From the orange grove to my basket

The countryside outside of Málaga, just inside the province of Cádiz, is filled with bulls and orange groves. I know that sounds like an odd combination, but I'm telling the truth - drive through there and it's all grazing bulls, orange groves, then more grazing bulls and more orange groves. Since we were there last week, our friends Pilar and Juan took us to her grandfather's patch of land to pick oranges.

We learned the proper way to pick them - there's a little secret. It's called girar y tirar, which in Spanish means "twist and pull," because if you pull without twisting the peel will break. 

When we had picked a whole crate we realized the surprise was on us because Pilar gave us all the oranges to take home, all three thousand kilos or so, and now we are supplied through the winter.  They are perfectly tart and sweet and juicy. I know, because I tried them. In the orchard. While I was supposed to be picking. I have trouble staying on task when food is involved in the chores.

  

Also, as if The Mister weren't cool enough -- he sings, he plays guitar, he's got a dimple in his right cheek that could stop traffic -- he can also juggle. Some people get all the cards.