Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire

Despite the number of times I’ve heard people singing about roasting chestnuts on an open fire, I’d never seen anyone actually do it until I got here. Folks here are crazy about castanas, or chestnuts, so much so that they have a festival every December where friends get together to drink wine and eat chestnuts. We went to one in Tacoronte, a village in the northeastern part of the island known for its beautiful mountains and (relatively) cold climate.

Since the party was thrown by the same guys that fed me blow-torched liver from a freshly slaughtered pig when we visited two years ago, I had some doubts about how the good the food would be. It turned out I was right to be dubious. The castanas were picked in the mountains and some of them were... occupied. Of course, they’d been seared on open flames, but a cooked worm is still a worm. The guys who provided the chestnuts joked that the little critters were “premios” or prizes, but they were very careful to inspect what they ate after Ruyman pointed out the bugs.

The rest of the food was pretty good. It was all typical Canarian cuisine and included offerings like garbanzo soup, sardines, barbequed pork, and gofio. Gofio is a type of grain that the indigenous people of the islands cultivated. It has a dark brown color and the texture of really stale cookie dough when mixed with water, which is the most common way it’s prepared. Ruyman keeps insisting I try the gofio when it’s available, thinking that some day, I’ll come across a way of preparing it that I’ll like. So far, no dice. I don’t know if it’s a taste or texture thing or both, but I do not like it Sam-I-Am. I haven’t tried gofio ice cream yet, but I can’t help thinking it’s a crime against ice cream lovers everywhere.

According to Carmen, giving a record number of DUI tickets is the police department’s contribution to the celebration, and it’s easy to see why. The Spanish are near-professional drinkers, though I have to say most of them drink with food rather than just to get drunk. Even so, I’ve discovered I really loathe the smell of wine. It smells like rotten fruit. There are no vanilla notes or hints of cherry blossom like wine bottles say. Just rotten fruit.

Despite the various annoyances, the party was actually pretty fun. I hadn’t wanted to go, but I’m glad I did. While we were there, it occurred to me that as much as I hate getting dragged along to things like this, it’s the only way I get to see the real culture of the Canaries. And that’s worth a couple of fried worms.