I nearly touched a cloud today. After yet another nauseating busride up the Sierra Nevadas, I-along with 25 other foreign students from various schools-climbed up to the highest pueblo in Spain. Capileira has only 580 inhabitants, who are about as sturdy as the rocks we had to climb. The town was oddly quiet, and we only saw a few of the locals. A little boy playing with a glove tied to a stick, a very elderly woman stooped over her cane, silently climbing the stones we were all complaining about.
Capileira was truly something out of a movie. The smallest walkways I had ever seen were made smaller by a tiny stream cutting through the middle. We walked on either side, hanging on for dear life to the walls of the adjacent homes. The water comes right from the Sierra Nevadas, and the constant movement makes it easy for the locals to dispose of anything they please with a single toss….
Homes made from mountain rocks and wood were painted white to reflect the sun in the summer, and also to kill any bugs that might be living in materials. Truly a staggering effect when you see a tiny village carved in to the mountain. But my favorite architectural aspect was the chimenea. Roofs here are flat, and the conical shaped chimeneas frame your view of the hills. The resemble little homes themselves, with rounded tops and little windows for vents…Potted plants of purple, yellow, pink and red are everywhere, blooming their best before the big freeze.. Now I know why the streets are so zig-zagged-better to block that winter wind from zipping down the street. I was freezing today, and I can only imagine when the snow hits.
We also visited Trevelez, and here’s where my ham story begins. Do NOT read further if you are a vegetarian. Ham has never been my favorite, nor will it ever be after standing in a refrigerated warehouse with 90,000 piggy legs dangling from the ceiling. Our tour guide Jose warned us, especially me since I was American and therefore more “sensitive to such smells,” that what we were about to see and…smell….would be overwhelming. I blanched, thinking of how I get queasy from the scent of the cold cut counter.
When Jose swung open the huge metal door, the warm aroma of HAM hit me smack in the face. Ok, time to breath through the mouth. This is not “Mom’s ham out of the oven at Christmas” smell. It’s a bit more like, “smells about as raw as it looks” smell. So, the first thing I notice is the big sign that says, “All workers must wear boots and gloves upon entry.” Why didn’t we have to wear those things? Also, where was everybody who worked with these ham hocks? I was half expecting Spanish oompa loompas to start singing about the benefits of pork.
No explanation, just straight on to a creepy room where pig legs were stacked in mountains of salt. Our shoes sloshed in what I really hope was water and salt…..After a quick explanation of a strange machine that removes all the blood, hair etc-GROSS-we then went to the hall of HAM. 90,000 to be exact, all hanging with hooves intact. The ones with black hooves or Pata Negra, is Jamon Iberico, the white hooves, Jamon Serrano. I can’t taste the difference…..But just like a wine sommeliers, jamon inspectors-I don’t know the fancy term- are a finicky bunch. With one sniff, they can tell if a ham leg is a bit off. The ones that are not fit to be eaten are taken to a valley and burned. Seriously. Ironically, there is no fire or cooking involved in the Spanaird’s beloved ham. That’s why the place is called a Secadoro-seca mean dry. So the secret formula is lots of salt, dry mountain air and I suppose, lots of three legged pigs limping around. That was a joke, because here’s another icky part.
The natural fat from the pig seals everything in with a yellow layer. That same fat is on the floor, and seemingly in the air. To make matters worse the tour guide kept touching the ham, therefore leaving a slimy film on his hands that seriously made me a bit ill. We all slipped and skidded across a floor that can only be described as walking on a thin layer of Karo syrup. DOUBLE GROSS. And here’s the kicker-the tour guide said we should be thankful because the “ham people” let us in, and they weren’t allowed to be there because they “couldn’t know” that we were inside. Huh? Sounds sketchy and very unsanitary to me. And why, why, why did the German girls keep blowing their noses in there???
I hope I haven’t made anyone ill with this entry. But just think of me! Surrounded here by EVERYTHING ham-flavored. Ham in my sandwiches 4 out of 7 days in a week, ham flavored potato chips, ham on bread for breakfast….I might get a pet pig just for the hell of it….and how will I ever sing, “This little piggy went to the market” to children?
Capileira was truly something out of a movie. The smallest walkways I had ever seen were made smaller by a tiny stream cutting through the middle. We walked on either side, hanging on for dear life to the walls of the adjacent homes. The water comes right from the Sierra Nevadas, and the constant movement makes it easy for the locals to dispose of anything they please with a single toss….
Homes made from mountain rocks and wood were painted white to reflect the sun in the summer, and also to kill any bugs that might be living in materials. Truly a staggering effect when you see a tiny village carved in to the mountain. But my favorite architectural aspect was the chimenea. Roofs here are flat, and the conical shaped chimeneas frame your view of the hills. The resemble little homes themselves, with rounded tops and little windows for vents…Potted plants of purple, yellow, pink and red are everywhere, blooming their best before the big freeze.. Now I know why the streets are so zig-zagged-better to block that winter wind from zipping down the street. I was freezing today, and I can only imagine when the snow hits.
We also visited Trevelez, and here’s where my ham story begins. Do NOT read further if you are a vegetarian. Ham has never been my favorite, nor will it ever be after standing in a refrigerated warehouse with 90,000 piggy legs dangling from the ceiling. Our tour guide Jose warned us, especially me since I was American and therefore more “sensitive to such smells,” that what we were about to see and…smell….would be overwhelming. I blanched, thinking of how I get queasy from the scent of the cold cut counter.
When Jose swung open the huge metal door, the warm aroma of HAM hit me smack in the face. Ok, time to breath through the mouth. This is not “Mom’s ham out of the oven at Christmas” smell. It’s a bit more like, “smells about as raw as it looks” smell. So, the first thing I notice is the big sign that says, “All workers must wear boots and gloves upon entry.” Why didn’t we have to wear those things? Also, where was everybody who worked with these ham hocks? I was half expecting Spanish oompa loompas to start singing about the benefits of pork.
No explanation, just straight on to a creepy room where pig legs were stacked in mountains of salt. Our shoes sloshed in what I really hope was water and salt…..After a quick explanation of a strange machine that removes all the blood, hair etc-GROSS-we then went to the hall of HAM. 90,000 to be exact, all hanging with hooves intact. The ones with black hooves or Pata Negra, is Jamon Iberico, the white hooves, Jamon Serrano. I can’t taste the difference…..But just like a wine sommeliers, jamon inspectors-I don’t know the fancy term- are a finicky bunch. With one sniff, they can tell if a ham leg is a bit off. The ones that are not fit to be eaten are taken to a valley and burned. Seriously. Ironically, there is no fire or cooking involved in the Spanaird’s beloved ham. That’s why the place is called a Secadoro-seca mean dry. So the secret formula is lots of salt, dry mountain air and I suppose, lots of three legged pigs limping around. That was a joke, because here’s another icky part.
The natural fat from the pig seals everything in with a yellow layer. That same fat is on the floor, and seemingly in the air. To make matters worse the tour guide kept touching the ham, therefore leaving a slimy film on his hands that seriously made me a bit ill. We all slipped and skidded across a floor that can only be described as walking on a thin layer of Karo syrup. DOUBLE GROSS. And here’s the kicker-the tour guide said we should be thankful because the “ham people” let us in, and they weren’t allowed to be there because they “couldn’t know” that we were inside. Huh? Sounds sketchy and very unsanitary to me. And why, why, why did the German girls keep blowing their noses in there???
I hope I haven’t made anyone ill with this entry. But just think of me! Surrounded here by EVERYTHING ham-flavored. Ham in my sandwiches 4 out of 7 days in a week, ham flavored potato chips, ham on bread for breakfast….I might get a pet pig just for the hell of it….and how will I ever sing, “This little piggy went to the market” to children?
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