Paella Party

Every day coming home from class, I feel as though “my backbone was just talking to my stomach about food. They tend to stick together when I’m hungry.”

I hope all of you Brian Jacques fans out there can spot a Redwall quote when you see one because that was it. Thank you, Brian Jacques for unnumbered amounts of recycled storylines, transparent clues, and endless recounting of feasts (this is my nostalgia).

Ah, the feasts. Overflowing flagons of berry cordials, plates piled high with scones, and the moles’ famous Turnip ‘n Tater Deeper’n’ever Pie. The selection is vast and the portions boundless (unless a hare happens to be at the table).

A couple weeks ago, my housemates and I shared a traditional meal with our landlady Rosa and her husband Carlo, and though the selection was not quite so vast, the portions were similarly beyond boundless.

Rosa put enough paella on each person’s plate to keep them satisfied until Brain Jacques writes a story in which the bad guys win. And paella is thick stuff, just the kind of food that can almost fill me after a soccer match. It’s a rice dish, and Rosa makes it with seafood (shrimp, mussels, ect.) and vegetables (peas, and green beans, and extremely succulent artichokes).

Mind you, we didn’t eat it until 9 p.m., which is a little late for me—but a very Spanish thing to do—and we had some heavy wine with it—heavy for me anyway. I have very limited drinking abilities. By the end of the night, I didn’t even have room for a scone.