Barbacoa

The Charcoal in Spain spits fire. I learned this at a barbacoa (BBQ) with an American missionary family. The family of six, three girls and one young boy, picked us up from the La Garena station outside of Madrid. They were a delight to visit with before our busy next-day schedule of registering with the Polizia.

Miguel fired up the grill, lamenting his propane powered grillmaster back in the States. The most common type of grill here is similar to the permanent grills found in parks next to picnic tables, powered the old-fashioned way. The charcoal for the barbacoa is not processed. It is mined straight out of the earth and put into bags. Hence, you get an odd assortment of old stones, carbon chunks of mysterious textures, coal, and combustible black powder. It burns hot. It burns quick. There is no controlling the cooking of the meat without a quick wrist.

It was windy that day. It was hot. Dishrags were drying out after just using them under the tap. The neighborhood was too quiet and the gusting heat waves were too capricious. The hot air gusted into the house. Air conditioning is rare here. I have learned to appreciate a long, languid visit with other people in a dark living room. Everyone is always thirsty and bottled water has increased in value. (The drought conditions here are lowering the water level daily behind major dams.) The back sliding-glass door of the house was left open and the charcoal was soon glowing and spitting orange. Miguel was tending to the fire as sparks blew into the house and scattered about on the tile floor.

We ate and remained at the table, discussing various foods. I glanced out the sliding glass door and saw smoke rising from "behind" the grill on the patio below. We scrambled out of the house and saw the remains of two plastic flower pots. One had melted into a puddle, and the peat inside was still smoldering. The other had a large hole melted into it, creating a grimacing face, as the upper part of the pot melted and dripped across the new mouth. Miguel soaked the whole mess with a hose, and the rest of the family searched under the olive tree and around the inflatable swimming pool for burning embers. We then resumed our meandering, but interesting discussions in the stifling interior.

Later that evening as we drove to another missionary's home, I saw a floatplane hanging in the air like a red and yellow bumblebee. We were in the interior of Spain in the small town of Alcala, between Madrid and the city of Guadalajara. That night was hot. Sleep and dreams were deep but heavy with the weight of the previous day's heat.

The next morning we learned of a forest fire in Guadalajara. Flames were recorded at over 120 feet high. 15 firefighters had been killed. Bodies had not been identified. That day, yellow floatplanes swarmed the air, droning slowly across dusty skies with bellies full of water to dump on the raging fire. The news reported that 150 firefighters had been battling the blaze and were being extended beyond their endurance. The cause of the fire was charcoal from a grill in the city there.

The train ride back off the high plateau of Madrid down to the Tarragona plano was uneventful. Since it was a fast train and not a local train, a movie was shown from encased monitors angled down from the ceiling. The movie this day was "Back Draft" in which a young firefighter is killed on the job, all the while reminiscing about events that shaped his short life. My cousin is a firefighter in KCK. If a young lady that he is interested in does not cry at some point during the movie, my cousin dumps them for their cold heart. The movie on the train was dubbed over in Spanish. Old and young passengers of all ages would comment loudly with every new fiery explosion and action scene. It was a group event with earphones. Many cried.