Two Old Fools in Spain Again (14 page)
Joe strained his back, so much of the decorating rested on my shoulders. He also managed to scrape his knees when kneeling on the roof, bruise his thumb by trapping it under a plank of wood and gash his finger changing a light bulb.
Yes, everything looked wonderful, ready for the summer, except for the chicken house. The chicken house was badly in need of sprucing up and we still had an unopened tub of paint. Joe pulled the lid off and we stared at the paint in dismay.
“That doesn’t look right,” I said. “It looks pink!”
“Just needs a stir,” Joe said and tapped the lid closed.
16. A Sandwich
‘Your baby is now the size of a small pineapple and all five senses are in working order.’
B
uying paint in Spain is not difficult as there is very little demand for any colour except white. Having an old, traditional house, we were very happy to follow our neighbours’ example and paint everything white. It always looked fresh and there were never any colour-matching issues.
When we removed the lid of the last 5-gallon tub of paint, Joe grabbed a stick and started stirring. Much to our surprise, it still looked pink.
“Perhaps it’s just separated,” Joe said, stirring even more energetically.
“It’s most definitely pink,” I said glumly.
And the more he stirred, the pinker it became.
“Well, I’ve had enough,” grumbled Joe. “I’m
not
going down the mountain to buy more paint. The chickens will just have to put up with a pink house.”
I opened my mouth to argue but something unexpected stopped me in my tracks. A small tractor was passing our house, heading for the farmland above. That wasn’t unusual. These reliable little work-horses were a familiar sound as they chugged up the steep hill past our back gate, pulling trailers carrying farming paraphernalia and produce. But the next event was unusual.
CRASH!
Startled, our chickens shrilled their alarm call while Joe and I froze, listening. After the initial crash we heard a series of loud thuds, then rolling sounds, followed by the tractor braking, then a torrent of Spanish curses. After a brief pause, the tractor continued on its way with the farmer’s curses fading as he turned the corner at the top of the road. Joe and I opened our back gate to look outside.
It was a scene of carnage. Red juice splatted the street and shattered watermelons lay strewn around, all jagged edges and pink glistening flesh. The tailgate of the farmer’s trailer must have dropped and his load of watermelons had escaped, bouncing and rolling down the mountain road.
Melon shards
Joe and I gaped at the mess, then silently collected all the undamaged watermelons, rolling them into a pile for the farmer to collect when he returned. As for the huge shards of damaged watermelons, we knew who would appreciate them. As we daubed pink paint on their house, our chickens feasted on watermelon.
Our first visitor, my niece Becky, arrived. She offered to help paint the chicken house, which was very kind of her. Except there was a problem. Becky was absolutely terrified of the chickens.
“They won’t hurt you,” I said, “they’re really gentle.”
Becky was brave, but the painting session was a noisy one. Every time a chicken got too close, she’d shriek and make a dash for the gate.
Nevertheless, the chicken house was eventually painted. Surprisingly, the finished job looked rather good, if a little, um … pink. Some of the chickens had pink streaks where they’d rubbed against the wet paint, but they soon wore off.
We learnt a lesson from the experience. When buying paint, always check, then double-check that the label says
blanco
, not
arcilla
.
Arcilla
actually means ‘clay’ but, I promise you, it’s pink. Very pink.
Before visitors arrived, they often asked if they could bring anything for us from England, items that we couldn’t purchase in Spain. We usually asked the Gin Twins to bring bayonet-type light bulbs as the Spanish screw-in type didn’t fit our English light fittings. We asked niece Becky to bring Italian seasoning as we missed our spaghetti bolognese.
“Do you have any requests?” I asked Joe as our latest batch of visitors were preparing to fly out.
“Yes! I’ve been craving bacon. Can you ask them to bring a few packs?”
Delicious serrano ham and all kinds of wonderful pork products are easy to buy in Spain, but good old English sausages and bacon are impossible to find. Of course, during our year’s stay in Muslim Bahrain, pork hadn’t been on sale at all. I estimated we hadn’t tasted bacon for at least 10 years. I hadn’t missed it at all, but it seemed that Joe had suddenly developed a hankering for it.
“I can’t stop thinking about bacon,” Joe said with a dreamy look in his eye. “I’m fantasising about it. I can almost smell it.”
“No worries, I’ll ask them to bring some.”
Our visitors arrived and so did three packs of bacon. Joe thanked our friends but as soon as they’d left the room, he started complaining.
“Only three? They brought only three packs? Don’t they realise I’ve been suffering terrible bacon withdrawal symptoms?”
“Don’t be so ungrateful. It was kind of them to bring any at all.”
“Well, don’t plan any bacon-based meals while they’re here. I want to save this little lot until after they’ve gone. I’m hiding this.”
True to his word, he tucked them away at the back of the fridge behind the sauces and ketchups that were seldom moved.
We enjoyed our friends’ stay but as we took them back to the airport, I felt Joe’s impatience.
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked as we drove home. “Why are you driving so fast?”
“No reason.”
“Yes, there is. Something’s on your mind, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Joe drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel, feigning nonchalance.
“Come on, what’s on your mind?”
“Well, if you must know, I’m planning a sandwich.”
“You’re what? You’re planning a …
sandwich?
”
“Yep, we’re going to stop at the supermarket and I’m going to buy some fresh bread, lettuce and tomatoes. I’ve been dreaming about this. I’m going to make the best bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich in the world.”
Back in our kitchen, Joe unpacked his purchases and laid them out. Then he reached for a pack of bacon, running his fingers over the smooth, cold plastic before snipping it open with scissors.
“Now, don’t interfere, I’m making this myself. I’ve been rehearsing it in my mind for days. You don’t want one, do you?”
“No, thanks, I’ll just make myself a coffee.”
Joe lit the hob and heated a little oil in the frying pan. He peeled several slices of bacon out of the pack and laid them lovingly into the hot oil where they sizzled. Humming to himself, he poked them gently with a spatula, moving them around a little.
“I’d forgotten how good bacon smells when it’s cooking,” I said.
“Don’t think you’re getting any of this, you’re too late. I offered and you said no. This is all for me.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t want any of your wretched bacon.”
Joe was in a world of his own as he carried on with his preparations. He pulled off a few choice leaves from the iceberg lettuce and sliced a tomato with surgeon-like precision. Then he cut the freshly baked bread, still warm from the bakery.
The scene was set. The BLT was almost ready.
“Stop staring at me, you’re putting me off.”
“Sorry, I can’t help it,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve never seen you so engrossed in making a sandwich.”
Joe spooned and spread mayonnaise on the bread and laid out the bright tomato slices evenly, topping them with the crispy lettuce. Then, with a flourish, he placed the bacon slices on top, finishing off with another slice of bread. I had to admit it, it did look good.
He stood back and stared at the sandwich waiting on the plate.
“What a sandwich,” he whispered. “Not so much a sandwich as a work of art.”
“Well, go on then, eat it!”
“Not yet, I need to take a photo of it first.”
Having snapped it from all angles, he went to put the camera away.
“Don’t you dare touch it while I’m gone.”
“Huh! I value my life too much.”
When he returned, he stared at the sandwich again.
“Are you going to eat it now?” I asked.
“Yes, but there’s no rush. This sandwich was made with love. It’s probably the best sandwich in the world. You can’t rush these things.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, just eat it!”
But he couldn’t. He’d invested too much into that sandwich. It was just too beautiful to eat.
Having circled it a few times, he finally picked up the plate.
“This sandwich deserves to be savoured. I want to be alone when I eat it.”
I rolled my eyes, exasperated. “Oh, for goodness’ sake! Do whatever you want. I’m going to get some writing done.”
I left the room to allow him to continue his love affair with the sandwich in peace. An hour or so later, I went back into the kitchen.
“How was the sandwich?” I asked, but the kitchen was empty. There was no sign of Joe or the sandwich.
I went out into the garden. Joe was nowhere to be seen. I went up the outside staircase and found him on the roof terrace, fast asleep on the sunlounger, the empty plate still in his hands.
“Joe?”
He woke up with a start and sat upright.
“How was the sandwich?”
He looked at me, then stared at the empty plate.
“I never ate it!”
“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.
“I just sat down and stared at it. I was imagining biting into it and deciding which end to start. I wanted to savour every second. I guess I must have fallen asleep.”
“So where is it?”
We both looked down at the floor. There was the sandwich. Well, most of it. The once glorious sandwich had fallen apart and the tomato slices had tumbled out and were already covered in ants. The creamy mayonnaise had disappeared, melted into the bread. The lettuce was limp and wilted from lying in the sun.
And where was the bacon?
Gone.
“Cats,” I said, picking up the mess and putting it back on the plate.
“Blasted cats!” said Joe furiously. “I can’t believe it! The cats sneaked up and stole my bacon while I was asleep!”
“If you had just eaten the stupid sandwich instead of worshipping it, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“I can’t believe I never even tasted it!”
I made Joe (and myself) another BLT. Joe maintained it wasn’t anywhere near as beautiful as the first one, but this time he didn’t hesitate before eating it. We both agreed it was delicious.
The phone rang very early one morning. I immediately knew who it was as my daughter had told me that she had a hospital visit scheduled. They were hoping to discover the gender of the baby.
“Mum, it’s me!”
“Hi, Karly, good to hear you. Did you find out?”
“Yep! It’s a little girl! We are going to have a daughter!”
“Oh my! I’m going to have a granddaughter! Does that mean you’re going to stop calling her Wolfgang or Grug now?”
How did the poor little unborn mite get saddled with those names?
“Yep, we’ve got to start looking at names properly. The hospital says everything is going according to plan and the baby is the right size and everything.”
“Oh good, that’s great news. And your due date is still early August?”
“Yes. Cam’s parents are going to fly down from Sydney and stay a while when the baby is born.”
“Okay and I’ll book my flight. I think you’ll have lots of help in those first couple of weeks and Cam will have time off work to be with you. I’ll come over in the first week of September. Can’t wait!”