Dear Devon,The sudden snowstorm last week caught me by surprise. I found myself wholly unprepared for the onslaught of sleet and wet snow. Tromping around Midtown in a pair of canvas sneakers, I was longing for hot September weekends in the Catalan countryside. It seems almost cruel now to flip through my photos, when out my window, the changing leaves are blowing wildly in the wind.
A few weekends before my departure from Europe, I was fortunate enough to be a guest at a friends’ country home in the Montsant region of Catalonia. The dark green shrubbery and rocky terrain reminded me of the twisty mountainous stretch that winds down to Half Moon Bay in California. The soil, rich in slate, supports a broad spectrum of agriculture from hazelnuts and almonds to peaches and olives. But, the area is probably most famous for its almost endless rows of vines, heavy with clusters of grapes when I arrived in late September.
I have a weakness for small town celebrations. The allure of the annual wine festival was irresistible. Sporting the light tan of a city dweller, I popped out into the unrelenting sun of the country and threw myself into the boozy mix of red wine and heat.The whole town, and neighboring towns, crowded into the narrow streets of the twelve street village of Poboleda. Baskets of raw hazelnuts, bunches of grapes, and porrones filled with wine welcomed visitors and locals alike. A band of twenty or so Priorat-based wineries set up small tasting tables in the stone archways that lined the central arteries of town. After a few glasses of wine, the crisp mountain water from the town fountain was a welcome relief in the 90 degree heat. The morning’s festivities concluded with a late lunch: a large paella (it fed over 500 people) and green salad.
The rest of the weekend was spent in relative tranquility. In the morning, we enjoyed a filling breakfast of hot chocolate and pastry before heading out to the family vegetable garden. Soon, baskets loaded with freshly harvested beans, tomatoes, beets, lettuces, carrots and squash found their way into the trunk of the car. I wandered off to gather blackberries which grew in a tangle of thorns and thin branches along the banks of the creek.
My visit ended with the weekly Sunday lunch at a friend’s mother’s table. She had prepared a spectacular assortment of finger foods followed by three courses of rustic country home cooking with vegetables grown in her garden and meat hunted by her husband.
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