dinner in Spain is eaten quite late, around 9-10. Our mom usually serves dinner a bit earlier, around 9 [and sometimes 8:30], since Liz and I aren't as used to eating as late as 10. But we've begun to adapt more, so I'm thinking we'll be enjoying late dinners for the remainder of our visit.

It's not so much the lack of grazing [since I seem to eat constantly] that's bizarre for me, but the spacing between meals. Upwards of 6 hours between breakfast and lunch, depending on when you wake up, and around 7 or 8 for dinner. I usually need to take a merienda after class, and that typically consists of some fresh fruit.


I can't complain too much, though, since the food is delicious.

My typical lunch: coffee and a bocadillo.

Actually, better than I anticipated. I'd heard many stories from students who have visited Spain in the past about how they didn't really enjoy the food, but I find it a perfect balance of light and decadent. Not decadent in the sense of being rich, but decadent in the sense of being wholesome.

Especially the bocadillos. I cannot get enough of my mother's bocadillos. They're always mouthwatering, and keep super well in my bag for the few hours that I'm in class. A bocadillo is more or less a sandwich, but made with the most delicious Spanish bread you can imagine. Since it's such a crusty loaf, it never gets soggy the way sliced bread tends to. Plus, mom always changes up what's in it, so it's always a fun surprise. Thus far I've had turkey and cheese [today, in fact, and I think it was manchego cheese, for which Spain is also very famous], tuna and tomato, chicken, and tortilla de patatas.

Cuenca, the most adorable pasteleria in Valencia.

The coffee isn't required, but I can't resist. Zach and I always head straight to our favorite cafe, Cuenca, after linguistics is over and pass an hour or so there, him with a postre and me with a café con leche.



And sometimes, I dare to order a dessert myself.

I dream of the day when I can make desserts as elegant as this.

I love the cafe, because it's exactly what I'd like mine to look like [if, of course, I open one, which I sincerely hope to do sometime in the future]. Full of every pastry you can imagine, fun bocadillos and empanadas, and an variety of amazing coffees.

[Are the coffees delicious because they are actually delicious? Or are they delicious because I'm in Europe? It's hard to say.]


Nonetheless, I usually have to remind myself to stop staring at the assortment of treats so that I don't look like too much of a glutton, but it's hard to resist.

One of the many glass cases of pastries.

There's a list of foods that I absolutely must try while I'm here, and you can bet that I'll keep you updated when I do. But for now, I've only got 20 minutes left until contemporary art, so it's best I end here.

Until later,
¡ciao, queridos!


PS: Yes, ñamñams is, in fact, the Spanish version of "nomnoms." I basically could not stop grinning like a fool when I first heard.