Gorma Tales of the Camino: Gaspan and the Magic Dishes

One evening, Gorma walked through a seaside town, where the stone of the road is softened with moss along the cracks between, where ivy falls like mermaid’s hair over every wall, and the houses and shops are built tall and slim, one upon the next, some of tile, some painted bright colors, and each wall leading to something new around every corner. And so many corners there were! For each road led to several streets winding from it, some slowly moving uphill like chimney smoke, some rolling away downhill like ribbon and wrappings from a gift. As she wound her way through the twisting streets, Gorma became quite lost, a great happiness to Gorma, for this is when adventure begins.

Sure enough, just past a tall building with iron balconies like woven branches of flowers, near the tiled clock tower, a warm light shown out into the tiny street. Along with the salty-sand smell of the sea, Gorma now sniffed an aroma of rich, delicious food, and a burst of happy laughter drew her in to a small taverna with tables spread about, and chairs at each for friends to gather, as they had throughout. Plates of food, plenty to drink, and smiling good cheer filled each table save one, and so here, Gorma sat.

She had no more than removed her bag and cloak and set Saint Thomas, her walking stick, to stand in the corner, when the waiter appeared. “Oh, Gorma, Gorma, at last you have arrived,” he smiled warmly. “You shall have the Pilgrim’s Menu, such food as the weary traveler needs. Have no cares now.” His name was Gaspan, and quick as you can clap your hands, he was back with wine and bread. 

Gorma broke a piece of bread, and it was strong on the outside, soft and sustaining on the inside. She tasted it, and immediately, she could smell the bread baking so many years ago in her own grandmother’s kitchen, and hear her grandmother calling to her for warm bread, warm bread, little one. This bread was like a comforting embrace in the folds of grandmother’s skirts, and as Gorma ate it, she sighed happily.

Next, she tasted the wine. Suddenly, her father’s grapevines in the sun lay before her, and she could see him scolding away the birds and laughing at the cat, who could never catch them. This wine was like renewal in the sun, seasons coming full with fruit and seasons for resting, and so for new growth as the sun returns again.

Gorma had just set down her glass, looking at the rich reds and purples of the wine, when Gaspan brought a plate of scrambled egg omelette filled with asparagus. “So good for you, Gorma; you will love this,” he told her with a happy nod. He refilled Gorma’s bread basket, then turned and was instantly back in the kitchen. Gorma took up her fork, and put the lovely soft yellow and green omelette into her mouth. And now she felt her grandfather’s hands on her own, teaching her how to use the pitchfork to loosen the mulch and soil over the asparagus patch, his hands baked brown and strong like bread from his years of farming in the sun. He spoke in the old language as together they worked the patch, fork by fork, until Gorma had finished eating her eggs and asparagus.

At once, Gaspan served steak and potatoes, and as she took her first bite, Gorma smelled her mother cooking many years ago, and heard her brothers and sisters crowding the table, all knees and elbows pushing and reaching and laughing at each other, and each laughing back. Gorma elbowed too, and laughed at them all, until they all ran off to chores or play, and her plate was finished.

Gaspan returned at that exact moment, carrying a dish of ice cream, with berries and fruit on top. As Gorma put a spoonful of the ice cream on her tongue, she was with her own young children again, though they are grown now. They were all singing, “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you…,” and with a taste of each fruit, it was a different child’s birthday, and so she saw each one, from first to twenty, with cake and ice cream and a gift, over and over, until the spoon lay empty in the cup.

At this, Gaspan brought coffee, dark and heavy and rich, solid like the mountains where it grows. Into this he poured thick cream, smooth as the long, slow waves of the calm sea outside. As Gorma sipped her coffee, she remembered every dream she’d ever had, dreams of love, and family, and always, the dream to see the world. For as food nourishes the body, so love and family should nourish the dreams we carry in our hearts.

Full and content, Gorma left Gaspan the coins for her meal, and a shell of the sea beside them. She gathered up her bag, and her cloak, and Saint Thomas, and walked out into the early night, quiet and smiling. The tiled clock tower showed the same hour as when she had entered the taverna, and so, there was still plenty of time, to walk in the world.

Gorma arrived at the next albergue just in time for a bed, for which she was very grateful, and she slept deeply. Outside, families waked home from the seaside, laughing and happy, along the mossy stone roads, home to their own small houses, where they kissed each other good night.

Buen Camino, Gaspan.