scenes from a sociedad

Another day, another dinner. Even if that's never the case in this country.

 Where nearly every meal is worthy of some magazine spread. Even Buckley's hospital meals were ordeals of a first-course soup, a main plate, and a dessert. With a mini baguette. could it be any other way?

So it's sausages from across the border, where they know how to pepper the edges before curing for the perfect pica in every bite. And cheeses, with character and body. Bread from the only place you can get it, the real deal, here. Mustard, wine, and home-brewed beer.

 Then some potatoes, thrown together with me, a la my former workplace. It's amazing how far a little love, garlic, thyme and seasoning goes. A roasted loin.

Everybody lends a hand in the gastronomic society-even husbands who are slow (maybe leisurely is a better descriptor) to pick up things, whether they be kitchen techniques or languages.

Thyme scattered carelessly on a kitchen towel. Dried garlic in every corner. Shared spices on a huge rack.

Then you sit down. And the night begins. Nothing but friends and food. And the view.