I feel it. I don’t dribble oil, like I used to, I pour oil. And I have the sensation of being harshly judged somewhere. I see little droplets of unused oil on our plates, and understand why the people here (in Catalonia) clean it up with bread. It’s a shocking sight. Oil, oil, oil.
And yet I love it. Its what we (foreigners to Spain) love about Mediterranean cultures in general. The indulgence of oil and pastries and wine and some sort of gluttony over our food.
I wonder if we all secretly love the tinge of guilt of eating and cooking with more salt, more oil, more sugar.
Did you know they eat chocolate for breakfast!? No, its true! Part of me is horrified and part of me is delighted that I’ve finally found a place I can be the real chocoholic I’ve always been in the secret recesses of my kitchen, or my ‘private’ draw. You all thought I had something wicked in there. It was just mars bars.
It seems everyone is out of the cupboard here.
And yet I love it. Its what we (foreigners to Spain) love about Mediterranean cultures in general. The indulgence of oil and pastries and wine and some sort of gluttony over our food.
I wonder if we all secretly love the tinge of guilt of eating and cooking with more salt, more oil, more sugar.
Did you know they eat chocolate for breakfast!? No, its true! Part of me is horrified and part of me is delighted that I’ve finally found a place I can be the real chocoholic I’ve always been in the secret recesses of my kitchen, or my ‘private’ draw. You all thought I had something wicked in there. It was just mars bars.
It seems everyone is out of the cupboard here.
