Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools

by Victoria Twead

  The winding road up to the shrine was steep and pitted. We were out of breath and panting when we reached it. Old Sancho’s knuckles were white with the effort of holding onto his stick and the side of the trailer, but his gentle smile never wavered. The procession reached the shrine, and the Smart Ladies were there to hand out hot chocolate and cakes. Then Old Sancho was lifted back onto his chair, and we all trudged back down the mountain in a giant multi-coloured alligator.

  Two o'clock. Time for the Gastronomic Contest. I was nervous, not knowing what to expect, worried that we wouldn’t understand what was going on. I didn’t worry about our entry because clever Grace had excelled herself. Her sherry trifle was topped with snowy peaks of whipped cream, the glossy strawberries glinting. How could a judge resist?

  Carefully, we carried the dish to the square but there was no-one there. Unless you counted Old Sancho, his cat and Uncle Felix. But the two Smart Ladies appeared from nowhere, accepted our dish and placed it on a wall. Then they busied themselves setting up some trestle tables. We stood nearby, trying to shoo the flies off the trifle and guarding it from hopeful village dogs. White paper tablecloths were thrown over the tables, twitched this way and that until the Smart Ladies were satisfied. All this time, our trifle patiently sat and sweated in the sun. At long last, the ladies remembered our contribution and put it on the table, labelled ‘Ingles’ (English).

  More contestants drifted in and added their dishes to the display. Women milled around tutting and clucking over each others’ entries and making last minute adjustments to their own. The square was now filled with people, many clutching plastic cutlery and empty paper plates provided by the Smart Ladies.

  Suddenly the atmosphere changed. The crowd quietened and split apart like the Red Sea to allow the Mayor and uniformed dignitaries access to the presentations. The Smart Ladies were in their element as they herded the crowd away from the tables with outstretched arms. The judges were given silver cutlery and invited to begin.

  It was a very serious business. They worked along the tables tasting every dish, pausing and looking thoughtful. Then they made notes on their clipboards. Occasionally they conferred, faces deadpan, heads close together, voices hushed. The village ladies leaned forward, ears cupped, desperately straining to catch the words. The Smart Ladies fluttered round the judges, simpering and moving plates a quarter of a centimetre left or right.

  Our magnificent trifle had waited nearly two hours in the relentless Spanish sun and was not faring well. Its proud snowy crests had sunk to milky pools as the whipped cream collapsed and melted. The strawberries floated forlornly in a white scum sea. Poor Grace looked miserable, mouth drooped, shoulders sagged. It was not the best example of British cuisine and we were not hopeful.

  When the judges reached our dish, they hesitated, unsure how to tackle it. They dipped into the milky lake and pulled out a spoonful of dripping trifle. They tasted, faces inscrutable. I was aware that I was holding my breath, my expression identical to that of the other village contestants.

  At long last the judges were satisfied. The Smart Ladies pulled up a wooden crate and the Mayor stepped up importantly. He drew himself up to his full height of five foot five inches and began to speak.

  “It is always a great honour to be invited to judge this prestigious cooking contest. The village of El Hoyo may be small, but rarely have I seen such a wonderful array of delightful and delicious dishes…”

  The crowd shuffled their feet and stifled yawns. People began to mutter and some of the older ladies fanned themselves exaggeratedly, although their efforts barely stirred the hot heavy air.

  “Madre mia, get on with it!” hissed a lady to her companion. Perhaps the Mayor heard her because he stepped up a gear.

  “And now the moment has arrived,” he announced. “The decision is made. And so, without further ado…” He paused for effect, enjoying the suspense he was creating. The crowd stopped fidgeting and waited with bated breath.

  “The winning dessert this year is… The traditional Andalucían rice pudding in the green ceramic bowl!”

  There was a brief ripple of applause, then the crowd surged forward like an advancing army, paper plates and cutlery held like shields and weapons. The Smart Ladies skipped aside and the villagers pounced on the entries.

  The poor Mayor was almost knocked off his wooden box in the crush. The crowd reached the tables and battle commenced as they fought over the dishes. Within minutes the culinary display was reduced to a few crumbs and greasy smears on the tablecloth. Even our soggy trifle evaporated. A plague of locusts couldn’t have demolished the feast more rapidly or efficiently.

  The contest was soon forgotten however, as the next event appeared on the stage. Three figures on stilts, crazily dressed, danced and told jokes which entertained the villagers hugely. They ate fire and juggled with flaming torches. Finally they plucked sweets from hidden pockets and threw them to excited children.

  And so the festivities continued and we became almost immune to the explosion of fireworks. Event followed event, procession followed procession. Now I understood why Seville always has a Bank Holiday immediately after its Fiesta. To allow the participants to recover from the festivities.

  On Sunday evening the cars began to leave as the villagers locked up their houses and returned to the city. Grace and Paul departed and peace descended on the village. Only the coloured lights, rocket sticks and blowing litter gave any clue to the frenzy of the Fiesta weekend. And by ten o’clock nobody remained, except of course for Marcia, Old Sancho, Geronimo and Uncle Felix. And me.

  ∞∞∞

  Dear Reader, please do not be unduly concerned about Britain’s culinary reputation. It gives me great pleasure and pride to report that the following two years Britain won the contest. I’d love to say that I created the winning dishes, but no, it was my visitors’ efforts both times. So thank you, Linda, (now known as the Pudding Queen) and her assistant, Doug, for the bread and butter pudding. And thanks to you, Glennys, for the sticky toffee pudding. Well done all of you.

  Winning Rice Pudding Recipe

  Arroz con Leche

  1/2 kilo (18oz) white short grain rice

  1/2 ltr (2 1/2 pints) milk

  300ml (11 fl oz) water

  100g (3 1/2 oz) sugar

  1 small cinnamon stick

  1 small piece lemon peel

  Pinch salt

  Ground cinnamon for dusting

  Place the water, cinnamon stick, lemon peel, salt, sugar and rice in a large pan and bring to the boil. Cover and cook on a low heat until most of the water has been absorbed.

  Remove the lemon peel and cinnamon and transfer to an oven proof dish. Add the milk and cook in a medium oven for around 20 minutes until the rice is really tender and the dessert is rich and creamy.

  Sprinkle generously with cinnamon.

  CHAPTER 14

  CHICKENS

  Winter in the mountains takes one by surprise. The air is crisp and clean and icy winds funnel through the valley. In the distance, the sea is electric blue, the horizon clearly defined. Ripening oranges and lemons are bright daubs of paint on a brown canvas. The swallows deserted months ago. At night the temperature can drop to below freezing and village cats sleep on the rooftops huddled close to working chimneys.

  Marcia and Old Sancho felt the cold and warmed their old bones by their perpetually burning stove. The shop doors remained closed. If we needed anything, we would tap softly on the window. Marcia would let us in while Old Sancho dozed, only the tip of his nose visible from the folds of his blanket.

  Joe was back in Spain for good now, having completed his time in the Army. We kept warm by working on the house, but at night, we too huddled round our fire before taking hot water bottles to bed.

  How we loved that wood-burning stove, and how we hated it! Daily chores now included chopping firewood as we struggled to satisfy its voracious appetite. Joe adopted it and spent much time with his temperamental baby. Every evening he wou
ld sit hunched on a low stool, peering hopefully into its stomach, willing it to light. He sang tuneless little songs to it, encouraging it to flare.

  “Come on little fire, tra la la,

  You can burn much higher, tra la la,

  Come on, fire, if you’re good,

  I will give you lots more wood…” and so on, and so on.

  Shivering, he would hand-feed it until it developed a healthy orange flame. But woe betide if he turned his back on it. Then it would sulk and smoke and fizzle out unless he tempted it back to life with choice pieces of kindling and more songs.

  Eventually it would flare up enough for us to place saucepans on the top. Sometimes it would become much too enthusiastic, so hot that we sweated and removed layers of clothes. We began to recognise different types of firewood - which logs would burn slowly, which burned hot and fast. Every evening became a battle to keep the stove happy and fed. We were slaves to its moods and insatiable hunger.

  Torrential rain caused us to place buckets strategically where our roof leaked. The drip-drip-drip of water plunking into those buckets that first winter will stay with me forever.

  We soon exhausted the supplies of firewood that Alonso, the previous owner, had left behind. Then we burnt his old furniture that we had dumped in the orchard. Next, the fruit trees were chopped down and burnt. Our plans to build two houses in the orchard would mean they would be sacrificed anyway. (Geronimo helped us slice the biggest logs with his outsize chainsaw and stayed drinking brandy for the rest of the day.) Lastly, Joe pulled down the old chicken shed and coop in the orchard, and we burnt that, too.

  One weekend in January we were in Paco and Carmen-Bethina's house. The fire blazed and quails in tiny domed cages hung on the walls. Paco explained that they were female quails. In spring their call would lure horny male quails, allowing Paco to shoot them. Of course we wholeheartedly disapproved and threatened to release the poor quails when his back was turned, much to his amusement. He thought we were joking. We weren't.

  “Pah! The birds like being in the cage,” he said. “They do not have to look for food because I feed them every day. Now, look at this!”

  Stooping, he pulled out a single-barrelled rifle from under the couch.

  “Watch, English!” he said, and strode the two steps to the front door.

  To our horror, he loaded a cartridge into the barrel, aimed the weapon skyward and squeezed the trigger. The blast was so loud our ears sang and we were forced to lip read for the next few minutes.

  “Imagine this happening in England...” Joe mouthed to me.

  “What you need,” Paco said, putting the gun back under the sofa, “are chickens. You have plenty of space in your orchard.”

  I loved the idea in principle. Joe looked more doubtful. The conversation went on to other things and we forgot all about it.

  Every February Paco took two weeks of his annual leave. This was his time, time away from work and family. Time to hunt, time to farm his cortijo, time to be with his male friends, discuss football, skin rabbits and drink vast quantities of home-made wine. These were the only occasions I ever saw Paco cooking. A cauldron bubbled on the open fire as he and his mates cooked rabbit stew.

  We had heard much carousing taking place next door that week. Paco's cronies popped in and out of the little house as often as wasps in a nest. We were invited to join them, but the rabbit entrails spilling onto the floor put us off and we declined, saying we were working on the house.

  On the Friday, Paco went back down to the city to collect Carmen-Bethina and Little Paco and bring them back for the weekend. Their arrival was always noisy, but this particular time it was ear-splitting. Carmen-Bethina's voice was raised and angry and Paco's replies were grunts. Apron flapping, Carmen-Bethina swept into our house. She ignored Joe, presumably because he was male and therefore one of the enemy at the moment. She seized my sleeve and dragged me next door.

  She was too fired up for me to understand her exact words, but the meaning was clear. The usually neat little house was a disaster zone. Rabbit entrails caked the floor and table. Dirty plates and glasses littered every surface. Ashtrays overflowed. The sink was full of pots and pans. Empty beer and wine bottles stood amongst the ornaments. A trail of mud tracked across the floor. Paco looked sheepish as his wife pointed out every sin he had committed. Finally she shrugged, grabbed the floor mop and set to work. I tiptoed out, but not before Paco had winked at me, his eyes full of mischief.

  Paco’s Rabbit Stew

  Conejo con Verduras

  Serves 6

  2 onions

  2 aubergines

  2 red peppers

  3 green peppers

  6 ripe tomatoes

  1 rabbit (cut into pieces)

  4 tablespoons olive oil

  1 bulb garlic

  Medium glass of brandy

  Salt and pepper

  Finely chop all the vegetables and set aside. Separate the garlic into cloves.

  Heat the oil in a large shallow pan and add the garlic. Fry slowly for 5 minutes, then add the rabbit pieces. Cook the rabbit slowly for 10 minutes until sealed and slightly golden.

  Add the brandy, cover the pan and continue cooking slowly for a further 20 minutes. Remove from the heat and set aside.

  In another pan, heat a little more oil and add the onion, frying until soft.

  Add the aubergines, peppers and brandy juice and cook for about 10 minutes.

  Add the tomatoes. Simmer gently for about an hour, stirring occasionally. The liquid will reduce and become rich and thick.

  Add the rabbit and garlic to the pan, mixing well.

  Season to taste, cover and continue cooking for 20 minutes.

  Serve hot with crusty bread.

  A few days later, Paco pounded on our door with his usual zeal. “English! Get your coats,” he ordered. “We're going to get chickens.”

  In Paco’s Range Rover, Joe and I exchanged furtive glances. Where were we going to keep chickens? The chicken shed in the orchard had been demolished for firewood. And houses were to be built on the orchard anyway. How do you look after chickens? Did we really want chickens?

  The chicken shop was not what I expected. It displayed every type of cage, hutch, animal feed, mule harness, animal antibiotics and pet paraphernalia imaginable. First we chose a water dispenser and feeder. Then Paco spoke to the assistant who unlocked a long barn. Racks of wire cages were stacked high, each small cage housing about five frightened young chickens. The noise and stench was overpowering. Suddenly the outing had become less of a buying trip and more of a rescue mission. Save some chickens from this ghastly place.

  “¿Cuantos quieren Ustedes?” asked the assistant. “How many do you want?”

  “Two,” said Joe.

  “Eight,” I said.

  We stood back and let Paco choose them. After all, what did we know about chickens? The assistant reached into the cages and grabbed the chickens that Paco selected. Each chicken was held upside down by its feet and handed over. Paco checked them over, felt their crops expertly, then stuffed them squawking and flapping into the cardboard box provided by the assistant. Six brown chickens and two white.

  “They'll never get eight into that tiny box,” I muttered to Joe.

  But they did. The assistant taped the box shut then produced a wicked looking penknife with which he viciously stabbed the box.

  “Air holes,” he explained, but I was convinced we would be taking home shredded chicken. They were unharmed, but it reminded me of the stage magic trick where swords are apparently passed through glamorous assistants.

  Back in the orchard, Paco pulled his woolly hat off and scratched his head when he saw Alonso’s chicken shed had gone.

  “Qué pasa?” he asked, reproach in his eyes. “What happened to the chicken shed?”

  “We burnt it,” said Joe. “We used it for firewood.”

  “Pah!” said Paco and shook his head in disapproval. But he was not a man to be beaten by a little thi
ng like no chicken shed.

  Ever resourceful, he dragged over some old doors and leaned them up under the corrugated asbestos roof that was still supported by uprights. There was plenty of chicken wire lying about which he fashioned into a closed-in run secured by bits of wire. He found a stick and fixed it horizontally as a roosting perch.

  Time to release the girls. Without ceremony, he emptied the cardboard box and eight chickens slid out to stand stock still like a bizarre waxwork display, frozen on the spot.

  “They've never been outside before,” I said quietly. “They've never seen the sky. Or grass. Or earth.”

  Joe nodded. It was a moving moment. Gradually, life flowed back into the eight chickens and they began to explore their new world. Jerky little steps were taken, the ground unfamiliar between their toes. They found the feeder and fed furiously. They took sips of water, tipping their heads back to allow the water to run down their throats. They tasted the grass and picked at tiny specks on the ground. They flapped their wings and stretched - all new luxuries.

  “They won't lay eggs for a couple of months,” said Paco. “You will need to give them a box to lay in.” He left us to it, amused at our rapture.

  All work that day was forgotten. We pulled up the old yellow vinyl sofa from Alonso's rubbish pile and just sat and watched. It was fascinating. All the chicken cliches we had ever heard suddenly came to life. The ‘Top Hen’ emerged quickly, one of the white chickens. Bolder than the rest, she pecked anyone who annoyed her and the others treated her with great respect. The ‘pecking order’ was established. We named her Mala Leche, meaning bad milk, a Spanish insult.

  ‘As rare as hen’s teeth’ became clear when we discovered the girls couldn’t manage dry bread. Being ‘chicken’ became clear, too, observing Mala’s conquests. If a sister annoyed her, she would attack mercilessly causing her victim to cower low. The cringing chicken didn’t attempt to escape, just crouched and endured her whacking until Mala got bored and strutted away.