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Imagine that gesture, the same Noah made, when he took the first fruit from the vine.
The vine is life, a symbol. Remember, lying on the triclinium, Horatius, beatus ille, has
at his fingertips, on the table, a freshly cut cluster, while conversing with Virgil about
love and politics, both holding in their hands those tiny, subtly sweet balloons where

the days' suns repose.
Think now of those Renaissance grapes that young Lazarillo and the blind man
Mediterranean agriculture is based on three products: wine, oil and bread, which shared, gobbling them up without either of them honouring their part of their agree- ֹᇏݚ୪ြቋᇶေ֥೘ᇕӁ௖൞ğ௮ฤࣵđႲބ૫Їđᆃ೘ᇕൊ௖ܒӮਔֹᇏݚႂൊb
make up the diet. In southeastern Spain wheat stews are still eaten; the variety of ment, the elder sardonically chiding his young guide for eating three at a time: "How ᄝ༆ϫ࿩תଲ҆đಯಖႵఃཬચ೩ݑ֥஬ᘡห೤ پڶ؟ဢ֥ᣃᢡ१໅؟ဢđ௮ฤฬᄝ໴

olives offers multiple flavours, and the fruits of the vines, which bloom between the did you know?" "Well, because I was eating two, and you said nothing." For the first ᄅָᇀੂᄅԚष޽đఃݔൌᄝ༱࠱Ӯඃb
end of May and the beginning of June, ripen in the summer. time the two smiled. ुुପུԅദઊุ֥Њଡ϶ඎۄđ෱ੳႲႲ֥ွሰູ૊঳౞౞֤ᅻ֓ਔ෾ဝ֥ᅶဲbᄝ
See those trunks, thin and semi-woody, scaling, naked, covering the portico with their Think now of Robinson, on his island, when he discovers the vines that will shield him
green leaves, where in the summer the family chats under their light shade. The light from the sun, providing him with raisins, for a complete diet, in a very 17th-century ᆃဢ֥༱฿৚ࡅದᄝՎ߸ऊ༽ซb ֹ૫ഈ֥֧ܻע֒ቔཙđଛ౔Ґᅋ၂Ա௮ฤđݙሰૌ

sparkles on the ground, the mother cuts a cluster, the children eat bread and grapes, economy. Or reflect on the fable of the fox and those grapes, eternally sour in our ၂шӹሢ௮ฤބ૫Їቔູ༯໶֥ׄྏ၂шཚ൳ሢᆃш๲ֹބဝܻ෮ջ۳෰ૌ֥჉ᄆb
and enjoy the taste of the earth and the light, which rests on them. memory. ᄝ၂ུႵስᢩඎ֥೶ܡބဝܻҚম֥đીႵڄđ჏ඣ༎ഒֹ֥ٚđᄝପུીႵѢЋđ๲
Valleys and hot spots, dotted with some palm trees, lands shielded from the winds, of Read the text by Platero, a new Quixote, under the yellow light of the south, which ಛූྟ౏ကಣ֥๲ֹഈđࣜဝܻ֥ሩအđݔൌᇯࡶިൌЎડđ໅֡ರၭۅใb
scarce rain, indifferent to the hail; hot, acid lands, under a sun that thickens the fruit, Juan Ramón Jiménez presents in The Forgotten Cluster: ୆ૌᇿၩ֞ପ৚֥௮ฤਔગĤՖੳ೤֥֞ሬ೤֥đପહ֥ૼਊđ ପહ֥ܻ߁໭Տބః෰

and brings out that sweet tone, its turgidity. The cluster had five big grapes. I gave one to Victoria, one to Blanca, one to Lola, one ֥ඣݔྙӮ၂ږׅ֥ࣜ࣡໾߂b୆ૌམའ၂༯௮ฤࣵᆭപϘक़đ϶ઊሢദᄝၼ႕ᇏતત
Gaze upon the grape there, from green to purple, shiny, terse, rising among other to Pepa–the children!–and the last one, between laughs and slaps on the back, to Pla- ሼჹb౨୆ૌϜ၂॒௮ฤ٢ᄝ൭ྏb ࡼ෱٢ᄝՀшđۋ൳ః಼ೈđಽᇉđ٢ೆ१ᇏતત
fruits, a classic still life. Think of Bacchus, half naked, striding away in the shadows. tero, who took it brusquely, in his enormous teeth. ௖Ӈđಞఃݔᆬઢ࿼୆֥ങࡕބۋܲb
Take that grape in your hand, raise it to your lips; soft, fleshy, let your teeth squeeze it Then, repeat with me the old Spanish saying: "grapes and cheese taste like kisses". ୆ૌམའ၂༯഼ࣁᇏ୳⇱ֻ၂Ց௖Ӈ֞௮ฤჳ֥ݔൌ֥і౦b௮ฤฬ൞ളଁ֥འᆘb ୆

while it explodes, saturating your tongue and palate. And enjoy. ૌߎ࠺֤ྜྷڞ֥ޏঘථौᄝ೘ผၕ๏đϥᄝ෰֥૫భ൞၂Աྍ༷֥ېҐᅋ֥௮ฤĤ෰ა
José Luis Martínez Valero

ൂದົࠝغซંι౦ބᆟᇍb෰ૌ൭ྏผሢପུใط҂ୈ֥ರگ၂ರ֤་൬ݖ෾ဝᆭࣚ
޿֥oཬగ౯pb
གྷᄝམམཬᮒሰބ઩ದٳཚ֥ପུo໓ၜگྖൈ௹֥௮ฤpđෙಖ۴ऌ෰ૌ֥ჿק֤၂
॒ࢤ၂॒ӹđ֒઩ದڊՏֹᆷᄳཬᮒሰ၂Ցӹ೘॒ൈđཬᮒሰ߭ճඪđ ୆ᄸહᆩ֡଻Ĥ
઩ದ߭ճğၹູ֒໡၂Ցਆ॒ਆ॒ӹ֥ൈީ୆ીّؓbᆃൈީؽದֻ၂Ցཱਔఏটb

གྷᄝđ୆ૌᄝ߭མ၂༯ᄝoਗ਼ў࿠௎ੀ࠺pᇏઅџ࿠ᄝ֛ഈđ֒෰ؿགྷЌ޹෰૧൳ဝܻ
ᅶഝ֥௮ฤฬࣨࣇ္ି۳Ⴭ෰௮ฤۄѩ൐෰Ќӻࡲूbᄝ൅ϖൗࡀൈ௴ђ၂ᇕࣜ࠶ൌ߲
֥ႂൊ༝ܸb໡ૌᄜ߭ၫ၂༯޳৕ބ௮ฤ֥ܣ൙đପུੳႲႲ֥௮ฤၘಖႵޚ֤਽ᄝ໡

ૌ֥࠺ၫᇏਔb
ೂݔ୆ૌᄇ؀ݖФӫູྍ၂սถࠝጟ֣֥oཬၿބ໡p඀ࠡđఃቔࡅޱνcঘ૎c༐઼
ଽථđཿݖၛ༯၂؍଀ູoФ၌ອ֥௮ฤԱpğ
ପԱ௮ฤႵ໴॒նն֥௮ฤb໡۳ਔົ؟০࿰၂॒đ۳ਔ҃ধव၂॒đ۳ਔઃঘ၂॒đ
۳ਔ஦ஂ၂॒đϜቋު၂॒ᄝཱലބᅧലᆭࡗ۳ਔ௴ঘ෼୶b෰ьॹ෎֤Ⴈ෰ऍն֥࿩

Ԃࢤ൬ਔb
གྷᄝ୆ૌॖၛݧԛପओ༆ϫ࿩ထეਔğᆤൖބ௮ฤೂ၂۱໖၂ဢđ߭໅໭౫b