Part five: Friends and ferries

Click to read: Part one: A palace and a hostel, Part two: A stolen sandwich and art, Part three: Relationship advice and edible puzzles, and Part four: Tanneries and street food

My friend was waiting when our bus pulled into one of the country’s eastern-most cities. Back at the house, we joined her husband and a bubbling lasagna and caught up over supper.

When the guys left to check into J’s downtown hotel, J took my phone–the one with functioning data–in case he needed help getting back in the morning. As he left, I worried aloud. My fears were unreasonable, I knew, with his being a seasoned traveler, but he was blazing a new territory all alone. He told me that I was nervous so he wouldn’t have to be.

As soon as they had gone, my friend and I got down to the heart-to-heart girl talk we’d been waiting for.😀

The next morning, her husband got up early to make the German version of cinnamon rolls, or “cinnamon snails.” After breakfast, we parted ways–the men for a hike, the women shopping. My friend and I moseyed through a shaded market area and even had the privilege of witnessing a fight involving a shattered shop display and two irate shopkeepers. We also meandered through the city and finally found an unoccupied shady spot in the park.

The only thing I bought was a notebook for writing letters. I figured J would approve since most of the letters would likely arrive to his mailbox.

We met the men for lunch in a family restaurant with comfortable chairs. We lingered over the mouth-watering salads, reluctant to move on, even after the main course arrived. Our main course, tride au poulet, was chicken slathered in some sort of sweet sauce and covered with thin sheets of pastry dough. It was delicious, but far too sweet for either J or me. We made a valiant effort, but still couldn’t finish the dish.

bread and small dishes of various salads

After an afternoon rest, we walked to a local park–a dot of refreshing green in the midst of vast brown. We picked up a few foods on our way home for a light supper. I may or may not have eaten more than my share of the maaqoudas (potato-based fritters) because I forgot how much I loved them.

The next morning, we said our goodbyes after breakfast. It had been a short but worthwhile visit. As we waited in line for a taxi to take us to the border city, I was unpleasantly surprised to see that our taxi would be an old Mercedes rather than a newer taxi where everyone was entitled to their own seat. The driver ordered J and me to sit together in the front seat. I attempted to be a good sport, but I could already picture us emerging from the taxi hours later with crooked spines and headaches. J perched himself on the center console and somehow managed to give me the majority of the front seat without interfering with the driver’s shifting. He even dozed off up there!

Our border crossing was smooth, thanks to our blue passports. From the border, we walked to the port and boarded our waiting ferry. We had the perfect amount of time, despite the fact that we had forgotten to calculate the hour time jump once we crossed the border. The ride was 6½ hours, so we had plenty of time both to rest and explore. We did both, but spent most of the time on the upper passenger deck. There, the wind was chilly and the sun bright. As we talked, we stared at the water, mesmerized by the swirling foam the ferry left behind. We even saw dolphins for a few magical minutes.

Soon, darkness was falling. Our ferry pulled into the Almería port and we disembarked into the familiar night air. After only five days in North Africa, Spain was downright homey.

Part four: Tanneries and street food

Click to read: Part one: A palace and a hostel, Part two: A stolen sandwich and art, and Part three: Relationship advice and edible puzzles

I had never used the BlaBlaCar app before. Surely a carpooling app couldn’t be as pain-free as it looked. But it was! J and I arrived at the Málaga Costa del Sol airport in plenty of time. We checked in and zipped through security and border control before parking ourselves just inside of the international gate area to people-watch.

We were some of the last passengers to board our flight. Why rush to constrain yourself to a seat that’s already reserved for you? Our 15 euro flight got us to North Africa safely. After we landed, J and I stayed in our seats rather than smashing ourselves against the other passengers in the aisle. We didn’t even stand up, necks bent at unnatural angles under the overhead bins. (Why do we do this?!)

A man who had been watching us announced to the other passengers: “These are the most intelligent people on here! They waited to get on the plane until the last and they are waiting to get off the plane too!”

As we waited in the customs line, I couldn’t wait and asked J, “What do you think of North Africa so far?” Wisely, he returned that he wasn’t sure if his first impressions were accurate and that he’d rather wait to give them.

We stepped out of the airport and were spat into North African culture where overly helpful taxi drivers swarmed. After hemming and hawing, we agreed to a ride for 150 dirham, 50 dirham less than the initial asking price.

Once we had been deposited in our friends’ neighborhood, I asked the neighborhood guard where the Americans lived. He pointed me to a black gate and told me how many stories up. Americans in that part of the world don’t have much anonymity, and that is what I had been counting on.

We joined the family, catching up on life, hanging out with the children, and feasting on a giant stir-fry for supper.

The next day was our day to tour the city. It was my chance to show J the world that had been mine for 16 months. We passed my old language school and I recalled the hours I had spent exhausting my sweat and tears while learning Arabic. We dropped by my old neighborhood too, even popping in at the little store around the corner to say hello and buy a Snicker bar just because. (We also forgot about that Snicker bar until it became a squished pile in the bottom of our warm and sweaty backpack.)

From there, we snagged a taxi to the old city. I could already feel myself shriveling into a prune. The weather was hotter than I had expected and much drier than either of us were used to. We couldn’t keep up with our water intake.

We descended into the heart of the old city to the renowned tanneries, avoiding anyone who was too helpful. In fact, over the course of the day we managed to disappoint a lot of hopeful shopkeepers, browsing rather than buying. At the tanneries, we stood at the lookout and peered down on all of the action. There was so much to watch at once. J shooed away an over-eager tour guide, preferring to figure things out on his own.

We hunted for a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, but the only one I remembered wasn’t serving lunch yet. So we bought street food instead: neems (fried spring rolls), briouats (a triangular, chicken filled pastry), kalinte (chickpea flan) sprinkled with cumin and red pepper, and olives with lemon and parsley.

We looked for a place to eat our collection, and finally found a sunny spot along the ledge of a fence. But first on our menu was activated charcoal. Three pills before and three after a meal. With street food on a warm day, I got pretty bossy about following the instructions. We took our time, munching and tossing olive pits at the trunk of a scrawny tree in the sidewalk. Even there in that scorching African sunbeam, our repast was delicious.

From my time of living in the city, I had fond memories of climbing up the side of a hill to a set of ancient tombs that overlooked the city. But how to get there? We stopped to ask directions. The shopkeeper gave us some of his life story for free as well as detailed directions, which I promptly forgot by trying to retain everything he said. No matter. We still had Google maps and what was left of my memory. We wound our way up the hill, admired the tombs and the view and then parked ourselves in the shade until my fantasy about a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice overpowered the lure of a shady spot.

We spent a chunk of the afternoon perched on a restaurant’s third story, sipping orange juice, eating tagine, and watching people swirling in and out of the city gate below. Once we had cooled off, we meandered back to our friends’ house, with one last stop to buy an ear of roasted street corn.

The next morning, we envisioned ourselves arriving at the international church on time. Instead, with all of the careful packing that went into the morning–the gifts for a friend’s family, the trusty charcoal, and the Imodium, just in case–I managed to forget my wallet. My wallet which held our only local currency.

“I’m sorry. We don’t have money,” I told the taxi driver. “Take us back to the house.” Obligingly, he made a loop at the next roundabout and waited outside while I dashed up the flights of stairs to retrieve my wallet. Any dreams of arriving at church on time were crushed.

Although the fellowship had changed since I had been there last, it was still charged with a buzzing energy of brothers and sisters in Christ uniting after a long week. After the service, I was able to reconnect with a few acquaintances before we were on our way to visit Chaimae and her family.

I was surprised by how Chaimae’s family remained unchanged. Throughout the day, most of the family dropped by, delighted to meet J and practice their English. They fed us breakfast and then fed us several courses of lunch a few hours later. That afternoon, J got a very long look into North African culture.

Our time in the city was drawing to a close. The next morning we breakfasted on eggs and khlea, a cured beef that tastes like a barn. I hung out in the egg section, but J preferred the barny beef. The guy has an inexcusably tolerant palate.

As we left the city, I looked out the bus window, wondering if I was saying goodbye forever. I felt nostalgic but realized I no longer had a lingering sense of belonging.

Part three: Relationship advice and edible puzzles

Click to read: Part one: A palace and a hostel and Part two: A stolen sandwich and art

J and I spent almost a week in Mytown. He stepped into my life and met my people. Yes, I continued to feel the emotional dissonance of my meshing worlds, but assigning a name to the feeling seemed to rob it of its power.

“Does he have money to take care of you?”

My friends and neighbors invited themselves into the particulars of our relationship. They all had advice about where we should live, how soon we should get married and start a family, etc.– but they always expressed their approval of J in the end.

We found park benches to sit on and people-watch. We discussed things we hadn’t thought to discuss on the phone or through emails and messages. Sometimes we didn’t bother to do anything except “be” with each other.

But that’s not all we did. We had British breakfast at the port. And on the beach, I collected broken shells while he went for a jog along the shoreline. A teammate borrowed J for morning bike rides, giving him the chance to burn off some of his morning energy before I even rolled out of bed.

Late one morning, we bussed to a neighboring town’s restaurant where my friend cooks. She gave me a tour of the kitchen, lifting kettle lids and describing everything inside. She heaped our table full of food we hardly made a dent in: chicken with rice, lentils, beef and prune tagine, salads, fries, bread, vegetables, and tall glasses of orange juice. “I was so happy when you said you were coming that I cried,” she told me later. She expressed her appreciation for our visit by making sure that we were taken care of… right down to ordering our pirated taxi ride home.

Restaurant kitchen filled with prepared food

We delivered birthday gifts to my neighbor boys. We went to the market and bought a buffet of olives and other pickled delights. And J chatted with the various Chinese store owners around town. His Mandarin was typically met with surprise and guarded curiosity… or even an expletive.

We spent a warm afternoon volunteering with the Red Cross, entertaining a group of children while the village women studied basic Spanish. The director had brought puzzles for the children, but the puzzles were too advanced for their ages. One little boy leaned into an open puzzle box and scooped the pieces to his mouth, pretending to eat them: “Om! Om!” he said over and over again. The other children weren’t too concerned as long as his appetite didn’t extend to their puzzle. There were some wild moments, some tattle-tale stories, and a mini lesson on forgiveness. A volunteer from another district had brought virtual reality glasses which entertained a few adults and children at a time.

Over the course of the week, we spent a lot of time at the center where J was staying, learning how to bump around in the same kitchen together while on task. J faithfully washed the dishes after our meals; I could probably count on one hand the number of dishes I washed when he was around. Our team met on Sunday and for a few other activities scattered throughout the week.

In the evenings, J would walk me home. And in the mornings, he would usually meet me on my way to the center. In fact, there was rarely a time that I walked that three-minute walk entirely alone. A delighted smile to greet me on the street was one of those small things that made me miss him terribly when he was gone.

And then, on Thursday evening, we finished our laundry, packed our backpacks, and attempted an early bedtime. The next morning, we left for North Africa.

Part two: A stolen sandwich and art

Click to read Part one: A palace and a hostel.

J woke up after the time we had agreed to meet in the lobby. We had planned plenty of time, so I was content to let him sleep off as much jetlag as possible. Besides that, I wasn’t confident which bed was his. With those curtains, what if I reached in and poked the wrong man? I sneaked a snack from our stash in the communal refrigerator and then noticed that the second half of the sandwich was missing. Who would have nabbed a half-eaten sandwich? I wondered, pensive. I passed the time answering messages and chatting with a Lithuanian lady who had broken her phone at the beginning of her two week trip.

Eventually, J came out to the lobby, looking much brighter than the night before, but still sleepy around the edges. He confessed to waking up in the wee hours of the morning to eat the rest of the sandwich. Mystery solved.

The Puerta del Sol was on our way to breakfast and the museum, so we stopped to get our picture taken under the iconic bear. Because I am several inches taller than J, but our families didn’t know how many, we decided to exaggerate our height difference. I stood on my tiptoes and J bent his knees. The camera snapped and with a little cropping, our photo was ready to send.

“Quite the height difference!” commented my sister with a laughing emoji.

“Yes, it’s something to get used to,” I beamed back at her.

“I do believe he comes a little higher than your elbow…”

I guess we’d overdone it. 🙂

Our breakfast was less than remarkable, but the Museo del Prado, the renowned art museum of Madrid, made up for it. We spent the entire morning there, wandering and wandering and still covering just over half before we were too exhausted to continue. I loved enjoying the paintings together, studying them long enough to point out things to each other. Sometimes, we laughed. Sometimes, we stood in awe. Sometimes our wonder was more of the skeptical type. We both agreed that we’d rather fully enjoy a few works of art than see everything at breakneck speed.

We attempted lunch but weren’t hungry enough to justify spending 50+€ on a paella for two. We thanked the hostess and ducked back out on the street where we found a grocery store that sold prepared salads. We took our salads to a grassy boulevard and sat on a bench to eat and bolster ourselves for another tour.

This time, we toured the National Library of Spain. We listened to an audio guide on my phone and after a strange encounter with the guard who seemed reluctant to understand my Spanish until I doubted that I was even speaking it, we toured the rest of the library unbothered.

Back at Retiro Park, we found the glass palace. Then, we sat in the grass and watched the carefree groups of people strolling by until we decided we should meander back for some supper and our hostel. We ate a seafood paella in a corner of a hopping restaurant, growing sleepier as the minutes ticked by. It would be an early bedtime, for sure.

The next morning, we were both up and ready to leave before we had planned to be. Our trip down to Almería was smooth. We traveled from bus to train to bus–two extra buses due to construction on both ends of our journey. We dozed, watched the scenery, and talked, sometimes about those topics that are best talked about in person. Wanna know what we talked about? Too bad. It’s “not your market” as the North Africans say. 😉

A teammate gave us a ride back to Mytown. I sat in the backseat, feeling a measure of something I couldn’t describe. It wasn’t entirely pleasant or unpleasant. So I just sat with it, pondering. We lunched with teammates, unpacked, and I gave J a mini tour of Mytown, introducing him to a piece of my world.

It wasn’t until I was preparing for bed that I was able to label what I was feeling as “emotional dissonance.” I was beyond delighted to show J my world in Spain, but watching my worlds mesh was unsettling. Like the world that had felt so close was being replaced by another world that, in new ways, felt closer.

Part one: A palace and a hostel

It wasn’t cold feet. More like good ol’ butterflies jitterbugging in my belly as I nibbled rice cakes and watched his flight information from my phone. After 5 whole months of communicating, we would finally see each other… and in a completely different capacity than when we had seen each other last.

I wanted to savor the moments without really knowing how.

We had both missed a night of sleep–J on his flight and I on my overnight bus–and here we were, on the point of meeting in the Madrid-Barajas Airport, both sleep-deprived and with questionable hygiene. If we couldn’t like each other like this, we probably wouldn’t like each other for other reasons either.

When his flight arrived, I stood at the arrivals door in a near-panic, only to find that when we were face to face, he was exactly who I knew he would be. No surprises. In fact, the only surprise for both of us was how un-awkward we felt together. Like old friends or comfortable siblings with an extra layer of excitement exactly because we weren’t.

We bumbled around in terminal 4 until we found the right train to downtown. Our Airbnb rooms had canceled on us at some point during the night. So we stood in the middle of the downtown Atocha station, booking the hostel I had been determined to avoid.

Doesn’t the very word “hostel” strike a chord of dread in your heart? It sure did in mine! I imagined a dilapidated row of bunk beds, scummy showers, and an aura of unwelcome free love. J was accommodating to my fears, but our pickings were slim at this point. So a hostel it was. And, (spoiler alert!) it wasn’t at all what I had been picturing.

Since it was still morning and we couldn’t check in to our hostel until the afternoon, we wandered Retiro Park, enjoying nature, street musicians, and even a man reading poetry aloud among bright rose bushes. We sat on a bench to watch people and talk.

In our search for lunch, we walked through the Puerta del Sol, a plaza which just happened to be overflowing with people because of some sort of celebration. We watched red and yellow parachutes descend from the sky like Spanish flags, the parachuters guiding themselves to a giant stage.

At this point, J was drooping with jetlag and I kept a wary eye on him as we pushed through the crowd. We found a place to eat, and, at the server’s recommendations, ordered a plate of cured meats and cheese and pulpo a feira. The octopus was doubtless the best I’d ever tasted and we left the restaurant with enough “umph” to tour the Royal Palace.

platters of octupus and tray with cured meat and cheese

We walked to the end of an impossibly long and stagnant line. After waiting a few minutes, J politely asked the couple in front of us if we were waiting in the right line (at least, I can only assume that’s what he asked, since the conversation happened in Mandarin) and we discovered that indeed we weren’t. After relocating, we were soon granted entrance and wandered through the rooms, gaping at the ornate decor. Palaces are so curious. Do people really want to live amidst so much useless wealth? Or is it only for tourists to come and gape?

We left the palace, luggage in tow–J with his backpack for the entire 3 week visit and me with my equally-heavy backpack for a mere 3 days. We checked in at our hostel. I know I already slipped you the spoiler, but imagine a friendly clerk, a relaxed atmosphere, privacy curtains on each bunk, and all-inclusive bathroom stalls–shower, sink, toilet–with doors that locked! I didn’t even have to put on a brave front.

The rest of the evening was filled with a walk and a talk before we headed back to the hostel for a supper of leftovers, snacks, and a much-needed cup of tea.

Photos don’t capture life

For the past 10 days or so, I have been enjoying a dear friend’s visit…and then savoring the lingering memories. Below are some of the photos from our time together. But remember that photos don’t capture life. Not really.

We spend a few wonderful days in rainy Córdoba. We wore plastic bags on our feet to keep out the puddles and streams and broke into delighted gasps whenever the valiant sun peeked through the gray clouds. “It hasn’t rain all this time, and then you came and it rained,” laughed my Cordoban friend when we met for coffee and then an Indian dinner.

arches of mosque-cathedral in Cordoba — Photo credit: M.B.

Back in Almería, we went up the mountain with teammates to watch the sun set, sifted through produce at the market, ate churros and pastries, enjoyed a British breakfast and crashing waves on one the windiest days of the year… and a gorgeous, sunny beach just 24 hours later. We also climbed Almería’s alcazaba and spent an afternoon admiring pottery in the town of Níjar. On her last evening, three of us celebrated Valentine’s Day with cheese fondue.

colorful fruit and vegetable market stall — Photo credit: M.B.

blue sea with blue sky and sailboat — Photo credit: M.B.

Arab fortress wall with city beyond — Photo credit: M.B.

elderly woman painting pottery — Photo credit: M.B.

But we don’t have pictures of those long heart-to-hearts or the laughter that erupted from just being together. Those are the real memories.

Sushi and smiles: What’s been happening recently

The Spanish classes of our language school took a day trip to Granada to visit the Alhambra. It was a gorgeous day and we had our own guide, which made the experience more memorable. My souvenir was two strips of bright sunburn on the back of my neck where I had missed with sunscreen. Hooray.

A Japanese classmate made me an incredible array of sushi. “You can pay next time,” she said with a smile. I went straight home and savored every bite.

A teammate and I redeemed Adra. (Read about our previous trip here.) We went without much of an agenda and ended up doing little, but enjoying it more. The fishing museum, the tunnels, the beach, and the baked cod with pisto were perfect.

I was tired on the day I went to visit friends in the countryside. The visit overwhelmed my senses and my language abilities. It was hard not to fantasize about going home and flopping down on the sofa for the entire next week. Then, I came back to a town gone crazy with Noche en Blanco and streets that were almost impassable even on foot and a stranger who thought it would be nice to take me out for a drink. Yep. Those are the moments my nightmares consist of.

Several months passed as I dreamt of a morning trip to a nearby beach town. I erased it from my schedule every time something else came up, which it inevitable did. Until one day… the chance came and I grabbed it. While waiting on the bus, I spontaneously invited a teammate and she came too! We delighted over our British breakfast. And then there was a second-hand shop and the stroll along the port before coming home to real life.

Kicking a ball around in Plaza Mayor with my neighbor boy brought a few other littles to play too. It was quite a lot of fun because these under-5-year-olds were about my skill level for soccer.
Our Spanish class met to buy our teacher a gift to celebrate the end of the school year. Someone had the bright idea of getting a classy looking bag for her teaching materials. Great idea! Except that I was completely exhausted by the time I got home. “How are we so indecisive?” I wondered. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn’t indecision as much as overstated opinions. Most everyone said precisely what they thought and then acted like they expected everyone else to agree with them.
Stopping by to visit a friend turned into helping her pack her things for a sudden trip to North Africa.
The dentist charged me half price for my cleaning just because. I know I saved just over 20 euro, but with all of the other extra costs that come with returning to the States, it felt like a hug from God.
My baby neighbor boy has grown a delightful little smile that just charms the socks off of people. Well, off of me at least. 🙂 I’ve started wearing sandals.
A friend send me two bags of Barry’s Irish tea. Oh, how I savored those two cups of rainy Ireland memories!
I hauled almost 50 euros worth of olives back from the market last week. I did it with the assurance that my family will be beyond grateful.

That’s all for right now. The rest would probably bore you if you’re not bored already. 😉 My teammates have all gone back to the States and soon I leave too. You may or may not hear from me for the next three months. Probably many of you will see me instead. I’m looking forward to seeing you!

Rewarded loyalty

“I would like five carrots,” I told the market vendor as he weighed the other produce I had collected from his stall.

A moment later, he breezed back with a bag bulging with considerably more than five carrots.

“No.” His coworker pointed to the bag and looked at me. “That’s too much, isn’t it?” He had overheard my tiny order.

I remembered the first time I had bought produce at this stall. It was the coworker who had pretended to forget to give me my change and then came back, minutes later, surprised that I was still standing there–neither oblivious nor angry. He quickly handed over the correct change without my reminding him of the amount.

Now I found it refreshingly ironic that he was the one looking out for me.

Long ago, I wrote about how I tend to be a loyal shopper, shopping in the same places, even when I know other places have better prices. I still do that today. On market morning, I make sure to stop at my normal vendor stalls first before picking up what I couldn’t find at other stalls.

You may think my loyalty is blind, but that’s not fair. And this is why…

One day I was meticulously selecting the brightest pomegranates from a pile. My produce vendor noticed what I was doing and slipped over to show me how to tell when pomegranates are ready–and it has nothing to do with how rosy they were!

Sometimes I’m offered samples of special fruits. And when I ask if new apricots are sweet, they answer honestly because they know I’ll be back even if they’re not.

The first time I made puchero, I ordered my bones and cuts of meat. The shopkeeper happily filled me with advice on preparing the dish. “Boil these bones for 15 minutes before putting them in your soup or they will make the soup too salty.”

One day I bought semolina flour for harcha. “You like harcha?” the shopkeeper asked. At my happy sigh, she disappeared to the back of the store and came back with harcha, still warm from breakfast. More than once, she has given me handfuls of mint leaves from her personal stash when there wasn’t any to sell.

Another shopkeeper refused to sell me a lone chicken breast. He quietly shook his head until I understood that it probably wasn’t the freshest chicken breast north of the Mediterranean.

Sometimes when the fabric vendor sees me coming, he pulls out the bolts he’s pretty sure I’ll like. And if I stroll into his stall wearing something homemade, he spots his fabrics with delight.

Just the other week, my shower curtain rod was repeatedly falling down. Finally, after several days of clattering, banging, readjusting, and scratching my head, I decided a new rod was in order. But the store down the street didn’t have any. “Come back this afternoon,” he said. But that afternoon, he still didn’t have any. So he opted to get to the root of my problem–what was the problem exactly?

As I was still making feeble attempts to explain without the proper vocabulary–”The thing in the middle of the stick…”–he began to work on something he had dug out of the dusty depths of his under-counter. Then–pop!–out came a yellowed suction cup and he told me precisely how to position it to keep the shower rod up. “You can even trim around the edges if you don’t like how it looks.” And my curtain rod has stayed up ever since. The yellowed lip of the suction cup is a happy reminder of the resourceful people who are looking out for me.

My meager loyalty has been rewarded so many times over that it has been crowded out by their generosity. In fact, I’m not even sure that my loyalty has much to do with it at all!

Waiting for the store to open

I’m becoming one of them. You know, those old people who wait outside of stores until they open because they have nothing better to do.

I’m not used to getting up earlier than the rest of the world–well, the rest of the world except those old people, of course.

Now that summer has cranked up the heat, I drag myself out of bed for a before-the-sun walk. I come home to do a few exercises, start my laundry, shower, eat breakfast, and then walk up to the supermarket in the far corner of town.

But oh.

“Do you want a mint to entertain yourself while you wait?” A gentleman digs around in his plaid shirt pocket as we stand outside of Mercadona. In front of us are several other elderly citizens, leaning on the carts they collected from the parking lot. We are ready to burst through those automatic doors…as soon as they open.

“Uh, no thank you.” I turn down the mint.

I don’t even like getting up early. And I certainly don’t like to be the first customer to charge into a freshly opened store.

Yet, here I am.

How did this happen?

Recipe: chocolate-coconut granola

With the descent of summer, do you need a recipe for cold breakfasts? I’ve been faithfully using this granola recipe for the last several years. Granted, it has evolved over the last several years and feel free to keep it evolving to fit your preferences. 🙂

5 c. Old-Fashioned oats
1 c. unsweetened coconut
1 c. walnuts
1/2 c. unsalted sunflower seeds (if you use salted seeds, omit salt from the ingredient list)
1/3 c. ground flax
3 Tbsp. chia seeds
1 generous tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt

Stir dry ingredients. In a separate bowl combine:

1/3-1/2 c. honey (I use 1/3 but, as a rule, I don’t like things very sweet)
1/2 c. coconut oil, melted
1 tbsp. vanilla

Stir and then pour over dry ingredients. Stir granola until well mixed. Bake on cookie sheet at 325° F. (160° C) for 40-45 minutes, stirring halfway through. Aim for golden brown. After the granola has cooled, add:

200g (approximately 1 1/2 c.) dark chocolate, chunked