The Choate dining hall really is not bad. There are fresh greens from the salad bar, soup, a variety of hot dishes, and, of course, cookies. But I am sorry that you have to eat there. This term, I am taking a break from my staple PB&J and pasta at Choate. And after eating Spanish cuisine for a month, I do feel bad for you.

La comida (the main meal in Spain, eaten at two or three) is awesome in the original sense of the word—it inspires awe by the sheer magnitude and variety of food present. Everyday after I am called downstairs with a shout of “A comer!” (To eat!), I am first greeted by a smattering of appetizer-like tidbits: fresh bread (a staple in Galicia), chorizo, oily salad with greens and tomatoes, croquettes, tortilla, and other traditional Spanish bites. If I actually ate a proper serving of the various tapas, I would have consumed more than the average American eats for his or her entire lunch. But this part is not even the first course: it is more of a warm-up to the soup or vegetable course.

The real test for the bravery and stomach-size of the young American comes at the start of the first main course. Thankfully, I will at least try anything put in front of me, even if it still has beady eyes and appears to be moving slightly. How else would I have known that the unappetizing creamy green vegetable soup was actually delicious? The main course that soon follows is typically some combination of meat or fish and potatoes. Sometimes, though, the dish can be much more interesting: last Friday, instead of the usual soup, I was presented with a plate of what appeared to be tiny lobsters, totally intact, eyes and all. Seeing that I looked confused about what I was supposed to do with these odd shellfish, my Spanish father demonstrated how to crack the tail and then eat the meat out of the head. I eventually managed to get into the rich meat in the tail but cautiously avoided the head because of the gray matter that was stuck on the little bit of meat there.

I have discovered that it is best to move through each course as slowly as possible, because, the instant you appear to be done with your chicken, the plate will be snatched away only to be filled up with even more than the original gargantuan serving. Cries of “Un poquito, por favor!” are futile: if anything, they only inspire my Spanish parents to give me more food than they originally planned to. I know that I am on the skinny side, but you would think I had never been fed before coming to Spain if you saw the vigor with which they thrust food in front of me. My parents always ask me at least three times if I want bread or strawberries, and they look shocked when I insist that I could not possibly have another serving of pudding. For this reason, I generally don’t put up much of a resistance when being given more food: I like to think I am making a sacrifice to keep my relations with my Spanish parents running smoothly.

Now you might wonder how the average modern-day Spaniard, who has to go to work and run the kids to their fútbol games, would have time to prepare an extremely labor-intensive, multiple-course meal. For couples in which both members work, these extravagant meals are reserved for weekends and special occasions. Because many younger Spaniards, however, still live within easy driving distance of their parents, they will often return to la familia for weekend meals and even a few weekday meals, enabling them still to eat great Spanish cooking without putting in much effort. Luckily for me, my Spanish parents are part of the older generation that will spend the entire day in the kitchen if doing so can keep one dreaded hamburguesa out of their kids’ mouths. And of my five Spanish siblings, the three who no longer live in the house frequently return to gorge on homemade paella and other-worldly cheesecake.

Traditional Spanish cuisine has a goal other than saving the younger generation from the perils of pizza and McDonald’s: its main purpose is to bring the family together. My family provides an excellent example of this effect, as on some Sundays, I find myself lost in a sea of Spanish siblings and boyfriends and wives and Carmen, my Spanish parents’ first grandchild. An angelic two-month old baby, Carmen will certainly grow up to be a spoiled child, with all the love showered on her from her extensive family.

Meals on these occasions are even grander than usual, with extra courses stuck in (ever heard of the shellfish course?), and can last for hours. Meals in Spain last longer not only because Spaniards eat more slowly, but also because they linger over coffee and dessert, talking about upcoming fútbol matches or gossiping about a Spanish soap opera star. Dessert at the ends of these meals can be incredible: just when you think that whoever made gluttony one of the deadly sins was absolutely right, you are greeted by a fabulous array of cookies, fruit, and the main dessert dish. Yes, on these occasions, even the dessert has courses. The main dessert dish on these weekend meals is always wonderful—from a delicious ice cream and pastry dish, to an airy coconut frosted cake, to the strawberry-topped cheesecake that is everyone’s favorite.

I love the opportunity presented by the long, relaxing meals to practice my Spanish with true natives, or simply to marvel at the rapidity and volume of conversation that occurs anytime a large group of Spaniards gets together. While sampling intriguing shellfish, playing with my little Spanish niece, or laughing at my Spanish siblings’ jokingly butchering the pronunciation of English words, I truly feel like a member of my Spanish family at mealtimes.