The whole truth
OK, so you might think from the photo that I'm going to write about Proust and memory, childhood, etc. Absolutely not. Just going back a few weeks to set the record straight: I wrote one day about my healthy breakfast routine, and what I related there is certainly accurate, but also incomplete. After the healthy stuff, some days, if I'm feeling weak, or if I've had a couple of good days in a row of exercise, I can't resist one of these marvelous magdalenas that I get from Angela. (I didn't mention the magdalenas then because I thought I'd put them behind me. Wrong!) Wow! These babies are made with olive oil and are just irresistible. They are so good they should be prohibited. I've tried telling Angela to lie to me, to tell me she doesn't have any, but it's no good, she just laughs and gets them anyway. These things are absolutely nothing like the supermarket ones, which are worse than useless. And usually when I have one I can't help thinking of the grandmother in Almodóvar's classic What Have I Done to Deserve This?–the character who hides the magdalena's because she doesn't want her son or grandson eating them, but who herself shouldn't eat them because she is diabetic. But for the most part I'm just for a moment experiencing a wonderful, mildly gluttonous taste treat. It's terrible, I think magdalenas are supposed to be consumed only by grandmothers and children. And now that I think about it, I've also got to put an end to the sweets they serve at the Café Negro on calle Alcazabilla. Was there yesterday with friends after tapas at the just opened bar La Moraga run by Dani García, the celebrity chef who innovates with nitrous oxygen. The tapas were phenomenal.