Stuff I eat: Rabo de toro

I'm going to keep citing Anthony Bourdain until I run out of references. His quotes are like strings of sometimes-vulgar-but-always-poignant poetry: “That without experimentation, a willingness to ask questions and try new things, we shall surely become static, repetitive, moribund.” It's with that Bourdain-inspired mindset that I've tried blood sausage, pig ears, liver and...

Source

Name: Rabo de toro

Translation: Oxtail (the name used to refer to the tail of an actual ox, but it seems to have stuck even though what is served presently is the tail of cows and steers.)

So what is it exactly? Just what it sounds like. It's a traditional dish in Cordoba, served with the meat on the tail bone and bits of solidified fat. From what I'm told, it's traditionally seasoned with garlic, onion and vegetables to form a sort of stew. I tried it (for the second time) at a traditional Cordobese restaurant, assuming that if it was going to be life-alteringly delicious anywhere in Spain, it'd be there.

Where I ate it: Cordoba, Spain

Before trying it, I was thinking...: "I'm all for parts conservation and getting the most out of a slaughtered animal, but this really doesn't look good."

Texture: The meat is extremely tender and moist, and that's typically one of the dish's most lauded qualities. No chewing is required. Normally tenderness is the mark of a good cut, but I found oxtail to be so tender that it lost substance and so moist it bordered on slimy. (Keep in mind this is based entirely on my unenlightened culinary opinion. Many people love this dish.)

Taste: From what I could taste of the meager amount of meat on the bones, the meat was similar in taste to ribs (again, I warn you of my untrained palate). You're thinking, "Teresa, ribs are delicious." You're right, but the potential deliciousness of oxtail, which I think of as rump roast's ugly cousin, was drowned out by off-putting texture and yellow gelatinous fat.

Verdict: I wouldn't order oxtail in a restaurant because it'd cost me an hour's worth of private English lessons, and I'd rather spend that 10 to 15 euros on blood sausage or squid in ink than on oxtail. However, if someone else was paying, or if I was a guest in someone's home, I'd eat it again without quarrel.

Adventures in teaching

Kids say the darnedest things, and even more so in a foreign language. Sometimes my students' questions and/or comments catch me entirely by surprise, and I have to maintain composure while I think about how I'm going to address *insert taboo topic here*. Every day is an adventure. As an auxiliar, my job is as much to teach the English language as it is to teach the way we use the language (and the way we don't use the language.)

In a recent class with 14-year-olds, we were reading a news story about Samoa Air's charge-by-passenger-weight ticket policy. We were debating about fairness, discrimination, obesity, etc. My students kept using the term "fat people," i.e. "fat people have to pay more" or "it's unfair to fat people." I decided to give them a lesson about the intricacies and subtleties of  English (I wrote before about the loose Spanish PC code here): We don't say "fat people," I explained. Instead, we say "overweight," "large," "obese" or "big." This small lesson somehow morphed into a much longer, much more uncomfortable discussion. One student asked what we call "los negros" (black people). I explained that we typically say "African-Americans," which then prompted the "so why do you say 'white' but not 'black'?" follow-up. Good question. I had no sufficient answer. Then a girl asked when we say "n*****." She was 100 percent sincere. I was admittedly shocked and had to think for a bit about how to explain such a delicate word without actually repeating the word. I told them that it's incredibly derogatory and offensive, and I advised them to never, ever, ever use it. "But why do we hear it in music and movies so much then?" Another good question. Another unsatisfactory answer from me.

After all of that, just when I thought I was off the hook, a girl mentioned African immigrants selling sunglasses, watches, ice cream and other goodies on the beach. A student raised his hand and, again 100 percent sincerely, asked if I could explain the difference in pronunciation and meaning between "bitch" and "beach" because he couldn't hear any distinction between the two (I wrote a bit about that here). So, I got the go-ahead from the teacher, and I explained it. What. A. Day.

Here's to students keeping teachers on their toes.

Un saludo,
Teresa

On my decision to stay

I've accepted a position to teach again next year in the province of Cáceres, Extremadura, where I work now. With that said...

No one said following your gut was easy. Constant goodbyes are awful. Distance is awful. Tough decisions are awful. But so is forgoing an opportunity that will change your life out of fear that it will, in fact, change your life. Don't let your dreams be dreams, as they say.

My decision to stay will fray relationships and jeopardize career opportunities I could've taken. I'll waste money I should be saving and postpone the adulthood I should be planning for. I'll miss moments, birthdays and holidays with the people who are most important to me. I'll see cake-smeared nieces and nephews on Facebook and wonder if I should be home watching them evolve from infants to toddlers to schoolchildren. I'll see Husker tailgates and wonder if I should be connecting with old friends, rebuilding bonds naturally strained by distance.  I'll see family photos and wonder if I should be sitting at my grandparents' kitchen table while I can. I'll think about my unworn wedding dress hanging in a closet and wonder if sacrificing a marriage to my very best friend in order to stay here was foresighted or careless. I'll wonder about regrets and everything that was but isn't anymore. And when I leave let again, there will be more tears and more hard-as-hell goodbyes.

I have very little to show for the last six years of my itinerant existence. I have a college degree with honors and a hard-earned résumé that don't necessarily apply to my current pursuit. I own almost nothing, I have meager savings, and I can fold, stuff and Space Bag most of my life into 100 linear inches. What I do have is an email inbox and a blog full of travel dispatches, a Paleolithic computer full of photos and a memory full of characters and chapters.

I really hate "what ifs" and "could've beens," but there'd be no avoiding them next year in Nebraska or Spain. Anthony Bourdain (goodness, I really can't stop quoting him; the man's a machine) said, “[When I die], I will decidedly not be regretting missed opportunities for a good time. My regrets will be more along the lines of a sad list of people hurt, people let down, assets wasted and advantages squandered.” So here's to another year of adventure, discovery, growth and independence in Europe. Here's to another year of being poor, lost and foreign. With that, The Nomad Chronicles continues...

Un saludo,
Teresa