Garlic + Grapes + Almonds = YUM

Okay, kids, here´s the next installment in the Cold Soup for Hot Days category: Ajo Blanco.

I first tasted this stuff in Extremadura, at the dining room of the Parador Nacional de Merida -- a swank place indeed, a fine hotel built in a 18th century convent, smack in the middle of the greatest collection of Roman ruins in all of western Europe. (this was back in my travel writer days, when I was eating on someone else´s tab!) When you find food made with almonds that far south in Spain, it´s a safe bet the recipe came down from the Arabs, who occupied the area for a good 700 years or so and brought almonds with them from northern Africa.

When Ajo Blanco is good it´s very, very rich, thick with flavors of nuts and vinegar. When it´s bad it´s insipid. Much depends on the quality and freshness of your ingredients, of course, but this time of year it should not be too hard to get the good stuff.

Make sure you grind everything up very well, and stir it before serving. I think you´re gonna love this!

Ajo Blanco de Almendras y Piñones

1/3 cup blanched almonds
1/3 cup pine nuts (toasting the nuts slightly adds another layer of flavor!)
2 cloves garlic, peeled
1 teaspoon salt
4 slices good-quality white bread, de-crusted
6 tablespoons virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon sherry vinegar
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
4 cups of ice water
5 handfuls of seedless green grapes OR 5 little cubes of honeydew melon
Extra grapes and melon for garnish

Soak the bread in water, then squeeze out the water.
Put almonds, pine nuts, garlic and salt in food processor and grind fine. Add and puree grapes or melon. Add the bread bits and process one at a time, then drizzle in the oil, vinegars, and water. Strain into a bowl. Adjust the vinegar - salt balance. Chill well, and taste again before putting into individual bowls and serving with extra grapes and/or melon balls. 

Makes enough for 6 servings. I always double the recipe.

I think I adapted this recipe from one by Penelope Casas, a wonderful cook and writer who specializes in Spain. But I remember buttonholing the cook at the Parador, too, and he gave up a couple of super recipes... so this might be his. 
Let me know how this turns out for you. It´s a big favorite around here.

Coming Soon to a Table Near You!

One interesting note that´s struck over and over in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom and the Antipodes, is "Spanish food is real spicy, isn´t it?"

Well, no. That´s Mexican food you´re thinking of. Spanish food is another animal entirely. And that animal is probably a pig. Any Spanish eatery worth its salt has at least one great pig´s leg hanging from the rafters or posed hoof-up on the bar. These aren´t the big wet pink slabs we serve up on Sundays. No, these are dry-cured black-foot jamon hams. You eat jamon by the gram, in thin, glistening shavings. It´s barely sweet and not at all piggy or salty. It melts in your mouth, creating more of a sense of touch and texture than a taste... ah, but what a flavor! I understand jamon is now legally imported to the United States, and foodies are taking it to heart. Probably literally. The stuff is Cholesterol City. But what a way to go...

But I did not come here to sing the praises of pork. No! Today after church we spent a good 20 minutes wading through a pile of perfectly ripe vegetables: peeling, slicing, dicing, and grinding up what could be a fine salad into a superb soup. A soup so excellent and unique it has become a national obsession in Spain: Gazpacho.

Gazpacho is HUGE down in the south of Spain, where every fridge has a big jug of the stuff standing by on the top shelf, should tragedy, stress, hunger, or unexpected company strike. Gazpacho is comfort food, a summertime staple: delicious, nutritious, filling, and easy to make and serve. Every mother and grandmother has her own recipe for "Authentic" gazpacho, and claiming that yours is the best is a great way to start a loud discussion.

That said, here is the recipe I use, more or less, to make


The best Expat Gazpacho in Spain

4-inch length of bread cut from a long loaf, de-crusted and set in a bowl of water to soak.
2 pounds very ripe red tomatoes, deseeded and chopped
2 or 3 green peppers, deseeded and chopped (how many depends on how big they are)
1 4-inch cucumber or a couple of pickle-size cukes, peeled and chopped
1 medium sweet onion (Spanish or Vidalia) chopped
3 or 4 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped.

Squeeze the water out of the bread. Put the bread together with all the vegetables in a food processor and liquefy the lot. The kitchen will smell divine. (if you remember, reserve a bit of chopped pepper, tomato, and onion for garnish later on.)

Add:
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons white wine vinegar
2 tablespoons sherry vinegar (MUST-HAVE ingredient, hard to find but worth the search!)
1 cup mild virgin olive oil (drizzle this in slowly at the end to mix well)

Process until smooth, it may require two batches.  Stir in 1 cup of cold water. Test for vinegar/salt/sugar balance, then pour it into a big pitcher and refrigerate for several hours. Stir well and check seasoning again before serving in chilled glasses or bowls, with chopped veg on the side as garnish. You can add another cup of water if you prefer yours thinner.

This makes a good half-gallon of soup. Keep it cold.

No matter what your mama told you, Gazpacho does NOT have tomato juice, hot pepper flakes or Tobasco sauce in it. You (and your mama) are thinking of a Bloody Mary. Which is not a bad idea, if you made your cocktail before you added the extra water... hmmm!

If you like this, you´re going to love Ajo Blanco, a really hard-core Spanish cold soup derived from the Arabs... It´s full of almonds, pine nuts, garlic, and green grapes! I´ll give you that recipe too, but only if you ask me to.  

Buen aproveche!

Five Days is Plenty, Thanks

Villamayor de Monjardin is a Spanish Camino town straight out a picture postcard. She´s a medieval princess, her head crowned with a crumbling castle, her apron of vineyards unfolding for hectares round about, with a pristine 12th century church in her breast. The 150 people who live there are vintners, farmers, retired executives -- all of them apparently well-heeled and smartly dressed, proud to be part of such a pretty scene. Their streets are newly cobbled with multicolor bricks. Litter is picked-up, flowers are well-tended, Masses frequent and crowded. Music leaking out of the ancient stone house next door was not BeeGees Greatest Hits, but Navarran folk waltzes, with with an old-lady voice singing along in Euskara.

I spent the last five days tending to the parish-owned pilgrim albergue in Villamayor, filling in a gap in the Federation schedules for volunteer hospitaleros. I enjoyed the town, the church, and the locals who decided to hang out with me: Angel the know-it-all sacristan; Prudencio, an 81-year-old polyglot traveler who strolls a good 6 km. each afternoon into town to see what´s new; and Carmelo, a handsome young vintner who´s written a fine book on the history of the town. They kept me fully immersed in their version of Castellano, and they weren´t shy about correcting my bad grammar. They kept the albergue supplied with  cherries, chapata loaves, green wine, and stories of local affairs.

The pilgrims, likewise, were a fine lot for the most part. "Mine" is one of two albergues in town -- the other being a better-known, better-maintained place up on the Plaza Mayor run by a Dutch Evangelical group. Pilgrims come into town after a long uphill climb, see the Parrochial there on the right, and stagger into the cool kitchen. The hospitalera (me) gives them water and a sello (a stamp on their credential that proves they´ve passed through town). Then they peer around the place and see if it is to their taste.

The Parroquial in Villamayor is, shall we say, rustic. It´s a classic pilgrim albergue in several aspects: It once was a tractor garage. It was turned into a pilgrim shelter a good while back, using cheap materials and volunteer carpenters and electricians and roofers. It´s been heavily used for eight years, and the wear is showing. Up above the ceiling is sagging, its paint bubbly with damp. Down below the mattresses are gray and the concrete floor scuffed and stained. When the kitchen light goes on, so do all the lights in the dormitory. The blankets are frayed and could use a wash. Bathroom drains are slow. Laundry facilities are two basins, a lump of Castile soap, and the clotheslines stretched from tree to tree in the adjacent churchyard.

There´s no kind of soundproofing, no privacy, no fridge for pilgs, no stovetop for cooking, no internet access, and very few power points for re-charging phones and batteries. It´s very, very basic, and there is no set price for staying there. Villamayor de Monjardin is one of the dying breed of albergues on the Camino that is still Donativo.

So the pilgrims with money and fastidious tastes usually go "uptown" to the Dutch place. The tired, the poor, the huddled masses stay with us, where they don´t have to pay if they can´t or won´t. They put up with the inconveniences for the sake of price. Or maybe they just like the scruffy ambience, or they fear the predations of any group that calls itself Evangelical. (though the Monjarin evangelicals have a fine attitude and a sterling reputation.) I dunno. I only know that some few people checked in, showered, went up to the bar for a drink, had a look at the other option, came back, gathered up their things and left.

Oh well. This option worked to my advantage a couple of times, when pilgrims registering to stay began to bridle at our lack of hair-dryers, pillow-cases, and "proper hygiene measures." I was able, with a smile, to tell them where to go.

 (the Villamayor de Manjardin artwork above is from the camino journal of Melissa West, a printmaker and artist from Santa Cruz, California. We have some of her work here at The Peaceable. Yes, she´s good!)

I realized how near this place is to the pilgrims´ usual starting point, only three or four days´ walk back. These pilgrims were still in shakedown mode, some of them still blasting forward at full speed in their shiny new gear. Others were hitting the wall, discovering their limits, stripping off any extras they had in their packs. Knee problems were surfacing, and blisters. They´re all stressed-out, still finding their pilgrim groove.

A monumental thunderstorm passed through on Tuesday night and the roof started to leak pretty badly. I told the pilgrims in the dorm they were welcome to seek other accommodation if they liked -- no one should have to sleep in a room with a cascade in one cornera, a river on the floor, and buckets all ´round their beds. The pilgrims told me not to worry. Some of them had walked from Puente la Reina, or biked from Pamplona. They were too tired to give a damn.

They slept better than I did. The church bells rang every half-hour, day and night. The plywood wall between my storage-room bunkbed and the pilgrim dormitory did little to shield me from my guests´ night noises -- I might as well have been sleeping in there with them. The bathrooms were no better, sound-wise. I enjoyed the silence, when it was silent. But when anyone stepped into the toilet stalls I regretted not bringing along a portable stereo. And some CDs. (Handel´s "Water Music" comes to mind. Or Dire Straits, who did "Let´s Go Down to the Waterline." And "Water Of Love."...)

...And then there were the spiders. Feeling like your hands are on fire is not a good way to wake up at 2 a.m. Happily for the pilgrims, these fellows seem to limit themselves to my bed.  

And so, even though I was enjoying the company very much, and the sunshiny days and long walks up the mountain and through the vineyards, and a meatless diet (amazing what the lack of a cooker can do for your eating habits), I was ready to go home yesterday, when Jose Antonio came from Madrid to take my place at the albergue.

I was packed up and ready to roll by afternoon, and the pilgrims flowed in from the smiting sunlight. One stood waiting for his sello, weaving a bit, sweating hard, his eyes glassy, a young, wiry man whose name was Miguel and whose accent said Andalucia. Jose Antonio gave him some water and sat him down at the table. Miguel put his head in his hands and wept.

He didn´t know it was going to be so hard, he said. We put his elbows in a bowl of cold water, and put wet towels on his neck and forehead, and pumped him full of more water, salted. He smelled like a feverish kid. Heat exhaustion. Dangerous. His pulse raced, his face flushed. We kept up the first aid, and eventually his skin felt cooler and his color went back to brown. He dried his tears and thanked us, blessed us even. He pulled out his wallet and showed us damp photos of his patron Virgin Mary, and of his little son Miguelito.

Jose Antonio made up a salad of fat tomatoes and salt and olive oil, and handed it over with a great hunk of bread. Miguel ate.

He´d been too ambitious. He´d walked all the way from Pamplona to Estella the day before, and  arrived too late for a bed in the albergue. He bedded down under a bridge, on a nice soft lawn with flower beds... But the landscaping sprinklers switched on at 3 a.m. All his things were soaked. (He smiled, though, when he told the tale.) And when he started out walking again he felt stiff and weak. And then the sun came out, for hours and hours.

And then, 11 kms. later, he came to us, he said, and we´d saved his camino. Maybe his life, even.  

I had to leave. I told him to stay an extra day and rest up, and drink water, water, water. I walked three or four baking-hot kilometers to the next town, to catch the bus to Logroño.

On the way I thought of how important that man might be to the world someday. Or at least to the little boy in the photo in his wallet. And I thought of how he´d made it worthwhile for me to stay in that rather nasty place for several days, even if I only met him for a little while. After days of trying to make pilgrims a bit more comfortable, I had an opportunity to help someone who really needed it.

So I passed on to him a gift I was given by the American Red Cross: how to treat heat exhaustion. And he gave to me the gift of receiving graciously what I offered.

Now I am home, back in Moratinos, with clean laundry, smiling dogs, and hair dryers. Out here, the pilgrims are not racing anywhere. Pace is slow and steady. Knee problems give way to tendinitis. Blisters and heat exhaustion are still daily risks for pilgrims. As one wag said of English boarding schools: "conditions are Spartan, but the fatality rate is surprisingly low."

Summer Rocks

I am very happy. I am riding the waves of whatever the wind blows this way. And it´s blowing a nice warm breeze across the plains, riffling the fat heads of rye and barley, and sending sharp rye seeds down the ears of  poor Tim Dog. (One fat head seeks  another?)

The farmers are cutting grain and baling straw and sending up great clouds of dust. Work on the new pilgrim hostel is coming right along. (alas, not the Italian albergue!)  Sunflowers have another half-meter to grow before they bloom, but they´re getting there, and the great fields of them are going to be spectacular by mid-July, just in time to celebrate our wedding anniversary.

As you know, this is the very best time of year for me. Everything is so alive and bright and warm, right at its peak -- except maybe sunflowers and tomatoes, which gives me something to look forward to. (The tomatoes are getting near, however. I made a gazpacho that was right up there this week... another couple of weeks and it´ll be right in To Die For territory. I may even post the recipe, it´s that good -- if you guys want me to.) (I am feeling parenthetical. Just so you are warned, if I become discursive.)

I am doing lots of writing exercises in the wee hours of these days, following a track laid down by Natalie Goldberg, she of "Writing Down the Bones" fame. Religious Fundamentalists might have trouble with her approach to writing, but I´m of a Buddhist turn of mind myself, so she suits me fine. I can´t recommend her highly enough, her exercises keep me limber and sharp and very much alive and In The Moment. (I tried to link you to her books on Amazon, but these days it seems the Information Superhighway has left me in the dust. I have been on the Internet since well before Netscape and browsers, even, but now I feel stupid and slow. A dinosaur carcass on the Information Superhighway. (Which is, I am sure, an antique term.))

This is why the blog post is rather stream-of-consciousness, because the writing exercises I´m doing this time of night are that way, and I like to keep you guys on your toes, and I had a glass of Rectoral de Amandi (Mencia wine from the Ribera Sacra region of Galicia, the vineyards I passed on the Camino Invierno) before I sat down.. This is the only time I have to write, so you´ll have to take it as it comes.  Most of my real writing juice is going into a book. I am having a really wonderful time getting that project going, and it´s not the Moratinos Life book I talked about before, but something more timely that´s evolved right out of the middle of it.

And in the middle of all this wine and scribbling come the pilgrims, hospitaleros, and dramas, and Paddy falling off the bicycle and scraping the hell out of his elbow, an elegant garden luncheon with Marianne la Suiza, and a call from The Federation for me to come out to La Rioja to do an emergency hospitalero gig, and a call from the Church for us to open up Sto. Tomas here in Moratinos once a week so the passing pilgs can come in and have a gander. So we are doing all of the above. Kim is still here, making it all glossy and shimmery rather than ratty and unraveled, although I think she´s gonna hit the trail again pretty soon. (We did a Road Trip up to Ponferrada yesterday, and I took us on a sentimental journey up to Peñalba, where I started on the Camino Invierno a couple of months ago...we climbed a 3-kilometer mountain path to the cave where the holy hermit St. Genadio lived 1,300 years ago. (I wanna write his story. Except I think he was a woman. Really.) here are some pictures. And notice the new header. That´s Kim´s doing. She´s phenomenal. And she´s the header up at the top of this entry, looking all edgey.

Put it all together and it means we are happy here at The Peaceable Kingdom. We are doing what we oughtta. (Like the kiddie song, about the little white duck, swimmin´ on the water, doing what she oughtta-r.)

Summer rocks.

I might be another little while before I post again, due to that emergency gig. It´s between Estella and Los Arcos, for all you Camino-heads: out in the middle of the vineyards in La Rioja.

How I suffer.

He Had To Die

At first it was simple hen-pecking, dominance games, lovers´quarrels. But those eventually degenerated into bloody sexual battery. Soon the suspect, a cocky youngster with a bad attitude, was assaulting everyone in his path, challenging every authority, leaving a trail of blood and curses in his wake.

So we killed him.

This afternoon Milagros, a seasoned poultry handler, did what none of us had the guts to do. She gathered Mad Max the rooster into her blue apron, grasped him tight in her capable hands, and broke his neck.

Offing Max was not a sudden decision. Snowy the hen is just now recovering from the infected wounds beneath her wings, where Max´s spurs gouged her skin. All but two of our hens, all of them half the size of their magnificent mate, have bare patches on their backs, where his claws and beak ripped away their feathers. Chicken Answers website says mating doesn´t have to be so violent, but some roosters just like it that way. Solutions? Buy more hens. Separate him from the girls. Or casserole the cockerel.

We don´t want more hens just now. Yesterday we tried separating Max from the flock, but somehow he engineered a jailbreak – and soon the entire flock, battered and torn, was making a beeline for our vegetable garden. I rounded-up the hens easily enough (the girls come when I call to them), but once they were safely inside the fence, Max decided to take me on. Attacking Paddy has become a daily sport for him, but Max always treated me with respect. Until yesterday. It was time for a Showdown.

He ruffled his feathers into a Samurai warrior helmet, hopped forward twice on his absurd toes, then launched himself at me. I took all 20 pounds of seething chicken fury right at the knees. Wings flapping and claws clawing, he caught hold of my pantleg with his beak. He didn´t realize I was holding a chunk of kindling in my hand. I caught him a heavy blow upside the head, which sent him tumbling into the chicken yard. I closed the door behind me. Inside, Max picked himself off the ground and staggered upright. He shook out his ruff, stretched out his neck, and crowed.

He thought he´d won. Foolish fowl.

I went inside and sat down at the table where Patrick was reading. “We need to talk,” I told him.

“It´s that mad rooster,” he said, not looking up. “I know.”

We agreed we don´t need a cockerel. Hens happily lay eggs without any help from a male of their species. And they appear more presentable when their feathers are not gouged out.

This afternoon was my turn to sit at the church and greet visiting pilgrims, which usually means greeting visiting neighbors, at least in the slow afternoons. And when Milagros arrived, I told her about Max, the abuse, the attacks, the hubris. Milagros said she´d happily whack him for me. Roosters his age are delicious, she said, if you cook them long enough. Lots of dark meat. She walked home with me, scooped the big bird right off his feet, and carried him away to meet his fate.

And so this evening Estevín, Milagros´ son and our Honorable Mayor, delivered to The Peaceable the earthly remains of Max, tucked in a plastic bag, plucked and ready for the crock-pot. I was not present for the encounter, but Paddy and Kim told Estevín to take the critter home and eat him. They couldn´t bear to chow down on someone they know.

It´s full-circle then, for old Max – he returned to whence he came. Milagros and Esteban gave Max to us last year, when he was still a leggy youngster. Milagros said she´d give us another teenager to replace him, but the new guy probably will grow up to be just as nasty. That´s just how roosters are, if you don´t eat them when they´re young.

Max had a good innings. He got to grow into a magnificent creature, who greeted each day with a hearty song, stood his ground against Patrick´s daily incursions, and gobbled grubs and grain and greenery. He was wonderfully stupid and gleefully game. But he abused his wives. Which is something up with which we shall not put. Not in a place noted for peaceability.

It had to happen. I was not the executioner, but I was the executive – I made the final decision. I contracted the killing. His blood is on my hands.

And his carcass is on Milagros´ table. Stewed slowly with lashings of cognac, the fine fat free-range Max will make them a magnificent dinner.

All-Star Lineup

Just look what happens when I go away for a mere ten days. An All-Star lineup of Camino Personalities passed through here, most of whom I love and enjoy deeply. Kim and Paddy fed and accommodated them, and things only got a bit ropey once that I heard of.

The fun began before I even left, when Frederic from France showed up – only moments after Federico the Guitar Guy left with his latest crew of guitarristas. Last year both Freds were here simultaneously, and managed to make the chicken-hut door work. The two of them have nothing in common except both their names are Fred and both turn up here at the same time. Eerie. Frederic went to work cementing the cracks on the front of the bodega (he likes to work when he visits, God bless him!)

I left. Then the fun started. First came some Dutch and a Kiwi (a person from New Zealand). Frederic left when they did, heading out for Fatima in Portugal. A German man who stayed here two summers ago returned: Rainer, the guy who thinks he is Jesus. (A second coming of Christ?) We get lots of saints and True Believers here, but this one takes the prize. Paddy lost patience with the Son of God when he didn´t offer to help with washing-up. (I don´t think anyone was told to Go to Hell, thank God.)

That evening, Frank arrived – Frank the Scottish hospitalero. He stayed a couple of days and helped Kim make our dog-dug front patio into this: A lovely little herb garden!

You can see he finally got Nabi to cuddle up, too!

After Frank came Sue Kenney, a charismatic pilgrim from Canada. Sue´s life changed radically after she walked The Way, and she´s since produced inspirational books and videos, gives talks all over Canada, and hosts a website and Camino walks aimed especially at women who would probably never dare to do it alone. This summer Sue is walking the Camino back-to-front. She started in Santiago and walking eastward. (that´s her in the top photo, doing just that.) She stopped into The Peaceable for a night, and charmed them all with her many stories.

And then came George, accompanied by his godson Jake.

George Greenia is another Camino Personality, a medievalist and Spanish professor at College of William and Mary in Virginia. He and I produced a magazine together many moons ago. He´s a witty speaker and a top scholar on all things Camino... we had a quick visit in Burgos a month or so ago when he was there to address a conference on world pilgrimages. George´s present pilgrimage might look like a penance: he´s accompanying a group of 21 American pilgrims for five-plus weeks, many of them in a “high-maintenance” category. He´s pulled a muscle. A close family member died suddenly in an accident. But George keeps on ticking.(that´s George in the photo in the red jacket on the left, and his godson up there in shorts.)

I am happy to report that he and Sue and Jake went with Paddy and Kim and assorted other pilgs over to Carrion de los Condes that evening to hear yet another set of Peaceable friends perform at the beautiful Iglesia Santa Maria: Adam and Will, the guitarist and violinist who recorded an album here last October, are back on the camino, part of Fred/Federico´s concert series. Jake did a reading at the pilgrim blessing. And afterward, everybody came back to Moratinos for a great feast!

Once that great event passed, the Japanese arrived: Sonomi, Chisado, and Arigato. They were fascinated by the dogs, and Tim and Una allowed themselves to be petted and fussed-over endlessly. And our hard-boiled eggs, usually distinguished from the raw ones with smiley faces or a letter H drawn on the shells, are marked with beautiful Japanese characters. The ladies were here two days, and were succeeded by Hom Sung Bae, a Korean accountant and blog-follower. He stayed two days, too – he wanted to meet ME! Jet-lagged as I was I don´t think I made a great impression, but he seemed a lovely man. He bought Kim a birthday cake and huge candles to decorate it. 

Scattered among those days was a Murphy disappearance and reappearance; creation of an isolation ward in the chicken hut, courtesy Milagros; a big loud “discussion” at a town meeting over what to do with money earned keeping the church open last summer; four days of rain; and another film-making triumph from Kim.

I missed it all.

Now that I´m back, nothing whatsoever is going on. No pilgrims, no guitarists, no messiahs. Just a whole lot of weeding to do in the garden. Laundry, and dogs, and reading, and writing.

Here´s the movie. Hope you like dogs!

Home

Here I am at my mother's home outside Apollo, an Appalachian enclave in rural western Pennsylvania near the city of Pittsburgh. I lived in this area for many years, and spent much of that time planning how I might get out. It's a sad place to spend much time in. I could see only a bedraggled region raped and left for dead by a century and a half of mining, steelmaking, smelting, and every other kind of human pollution. Its low self-image and battered economy and general malaise always make it a great place to be FROM, rather than a place to Be.

It's a similar story down in suburban Washington, D.C., where I spent Friday evening and Saturday with my daughter Elizabeth. She lives along Columbia Pike, in a neighborhood called Tyson's Corner. A place with a name like that you'd expect to be broad fields and buggies and friendly farmers called Flem and LuElla... and it probably was, up til the mid-20th century. Now it is acres of apartment blocks, parking lots, strip malls and big-box retail outlets, threaded together with four-lane asphalt strips and blanketed with the smog of a million cars backed-up at every stoplight.

This is America, my home. And it is deeply shocking to a system so accustomed to the relative silence of The Peaceable Kingdom.

I know what is happening to me. I am trying to take this very slowly and easily. I am getting lots of sleep, avoiding alcohol and cigarette fumes, trying to eat lots of fruit and veg and vitamins.

Routines are important when you're culture-shocked. So this Sunday morning, on my way out of Virginia I stopped at St. Alban's Episcopal Church of Annandale for the weekly Eucharist.

I have not attended an Anglican church service for many, many moons, and this one was a beauty: Bach skilfully played on a sweet little pipe organ, hymns sung out with enthusiasm, a full complement of clergy in full vestments (there's a seminary in the diocese), flowers on the altar, squirmy children in the pews, and the gloriously poetic and approachable Rite 2 liturgy. Bread AND wine. And the priest was a SHE!

I had to struggle not to weep at the end, when the organist ripped through a Tallis postlude without missing a beat. I love going to Mass at Santo Tomas in Moratinos, and I may now be a practicing Catholic. But this service this morning? Extraordinary, and beautiful, and emotionally overwhelming. I surprised myself. My soul was at Home.

Later in the day, after a long journey north to Apollo, I took a couple hours' walk down McCartney Hollow to Roaring Run trail. (I hadn't had a decent walk for DAYS...) Yes, the abandoned trucks and rusting machinery and busted-down gas wells are still out there, but they're garlanded with knotweed and trumpet vines. The hillsides are dense with greenery, erasing the scars and ruts from view. I climbed the trail up Jackson Run, and at the falls a young couple splashed and paddled with their tiny toddler twins. Laughter and joyful shrieks echoed up the steep valley. Up above, the breeze tossed the treetops. A thunderstorm grumbled.

I picked the prickly fingers of a blackberry vine off my shirt and turned and listened to all the sounds around me. A robin sang out. Goldfinches. A red-wing blackbird. A brush-cutter. Children shouting. Someone shooting at targets with a .22 rifle, somewhere nearby. The waterfall.

I have not walked along that trail for more than 25 years, but I knew exactly where I was in the world. My father walked this trail, and his mother walked it, too. This is my inheritance. This is what Home sounds and looks and feels like, when you're from here -- grubby and redneck and sad, but still beautiful.

It is home. I don't belong here anymore, but what is Here belongs to me.

Somewhere in my DNA is a red-wing blackbird.