Category Archives: Food and drink

A Pressing Matter

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Twenty-two Mallorcan olives rolled around in the bottom of my bucket. Hardly what you’d call a crop, but – after several years of letting the olives from our young tree rot on the ground – I was determined to do something with the harvest of 2011. Google revealed some instructions for turning my hand-picked crop into a (very small) jar of olives steeped in rosemary-infused oil.

Biting the Bullet

To this day, they’re still as hard as bullets and, according to The Boss (and he’s right), inedible. So I’ve pushed the jar to the back of one of the kitchen cupboards – where they’ll probably remain until the dreaded (and hopefully distant) day when we have to move out of our rural idyll for something less high-maintenance. By then, they might make a decent housewarming gift for whoever is lucky enough to buy our little finca . . .

Our friends Annie Sofiano and Martin Page – fellow Brits who moved to Mallorca to open an agroturismo (a country B&B) called Finca Son Jorbo (www.fincasonjorbo.com) – have had much better luck with their crop of olives. But dealing with their 306 olive trees (as opposed to our two) was a lot harder than they originally expected.

Having ignored the trees during the first six years of developing their business, they eventually decided to turn their attention to the neglected trees. “We knew that our farming neighbours were driving past and looking at them pointedly,” says Martin, “So we felt shamed into doing something.”

A Mallorcan Masterclass

The tranquil Finca Son Jorbo – with its 306 olive trees

Martin’s farmer neighbour Miguel first gave the former TV production manager a three-hour masterclass in pruning. Then Martin set about pruning his trees, with Annie gathering and clearing the trimmings away to their bonfire site. It took six bonfires to burn it all. The subsequent weeding by hand, applying fertiliser, and spraying the trees to kill the olive-eating bugs, took the couple a considerable amount of time: “It was extremely hard work – especially for an interior designer from Birmingham!” Annie admits.

Miguel told them when the olives were ready, but reaping the harvest was done almost entirely by Martin and Annie. Once again, their generous Mallorcan neighbour offered his help, lending them some crates, the use of his trailer, and introducing Martin to the local tafona (olive press). To Miguel’s amazement, the couple had picked 400 kilos of olives, with little help: “It’s traditional here for the whole family to get involved,” Annie explains.

From Olives to Oil

It took four visits to transport the whole harvest to the tafona. On Martin’s last visit, Annie and his parents (who were staying with them at the time) came with him. They’d all spent the morning in Palma and, although Martin changed from his smart going-out clothes into working togs before going to the tafona, Annie went as she was. “As we were getting out of the car at the farmyard, I turned to her and said ‘lose the pashmina’,” Martin says. “In any event, she definitely got some funny looks!”

They paid around 27 cents a kilo for the pressing, which resulted in 63 litres of olive oil,  taken home in 10 large plastic containers, to sit in the cellar until they’d searched the Internet and bought bottles, tops, and a machine for sealing the tops.

As friends who’ve been lucky enough to enjoy some of their delicious Finca Son Jorbo olive oil, we’d suggest the effort had been worth it. Annie’s view? “The whole thing’s been a learning experience, but we know we’ve gone up in our Mallorcan neighbours’ estimations.”

You won’t be surprised to know that I haven’t mentioned my own olive endeavours to any of our neighbours . . .

No doubt Annie and Martin took advantage of Finca Son Jorbo’s pool

This article is an abridged version of one I wrote for the weekly edition of The Telegraph, published in March 2012.

Read more about Spanish olives on http://www.olivesfromspain.co.uk

Jan Edwards Copyright 2012

Olives, Anyone?

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It’s always interesting to visit another rural part of Mallorca, because the landscape varies so much on the island. This weekend, the village of Caimari (near the mountains) is the location of the Fira de S’Oliva – a two–day celebration of all-things-olive.

When we last visited this event I was intrigued to see olive oil ice cream for sale on one of the stalls: “Must try that,” I said, digging into my purse for some change. “I’ll treat us.” It turned out not to be much of a treat for The Boss, who abandoned his cone in disgust after just one rather reluctant lick. I, however, thought it was delicious.

The emblem of the Fira de S'Oliva in Caimari

The emblem of the Fira de S’Oliva will be seen everywhere in Caimari this weekend

Green, Black, and Liquid Gold

Although our tastes in ice cream may vary, we both enjoy eating olives, olivada (the local version of tapenade), and olive-studded bread, and we use virgin olive oil in the kitchen and at the table. So the temptation to do something with our own olive harvest eventually became too great . . .

Next time I’ll tell you about my attempt at preserving our olives – which doesn’t quite compare to the scale of the olive project successfully carried out by some Engish friends here.

Jan Edwards Copyright 2012

Pork Talk

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Here are just a few reasons why our Mallorcan farming neighbours in the valley are so great:

They often give us fruit and vegetables they’ve grown. On one occasion, while I was out for a walk and passed the finca of Toni and Maria, they came out and presented me with the world’s largest watermelon. So enormous was this magnificent fruit, that I had to carry it up the hill, pressed against my stomach and supported by both arms. By the time I staggered through the gates at home, I had an inkling how it must feel to be heavily pregnant . . .

They’re generous about sharing their knowledge and advice – on occasions, unsolicited. The Boss was once up a ladder, giving our almonds trees a long-overdue pruning – not something of which he’d had a lot of experience. Pedro stopped while driving past our finca to tell him where he was going wrong  . . .

They’re very honest. One day we were talking – in castellano – to a local couple who farm in the valley and sometimes stop for a chat when they’re passing. “You’re like a real Mallorcan now,” Margarita told me. I puffed out my chest in pride – my Spanish was obviously improving.  “Yes,” she reiterated. “Just like a Mallorcan woman!” And with that she patted my tummy . . . a reference to the fact that quite a few Mallorcans carry just a little bit too much weight around the middle. Brutally honest.

They’ve never invited us to a matanza. We’ve been invited into the homes of several Mallorcans for meals and various social occasions, but thankfully we’ve never been invited to a matanza – the slaughter and butchering of the family pig(s). This traditional event, which takes place around this time of year at farms and rural homes all over the island, is one I’d rather not witness, thank you. It’s an occasion for family and friends to gather and join in with the messy business of turning a perky pig into a pantry (or freezer) full of porky products for the coming months. The thought of being elbow deep in a large vat of squidgy pig bits is not for the squeamish . . . and certainly not for me.

It’s for the matanza that our local supermarket has stocked up with the necessary accessories (string, paprika and a white powder that prevents rancidity) for turning Peppa the Pig (don’t let your little ones read this) into Mallorcan delicacies such as llonganissa, botifarró, and sobrassada – a well-hung cured pork product flavoured with a generous quantity of paprika.

Sobrassada is emblematic of the island and adds great flavour when used in cooked dishes. It’s also popular spread thickly on rustic bread but, personally, I’d prefer a well-made crispy bacon sandwich. If only I could find one on Mallorca.

Sobrassada spread on rustic bread – a popular Mallorcan snack

Jan Edwards Copyright 2012

Shop Talk

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Manacor, our nearest town on Mallorca, is at the heart of a very traditional agricultural community, which is reflected in what’s offered on menus in many local restaurants, and what’s available in food shops and supermarkets.

Supermarket Sleep

When we first moved here, I really missed the vast range of goods that we’d been able to find in the UK in our local supermarket – where, I confess, most of our weekly shop was done. Back then, we preferred to use our free time – a precious and rare commodity – for activities other than trawling market stalls and individual shops for the next week’s food. The one-stop-shopping culture was so ingrained in me that, just after we moved here, I would often dream about being in Sainsbury’s or Waitrose, piling much-missed delicacies and ingredients into my trolley.

Slippering Out to the Shop

Before long I discovered that Mallorca offers a real bounty of fresh produce and interesting local food products, and our shopping habits changed. The fruit and veg market, and shops such as baker’s, butcher’s and fishmongers are where the bulk of our food expenditure now goes.

Manacor still has a host of small independent corner shops, offering popular food necessities, and frequented by locals from the immediate community. I once saw a woman in her dressing gown and slippers, emerging from one of these places – having popped out for a few essentials for her breakfast table.  Now that’s not something you see at Tesco!

There are still things we buy from a chain-owned supermarket, but it’s not as interesting a shopping experience as topping up your trolley in a UK superstore. Our local supermarket rarely changes its displays – not having learnt (unlike their British counterparts) that if you move stuff around regularly, customers might stumble across – and buy – something they didn’t know they needed/wanted, whilst trying to find what they were actually looking for in the first place!

New In!

New products on the shelves of our local supermarket are as rare as our wins on the Once lottery, and I have a kind of inbuilt radar that hones in on the rare new additions to the supermarket’s product range. And it was during our first November here that this radar picked up a rather unusual new display: rolls of red and white string, small bags of white powder (and not a sniffer dog in sight!), and large shiny bags of paprika. Back then, I had no idea why anyone would want to buy such things . . .

November additions to our supermarket range

Jan Edwards Copyright 2012

Seriously Slow Food

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Bring on the free food

Mallorca’s long hot summer is behind us. Autumn has begun with some unsettled weather and storms, and the buckets are poised to catch the rain pouring through the roof into our home; this weekend’s forecast is looking rather grim. Six months after we applied for permission to repair our seriously leaky roof, and nada. Six months! We’re not the only ones seriously fed up with waiting to get the job done. Our local Mallorcan building firm would love to get on with the work and be able to invoice us for what is a substantial job. Might help his cash flow situation in these challenging economic times.

Free Food, Anyone?

Anyway, I digress. Wet weather means free food . . . if you like gastropods. Heavy rain is the cue for snails to emerge from wherever they hide themselves when it’s hot and dry, and go for a glide (or whatever that forward motion that snails do is called). And there are hundreds of ’em.

When the snails come out, so do the Mallorcans, on the hunt for a free meal. The French aren’t the only ones who love eating them: you’ll find snails on the menu of many restaurants serving traditional Mallorcan cuisine. People even drive out to the valley – presumably from the nearest town – to forage for the pot, abandoning their cars wherever they can to set off on foot with their containers. They’re easy to spot, as they weave slowly along the lanes, heads bent low to spot the gliding gastropods.

Bagsy Those

One Sunday, we were out working in the garden and saw two elderly ladies slowly making their way up the lane towards our property. These were clearly accomplished snail-spotters, as they were bobbing up and down as they went (rather good exercise, I thought). As they passed our garden, we greeted them in Spanish and they stopped to exchange a few words. It was then that I noticed one of the women wasn’t carrying a container for her snails: she’d simply placed them all over her arm. Lots of them.

“Would you like a bag for . . . those?” The Boss asked, indicating her ‘passengers’. The lady accepted the offer and was last seen plucking the snails from her arm (I tried not to shudder) and putting them into the provided paper bag before continuing her quest.

Free they may be, but you won’t find me foraging for snails . . .

Jan Edwards Copyright 2012

A Rude Awakening

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Who said I can’t hunt here? 

Yesterday, the sound of two early morning gunshots woke me; I turned over and went back to sleep, wondering how the hunters can possibly see anything when it’s barely light. I’m used to the sound of guns going off these days but, when we first moved here, it was like living in the Wild West. At the first shot, I’d leap out of bed and crawl underneath it until the final shot had been fired. OK, that last bit’s an exaggeration but, when you’re not used to it, the sound of guns firing all around you – and the occasional peppering of lead shot on the roof of your home – can be a tad unnerving. And, in the various hunting seasons, shooting is permitted on Saturdays, Sundays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and public holidays.

Run, Rabbit, Run

Some research I did, a few years ago for a newspaper article I was writing, revealed that there were then around 22,000 people in the Balearics with a gun licence. Not surprising really, as so much of the island is rural. Hunting and foraging are part of rural living for many and, although I don’t personally like hunting, I’m out there with the rest of ’em when it comes to foraging for blackberries or wild asparagus!

Back in our early time here, our valley – with its vast rabbit population – was a magnet for gun-toting Mallorcans: some even came by taxi from the Palma area to give their guns an outing. Most of these congregated at a nearby derelict property, which became known locally as ‘the hunting lodge’. Not all of them seemed to understand the regulations about not shooting close to properties or roads.

Of Leadshot and Lycra 

Things have changed in our valley over the past few years: today, there are fewer rabbits around here to shoot (myxomatosis has taken its toll) and ‘the hunting lodge’ has been restored and turned into the country home of a Manacor family – who don’t hunt. The hunters are now more likely to be folks who live in the valley, shooting for the kitchen pot rather than for pleasure.

Whether it’s the reduced chance of bagging a bunny, or the higher cost of fuel to get here, there is definitely less shooting here now. Of course, it could be due to the increased interest in our valley shown by Seprona (the Nature Protection Service of the Guardia Civil, which polices rural matters, including hunting), after – so the story goes – a German cyclist reported a ‘leadshot meets Lycra’ experience while on a bike ride through the valley . . .

Jan Edwards ©2012

From Swine to Wine

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Until we moved to Mallorca, I’d had few encounters with pigs (the four-legged variety, that is). Most memorable was when I was in a previous relationship: my then partner’s parents kept a sow.  When his father became ill, we visited frequently and, on one occasion, our visit coincided with the imminent birth of  piglets. We gamely agreed to sit in the pig shed with the enormous sow, to ensure that she didn’t squash any of her newborns (a not-very-motherly trait they apparently have). Watching those little piglets come into the world was a moving – and rather messy – experience. I certainly heard vegetarianism’s siren call that morning: I simply couldn’t face the enormous pile of bacon sandwiches that my partner’s mother served us when we returned to the house . . .

It’s a Swill Life . . . 

My next encounter was here in our tranquil valley in rural Mallorca. When we first moved here, a charming Mallorcan lady called Margarita ran a pig farm further down the lane. It wasn’t too far from our finca, but rarely did we suffer piggy aromas. Margarita’s husband had died from cancer but she continued to run the farm for quite some time, with the part-time help of a local man.

One of our regular walks is what we call ‘the triangle’, which takes about 25 minutes. Much of the walk is on tarmac but there’s also a rough old track that runs past the pig farm and this is probably the most interesting part. One day we were passing and Margarita called out from her doorstep and invited us for a tour of the farm.  We followed her into the huge barns behind the small house and were astonished to find that she had more than 200 pigs and piglets in her care. Now we understand why a lorry came twice a week to take pigs off to market; suckling pig – or lechona – is an extremely popular dish here in Mallorca.

When we left the farm (gulping in huge amounts of fresh air), I wondered how Margarita had managed to continue running the farm, with so little help. She couldn’t really even take a day off, let alone go and visit her sons (both of whom live abroad).

These Little Piggies Went to Market . . .

Pigs ‘n’ figs

Then one day, the pig lorry called for the last time. Margarita had had enough. Unable to sell the farm, she’d sold her stock and most of the pig-keeping paraphernalia, and went off to embrace the urban life.  A month or two later, we were at a wine-tasting fair in town and a well-dressed woman with immaculate hair – and beautifully manicured hands – came and greeted us warmly. It took us a few minutes to recognise this smiling, relaxed woman as Margarita, who was enjoying a night out with ‘the girls’.  We had another glass of wine to drink to her new pig-free life.Margarita managed to rent out her farm to a couple who have a home in town, but also enjoy part-time country living. They grow a lot of produce on the land and each winter they buy a couple of pigs, which seem to lead a contented – but fatally doomed – life in a field of fig trees, where they feast on fallen fruit in the summer. Until it’s time for the annual matanza . . .

Jan Edwards Copyright 2012

Nuts About Mallorca

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Our neighbours prepare to harvest their almonds

The repetitive clink-clink coming from the direction of the nearest farm means that it’s almond-harvesting time again. Mallorca’s countryside is renowned for its numerous almond orchards and, in particular, the magnificent sight of the almond blossom in late January/February. The locals say their almonds are the best in the world, and I wouldn’t dare disagree.

Fill ‘er Up

Almonds have been a fantastically useful crop for a long time here. In the corner of our dining room is an old Hergom stove (sadly no longer operational) in which almond shells used to be burned to heat the house. I’ve even read that, back in the 50s, some people here ran their cars on burning almond shells. I have an image of passengers shelling almonds furiously as the driver progresses, so that their final destination could be reached. Given the record prices of petrol and diesel right now, it could be time to return to this practice.

Let Them Eat Cake

The almond is a highly nutritious nut and the Mallorcans have plenty of recipes incorporating almonds – one of which is one of the island’s best sweet treats, known locally as gató. This is a delicious almond cake, usually served with almond ice cream. It should be made without flour, making it suitable for those on a gluten-free diet, but if you visit Mallorca and want to order this when eating out, it’s wise to confirm that no flour has been used. My father is a coeliac and during his visits we have sometimes come across versions that have some flour in them – presumably because flour is cheaper than almonds.

Almond oil can be used in cooking and also makes a wonderful natural moisturiser for the skin. I recently paid less than 3 euros in a pharmacy for a bottle of almond oil and a little goes a long way (especially if, as I did, you knock the bottle over and spill some!).

Bringing Home the Harvest

There are several ways to harvest almonds and most of the folks in our valley use the traditional methods: large nets are placed on the ground around the tree and long metal poles are used to bash a hailstorm of nuts to the ground. It looks like the kind of job that ought to require a hard hat, but health and safety rarely seems a consideration here. The more sophisticated farmers – or those with large orchards – use a tractor fitted with a device to shake the tree and a strange attachment resembling an upside-down umbrella, that catches the nuts.

As for us, we have nine almond trees on our land, although not all produce the sweet variety. Being the main consumer of almonds in our household (I have them every morning with fruit and yogurt for breakfast), it falls to me to harvest our nuts. Any day now, I’ll be out there, knocking the almonds from the branches using the plastic handle from my kitchen broom. No chink-chink here . . . more of a dull thud and a curse when an almond bounces off my head.

And then comes the laborious task of removing the nuts, first from their fibrous husks and then their shells. Given the speed at which I manage this part of the job, it’s a good thing we’re not depending on the shells for car or home-heating fuel.

Jan Edwards Copyright 2012

Earthly Matters

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A soil-testing kit isn’t something many people whip out of their pockets when they go property-hunting but, if you have serious dreams of growing your own produce, it could be a useful item to have with you. Our lovely little finca was blessed with quite a few almond and fig trees, so I naively assumed that growing vegetables would be just a matter of hard work and time.

Dynamite as a Gardening Aid?

What isn’t obvious, when merely gazing at the Mediterranean garden we have created, is that the layer of earth is very shallow and beneath it is a bed of solid rock. In places, rocks rise above the soil, creating an attractive rockery effect. Several first-time visitors have complimented us on our strategic placing of the large stones and boulders, but we have to confess that nature did the hard work. The rocks are where they always were, and always will be – unless we employ the tactics of a local wine-producer, who blasted the rock on his land with dynamite, to create a better area for cultivation. The amount of dynamite we’d need would probably also flatten the house . . .

Going Potty

Using pots and garden centre compost, and a slightly less rocky corner of the garden, we had a little success last year growing potatoes (harvesting just enough for one meal), tomatoes, and salad leaves (which we had to share with an invisible but insatiable bug). The quantity and quality of what we grew didn’t seem to justify the effort – especially as we can buy excellent produce grown in the neighbouring valley in our local market.

Gifts on the Gate

Grapes for breakfast then today . . .

Sometimes we don’t even need to do that. We have some very generous neighbours – with more favourably located land – who regularly bring us surplus produce. Very often, we find a carrier bag bulging with promise, hanging over our gate. So far this summer, we’ve enjoyed tomatoes, peppers, courgettes, plums, and grapes – all grown locally.We have offered to pay something for these fruit and veggie gifts in the past, but the producers won’t hear of it. So, to thank them for their kindness, we buy them the occasional good bottle of wine – Mallorcan, of course.

 Jan Edwards Copyright 2012

A Prickly Harvest

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A common sight in Mediterranean gardens like ours

The Mallorcans call them figues de moro, or Moorish figs, but I just call them dangerous. The prickly pear cactus or Opuntia ficus-indica, if you want to go all Monty Don, is a common sight in rural Mediterranean gardens. Some people grow vast ‘bushes’ of it around the perimeter of their property, as a kind of burglar deterrent. A not unwise choice, since the large flat leaves of this prolific plant are covered in tiny spines that can be extremely irritating if they get into your skin. I speak from personal experience.

We usually avoid going too near our large prickly pear cactus, which borders a short stretch of the lane that leads down into the valley. Funnily enough, when our outdoor cats were kittens, they used to leap from leaf to leaf without any apparent problems, but on the occasion that I stood up from weeding the ground underneath our plant and my forehead hit a leaf on the way up, I had no such luck.

I rushed into the house and looked into the mirror, expecting to see the tiny spines sticking out of my skin. I couldn’t see anything, but if I brushed my hand over my forehead, I could certainly feel them. Dozens of them. The Boss spent a patient half hour or so with a magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers extracting the irritating little devils from my skin. Not an experience I wish to repeat.

Which is why, at this time of the year, when the prickly pear fruits are ripe for the picking, you won’t find me harvesting them. I’ve never eaten one (which I perhaps should rectify) but have heard mixed reports: some people say they’re pretty tasteless, others describe them as delicious. I have a recipe for prickly pear sorbet, but doubt I’ll ever make it. You see, the fruits also have these nasty little spines, and the job of peeling the fruits puts me off.

Last week, a large old Mercedes stopped outside our gates, and the driver hooted for our attention. He turned out to be a passing Moroccan who had spotted our vast crop of prickly pear fruits and wanted to know if he could have some. It seems a pity that they go to waste, so we told him to help himself to as many as he wanted. I hope his wife had some good thick gloves.

Handle at your peril!

Jan Edwards ©2012