Marianne Gutierrez: Health Practitioner: What did your last servant die of?

What did your last servant die of? · 15 April 2006

My 17 year old son collapsed in a heap at the huge farmhouse kitchen table having just got home from the mattress factory where he worked in the village of Fuensanta de Martos. I was at the make-shift calor gas hob cooking something suspicious for his supper.

I say something suspicious because we didn’t have much money and we had to scrape together bits of nonsense and call it food. For example one day a huge aluminium saucepan appeared on the table from our neighbour’s restaurant full of a yellow liquid that smelled as if it had been boiling for months. We all peered in and stirred it around and up bobbed a pig’s trotter and two huge potatoes. We were very grateful for the food but did wonder if we could actually eat it.

Then one of us would take two carrier bags and go for long walks through the tracks across the mountains and through all the Olives. She would come back with both bags packed full of wild spinach, figs, asparagus or almonds depending on the season. Neighbours would often leave bags of huge tomatoes, cabbages, onions, garlics or lettuces on our doorstep.

One day when we really did have nothing for a main meal, a friend of mine walked all the way from the town to give us two rabbits her father had shot.

It wasn’t an easy time then and although I had gone to Spain because I thought it was what God wanted, we must have looked completely mad at the way we did it. Still no questions asked our dear spanish neighbours were so good to us.

“Make us a cup of tea Mum!” groaned my 17 year old.
I continued poking at the chopped potatoes for the tortilla, wondering if I could take some of the chorizo, or if there was a bigger plan for it tomorrow.

“What did your last sevant die of?” I asked
“Don’t know,” came the quick response, “She isn’t dead yet!”

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