we found this little guy (yes, we know it's a guy; he's clearly defined as such) tossed next to our dumpster this week. the poor baby had been marked up - - probably with every pen its household of origin contained; he was a wreck. we pulled him out - - he's such a nice size and shape, and doesn't have hair (I'm strangely, strongly opinionated about hair on dolls) - - hoping that his markings would come off with a good scrubbing. I've tried a variety of cleaning solutions and, while he looks better, the majority of the markings refuse to go. I have a feeling that he will make his way into the bag that goes next week to our local second hand shop (count on a Spanish woman to know an ink-removing trick that I don't!)

the cheeky cheese guy

we trekked down to Pamplona's farmer's market on Sunday morning.
I asked the cheese guy if I could try some cheese. "oh yes" he told me "you can try it - - and you are going to love it!"
we did try it, and we did love it; and we came home with a pound of artisan castilian sheep cheese.

Joshua likes to throw parties. you did know that about him, right? If you didn't, it's probably important that you do - - it's an essential part of who he is. I assure you, if you haven't been invited to one of his parties yet, there is a good chance that you will be; just hang around us long enough . . .
the first Joshua party I attended was perhaps the one headed up by his roommate Bill Clifton in College - -space lounge 2o10; they lined their entire room with tin foil and make made their guests sign a guest book with their planet of origin; and then there was his 25th birthday superhero party; we had Robin, Super girl, Wonder Woman, Poison Ivy, the Hulk, Mr. Furious, Spock (Spock? Spock?! you have to admit, Frank, Spock isn't really a superhero) show up to that one. And October, 2001 - - our Invasion of the Body Snatchers party - - guests had to come dressed as someone else they knew. March 2006 - - birthday again - - this time golden tickets went out, and a special request for guests to bring a something to eat that looked like something that should not be eaten. It's possible that the the Willy-Wonka trivia went a little bit long . . . but you should have seen the food! ah yes! you should have seen the food . . . there was everything from pretzel butterflies to an entire living room made of cheese and sausage!

So tomorrow we (Joshua, really, is the mastermind behind it, of course) throw another party.
At this party, titled Beloved Ecuador (because all really good parties have titles, you know), we will celebrate the roots of our Ecuadorian friends Jaime and Miriam, and prepare and eat Ecuadorian food and then watch End of the Spear
tomorrow morning I will go for a coffee and see who I run into; Maybe Ana and Miguel might want to join us . . . we'll invite them . . .

on raising boys in Spain

So. the June Cleaver of Spain doesn't have chocolate chip cookies and a glass of ice cold milk waiting for her boy when he comes home from school;
It has come to my attention recently that the Spanish mom that's really on top of it greets her boy at the end of his school day with a fat bocadillo de chorizo (that's right - - a piece of nice crusty baguette with a few slices of our favorite cured pork sausage tucked insde).
I'm slowly figuring these things out; it's hard work learning how to be a perfect mama in two cultures.

paella - - the way we like it

well, to break the monotony of the "gee! my kids are so terribly clever and cute and, don't they say the darndest things?" blog entries, I figured I would dish you all up some culinary inspiration with a paella recipe
Like a good gazpacho recipe, a good paella recipe is never exactly like any other Spanish woman's recipe - - you throw in bits of this and that, and you have a little secret something that you add in to make it your very own - - superb to any other paella about town. but not me; nope, uh-uuuuh. I got this Paella recipe from Janet Davis (she and her family were missionaries in Zaragoza, Spain when we first came to Spain) and I'm not changing it. it's perfect the way she gave it to me. It's not the most traditional Paella recipe you may come across, but it is our favorite (and it may very well become yours!)

in a paella pan (or a large shallow saucepan that can go stove-top as well as oven) fry the following in a bit of olive oil:
three boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into thirds, salted and peppered and browned just slightly. (take out of pan and set aside)
one diced red pepper - - sauteed until just soft (take out of pan and set aside)
1/2 link of Spanish chorizo (buy it, along with any other of your authentic Spanish food needs, here), cut into rounds and just barely browned (take out of pan and set aside)

in the same pan, add:
1/4 c. olive oil
one can of diced tomatoes
2c. fresh or frozen green beans (preferably flat) cut into 2 inch strips
a couple of sprigs of fresh rosemary
a few cloves of garlic, diced
a teaspoon or so of salt
cook this up for about five minutes and add:
1.5 c. short grain rice
the set aside peppers
the set aside chorizo
with a wooden spoon, smooth the top of the rice mixture and press the chicken pieces into it. pour 3 c. boiling chicken broth over the top. do not stir. cook on medium heat for about 15 minutes, and then place into a preheated 350 degree oven for another 15 minutes. cover with a clean dishtowel and let sit for 10 minutes. serve it up with lemon wedges, a crusty baguette, and a nice Spanish salad (it's easy - - lettuce, tomato wedges, sweet onion wedges and green olives - - dressed with extra virgin olive oil, vinegar, and salt.)
sigh.
perfect.

in Spanish, there are two ways to relate an event:
there are cuentos - - stories (the fictional kind)
and there are historias - - histories (you know, the true kind)
I like it; I like that in a world where the distinction between the real and the imaginary is too often muddied, there exists a way to differentiate between the two - - that within the vocabulary itself, I'm offered the possibility to tell my boys the STORY of how Jack slew the giant (uuuhhhh . . . althoughI have to admit that in my version Jack doesn't actually slay the giant, he returns good for evil, and wins the giant over to be a dear friend . .. I'm a dork, I know . . . ) and the HISTORY of how David slew the giant Goliath.
It's nice, don't you think?

on a different, though possibly equally important, note - - I think I'm becoming an old woman.
I like blue cheese
I like walnuts
I like blue cheese and walnuts together.
growing old is actually kind of pleasant.

on raising boys in Spain

I was cleaning out the closets this afternoon (nothing like the prospect of summer house guests to get me going) and overhead Malachai . . .
"papa! sabias que Agata se monto siete veces en el tiovivo?
Joshua: "hey, try saying that again, but in English!"
Malachai "did you know that Agata got to ride siete times . . . uh, how do you say siete in English?
Joshua: "seven"
Malachai "did you know that Agata got to ride seven times on the . . . uh, how do you say tiovivo in English?
Joshua: "merry-go-round"
Malachai: "did you know that Agata got to ride seven times on the merry-go-round?"

ahhhh . . . the few months we have planned in the States this summer will do my boy well.

It's understated . . . .

he's making her do the "YMCA"
she loves it.

It's snowing today.
Not the glorious run-out-and-make-snow-angels sort of snow; it varies between slushy mush and hail.

two days ago were lying in the grass - - a gentle spring breeze blowing the pink blossoms off the trees (see, here's a picture of my own little pink blossom to prove it - - and the hat really wasn't even necessary - - it was just extra precaution)
and it was good to be outside. it was good because that was where everyone else was, and our quick trip to the park ended up lasting a couple more hours than we though it would - - because we saw Amaya and her husband Jesus,
and Amaya introduced us to her mom,
and then then Jesus introduced us to his older sister,
and then to his younger sister Maite and her husband and kids
and we talked about all sorts of things - - both trivial and significant
and they mapped out a tour of Navarra for us - - outlining what towns we should visit and what food we should eat, and then they promised to take us by the hand and take us there themselves on some sunny Saturday afternoon (or day, rather; there were a lot of towns on that list)

it was a beautiful afternoon
but the abuelo was right when he told us that morning that is wasn't good for the trees to be blossoming because it was going to snow . . .

"thanks be to God!" Malachai told me today as we walked to school "the rug in the living room was clean when I woke up this morning!"
um. I guess I should do a better job vacuuming on a regular basis.

On that note, this past week as I was cleaning my living room and noticing the scratches on my wood floor, the chocolate smeared on the arm of my white (yes, purchased before kids . . . but it had a zipper up the back and I thought that I would be able to actually take off the cover to wash it.) armchair, and the black crayon mark that mysteriously appeared on the wall behind the couch one Sunday afternoon . . I was reminded how GOOD it is to be surrounded by these traces of life - - of my Malachai and Josu, and of all those who have come into our home and eaten and played and lived with us; and as I think about it in this way, these marks actually become endearing! (um, not so endearing, though, that I'm not going to give that spit-up encrusted onto my couch a good scrubbing)

Where no oxen are, the manger is clean,
but much revenue comes by the strength of the ox
Proverbs 14:4

Grandpa used to clip our nails; I think it was his way of caring for his crazy grandkids that would cross over the Mexican border with half of Mexico's dirt under their fingernails. He would clip and say "snipp, snapp, snurr" as he went along; I wondered how it was possible to ALWAYS end on a perfectly rounded snurr. weird. how could my nails always need clipping in fractions of three?

I didn't clip any nails today. all three of my kids probably could have used a good nail clipping, but I didn't clip.

we did make butter though, and read about . . . well . . . Snipp, Snapp and Snurr (see, it does all fit together), and how they coaxed the sun to peak his head out from behind the clouds and smile his sunniest smile, so that the grass would grow, so that Uncle Freddie could feed it to Blossom the cow, so that Aunt Annie could milk her, so that mother could make butter to spread on the fresh baked bread.

It went off even better than I expected - - didn't take too long for my (less than dedicated) Malachai to shake that cream into buttery goodness, AND he was thrilled to eat bread and (he made it himself - - woo-hoo!) butter. We'll do it again. in fact, I think it would be a perfect thing to invite a four year old friend along to do it with us. maybe even two.

Joy in my today:

breakfast with the church
and hearing Malachai ask - - "when is the church coming over?"

You've probably heard us talk about this before - - that we are challenged with the idea that we are subtly influenced with the way we use our words. (seriously, we rant on and on about this, so if you've heard it before, go ahead - - glaze over, skim to the bottom of this post, and just write a nice comment with the time you would have spent reading and deeply contemplating this post) for example, if we say we are "going to church" enough times, eventually, it's quite possible that "church" becomes someplace we go instead of something that we are and live and love! Yes, yes, I know that a proper understanding of Christ's church goes far beyond a mere grammatical reshuffling, but it seems a good place to start, and so, as a family, we have taken to differentiating between the church (a group of people who follow Jesus) and a building in which that church meets.
so there you have it - - this next week, as you are getting dressed on Sunday morning, or as you load into the car on Thursday night to head over to the Pue's cozy apartment for dinner and LOST, tell yourself that you are "going to be with the church". Come on now, humor me; give it a go!

in the newspaper today

Child obesity in Europe: Spain ranks number three on the highest percentage charts.

possibly even more important, Pau Gasol - - Spain's claim to fame in the NBA has been traded to the Los Angeles Lakers. contact Joshua for more details.

Spaniards do this really well

unisex baby clothes.
they usually come in sherberty colors - - greens, oranges, yellows . . .
While this is wonderfully practical (think - -easy transfer from your first baby girl to your second baby boy, or easy gift stock up for all the pregnant ladies in the neighborhood when you can't remember who's expecting a baby girl and who's expecting a baby boy), it can also be terribly confusing; just this past week, I mistook a baby boy dressed in peach for a baby girl (Arg! why didn't I check for earrings?!)
When Selma was born I scored this cream unisex outfit from my neighbor/friend Maite. Sooooo . . . if you like it, and are expecting either a girl OR a boy, let me know and I will set it aside for you (see, practical, huh?)
p.s. look, mom! Selma is wearing the little hat you knit for her! doesn't it do a nice job giving her outfit a feminine touch?

Malachai, on brown rice:

it's like rice candy!

the one in which Selma gets her passport and I get scolded by an Italian stewardess

we learned our lesson with Malachai - - when you go all the way to the US embassy in Madrid to get a passport for your newborn, don't wait till you get there to try and get passport pictures in the photo booth - - your baby ends up with permanently screaming legal identity.

So this time around, with Selma, we did it right - - we actually went to a photo studio and got her passport picture taken by a pro-fesh-o-nal. yep. it was perfect. she was facing the camera straight on, here eyes were open, there were no parent hands or shoulders sticking in the picture, all six already pre-cut to passport size . it was perfect.

well, we showed up to the US embassy with the perfect picture, and apparently, standard Spanish passport photos are smaller than US standard size passport photos. so off we trudged to the infamous photo booth. here's what we got:
we actually used that passport as we traveled last week, and had no problems making it through passport controls (probably because she was crying as we went through most of them, and she looked just like her photo).

Selma's socks came off as we made a plane change in the toasty warm Milan Airport , and before we reboarded I searched my pockets for her socks. (five years in Europe has taught me enough to know that I shouldn't be too long in public with a sockless baby) I checked all my pockets; no socks. They ushered us down the walkway into the airplane (Joshua doesn't have the socks, Rachel doesn't have the socks . . . ) There was the stylish little Italian stewardess welcoming us all onto the airplane - - and I didn't didn't understand a word she said, but I know perfectly well I was chastised for my sweet baby's cold feet.

a trip downdtown and public transportation evangelism with a four year old

we took the bus to (and from) downtown this afternoon. On the way home our bus slammed on its brakes to avoid hitting a pedestrian and consequently hit another vehicle. we all unloaded from the bus and squeezed into the one that was behind us - - and there we all stood, with our shoulders pressed into each others backs, eyes averted, trying to have as little contact as we possibly could with the stranger beside us.

and then my sweet Malachai begins to work his magic . . .
"my mama is from California" he announces to the hostile crowd "but not me! I'm from Spain!"
the crowd begins to soften . . .
"what's your name?" someone asks
"Malachai Elijah - - I was named after a prophet, you know. BUT I'm not a prophet, nope. "
"oh no?"
"Elijah was a prophet that had to run away from an evil king, and then God sent birds to bring him bread; ha, ha! can you believe it!?"

We chose Malachai's name because it means "My messenger", and we pray regularly that God will use our Malachai to proclaim his truth to the world around him.

I don't know, my little man, I don't know . . . you may be a prophet after all (a little "p" prophet, mind you!! but a prophet nonetheless!)

we had our first snow flurries last night; for some reason this strangely excites me (is that just because I have always lived in snowless Mexico, Texas and California? or does that happen to even regular snow dwellers?) And this morning, all snow vanished, we took a family trip to the Malachai's school to make up the parent teacher meeting that I completely forgot about last week (ummm . . . the one in which I was planning to apologize to Clara for slacking in so many of my parent responsibilities this school year). Clara expressed some concern that Malachai was having a hard time sitting and finishing his class work, and she wondered if maybe this was the result of him not attending class in the afternoon. have I mentioned this before? Although most Spanish children attend class from 9-4:30 (with an hour and a half break for lunch), Joshua and I have decided to send our boy to class only in the mornings - - a decision that, although scandalous among teacher and parent alike, the school has permitted us since legally, a child is not required to be escolarizado ("schooled") until he is six years old. Clara has been nudging and prodding towards us bringing Malachai in the afternoon for a while now, and although we still think it best to have him home with us in the afternoons, we did assure her that we will be working with him at home with some more structured activities. This seemed to satisfy Clara . . . and she was gracious about the missed appointment.

on becoming Spanish

remember this?
this bonnet (along with its matching sweater) was one of the treats we pulled out of the bag.
look at my little Spanish baby girl!

On the news tonight . . .

out of every ten Christmas letters written by Spanish children , three are written to Santa Clause, and seven are written to one of the three kings.