Grocery shopping in Spain is as if every fresh food market was a Costco. It seems all food here comes in bulk. One does not simply buy a small package of chicken for dinner tonight; instead you buy enough chicken to feed the entire Patriot’s football team. The other day, after my se�ora returned home from the market she called me into the kitchen. She gently lifted the top off one of two identical, larger than a thick science textbook size, boxes to revile rows of reddish-orange, fresh from the water, head and body still intact, seafood. Gamba! She exclaimed, as if I knew what that meant. I nodded my head, racking my brain for any information I could scrounge on this creature. Sometimes I wish I had google in my brain, then wherever I was, I could always have my questions answered. Whatever it was, I knew I would discover this creature’s taste at my next meal.

            She called me to the table, as always, by knocking on my bedroom door. As I took my pre-assigned seat she set a full plate in front of me. Shrimp! At times like these I have to try not to burst into laughter from my lack of worldly knowledge. I don’t know about you guys, but up until the other day I could not have even begun to tell you what a shrimp looked like before it had been commercially processed, deveined, and precooked for its consumers.

            Due to the large amount of this creature acquired, we have had shrimp for lunch and dinner for the past three days. Today’s lunch was no different. However this time it was as if I was a medical student in the middle of a practicum exam. Using only an average knife and fork my task was to attempt to devein already cooked shrimp disguised throughout a pasta dish. Only in my scenario I had to complete the task in the brief moments when my se�ora was not looking my way, as to not offend her cooking.

            Even after consuming the huge bowl of pasta and shrimp, three pieces of bread, and two oranges, my se�ora proceeded to say, “You didn’t eat very much.” Dumbfounded as to how she could possible believe that, I still responded with, “Oh, well I wasn’t very hungry today.” “No, you don’t eat very much in general.” She counters. Slightly taken aback by her comment, I cannot even fathom the amount of food she thinks I should be eating. Portions here are twice the size of those in the US and include more than one round of food. Everyday she peels me four oranges for dessert after the three homemade meals she provides. One of my favorite meals she makes is that of fried fish. The first time she made it, I had at least ten pieces of the fish amongst other side dishes. That same night she looked at me puzzled, again saying, “You didn’t eat very much.” At this juncture I feel as if she expects me to consume the same size meals my 6’2″ older brother demolished while in college training for his lacrosse team. At first my theory was that she was trying to “fatten me up” as if it was some sort of stereotype I needed to fall under. Then after the comments she outwardly makes about individuals carrying extra weight, my theory was busted faster than the television show Mythbusters could have solved.  Now my questions still linger above the dinner table as she takes a seat with a portion half of the size of the mound staring back at me.

Location: Sevilla, Spain