Yes, November is finally over. I can't say it's my favorite season, quite the opposite. Darkness at all hours, wind, rain, humidity, mud on the paths, and rotting fallen leaves. If the rains have been timely and there haven't been any gales, we can count on the bounty of delicious mushrooms. For me, the southern ones, or "cepas" as they're called now in the cities (due to French influence), are the tastiest. porcinium of the Italians, unforgettable, made There is a ferryThat is, grilled or barbecued. And if they're eaten near the Pantheon, in a restaurant that's no longer there, Settimio, they're unforgettable. November, aside from all its misfortunes and a few pleasantries, like mushrooms and panellets, is the month of memories. It begins with All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day, with all the thick mush of memory and the acrid smell of chrysanthemums in cemeteries. Memories that surface as something lost, and never to be recovered. Memories, even the happiest ones, if there are any, are always sad, because they are the past, what was lived, what will never be repeated. This November has been especially sad, lamentable. If I think about the politics of our neighboring country, which concerns us and therefore imposes its quirks and customs on us, we've had the whole murky Valencian history of the DANA storms and their lingering effects—and forgive the repetition—we've had the commemoration of the half-century mark of the Caudillo's death, that figure who invited the emeritus king, as they call him. As if that royal condemnation absolved all the ongoing corruption of the political parties of any responsibility. In Catalonia, to zoom in on a more recent example, we've had a bit of a laugh at Junts' break with the Spanish government. Junts no longer knows what to do to siphon votes from the Socialists. And, on the other hand, this November we witnessed the unstoppable rise of Aliança Catalana (yes, I know, all this talk of red lines, xenophobia, fascism, and the far right), which seems poised to increase its seats tenfold. But the establishment parties, the old guard, who don't want to lose power, remain perfectly content applying these adjectives to Ms. Orriols. A woman who, incidentally, is the best orator in our entire little Parliament. It's a pleasure to listen to her speeches. Well-articulated, with splendid colloquial Catalan from Ripollès, and quite right. November also brought us, after ten years of investigation, the so-called Pujol family trial. Lamentable, given the president's state of health. Don't the judges see that he's unfit to testify? Let them try one of the children, if they have evidence of any wrongdoing, but trying an entire family for criminal association only confirms the ongoing farce of the Spanish justice system. But historical hatred is more powerful than anything else, and in Spain there's a lot of accumulated historical hatred.
Well, but like everything, November ends and we'll enter the sweet and endearing month of December, and I say sweet and endearing because, in the end, there's Christmas. I long for Christmas, especially this year, don't ask me why. Perhaps it's my age, which softens my heart and makes me yearn for Christmas, and sometimes makes me think it might not come. Because there are still days to go, the berries of the hens still haven't turned a deep red, the velvet of the moss still hasn't found its tenderness. I dream of my traditional cork mounds, the snowy paths of coarse salt, the shepherds with roosters and hens, the grazing lambs, the little ones in the manger, the clay angel standing motionless above the stable, with its hallelujah frozen for two thousand years. The three kings laden with somewhat perplexing gifts. The ox and the donkey, standing at the feet of the Child who, we hope, will be born again this year to bring comfort to us all. To the corrupt, to those who leak confidential secrets, to those who launder money or whatever, to the xenophobes, to everyone…
I long to sing again Shepherdess Catherinewhich carries three oranges from China and adorns the manger with holly, a protected species. I'm looking forward to rereading the Eleven Christmas carols by JV Foix and going up, by chance, wherever the star takes me, loaded with laying hens, waiting for the tenora to play, even though I feel fine, in Hora Sola, and I'm not wearing the dress I wore when I got married.
