EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJanuary 23, 1999
Huerta Santa Maria
Near Galaroza
Today, the walk to Fuenteheridos takes under an hour. We are walking
briskly. Chucha leads the way.
My father is vibrating. He is ecstatic with his Santa Maria
playground. The greenhouse. The donkey tracks. The birds. The terrier. Carlos can answer
almost any question about this area. Carlos is passionate about the towns in the Sierra.
Mariam is standing in the Inglenook. It is a 7-foot high fireplace with
a neat pile of burning logs in the centre. James joins her. It is not smoky. The smoke
escapes efficiently, funneled into a great chimney. The bar is part of an ancient building
in Fuenteheridos’ main plaza. The floor is cobbled. There is a room, now with tables
and chairs, where they used to keep the animals. Behind the bar is the ensign for one of
Seville’s football teams. Hanging on the plaque is a necklace, with a virgin. She
watches over the team.
The famous Jamon, Pata Negra, hangs from the bar. Mariam says
the best of the Jamon are wild, lean and athletic. These are not fat pigs. The legs
are slim, cured in the skin, tied at the ankle with a small rope, hanging by the dozen now
from every bar in Spain, complete with hoof. Mariam says that Carlos’ father, who is
a heart surgeon, eats one Jamon leg a week. The leg is positioned on a wooden brace, where
it can be sliced and stored, covered with a tea towel when not in use. Carlos’ father
prides himself on how thin he can slice the ham. The thinner the slice, the most tasty.
.JPG)
