When I’m asked why I like cooking my immediate answer is “because I like it”.
However, reflecting a little, I can find out why I like it.
I was born in my paternal grandparents’ farmhouse and grew up there; and I grew up surrounded by my grandmother’s cooking.
I remember that the best gift I received was an iron stove, a miniature, just like the kitchen stove; and it worked.
With the stove came the respective pots, all to scale. I was happy.
Even the sponge cake (pão de ló) form.
And from there I began my culinary skills.
I grew up and my hobby, always in the company of the grandmother, was to look for recipes in those very old cookbooks, sepia colour, by aging…
We were experimenting. Sometimes with success, sometimes not .
I remember, once at Christmas I cut out some trees and stars that were meant to be sprinkled with cinnamon. Well, I sprinkled them with cumin…
I remember the “pig slaughtering” (northern tradition).
I remember doing up the lampreys.
I remember picnics and lunches at the ploughing and harvesting time and the dinners that were made for guests.
The hustle and bustle of home has always had a special charm on me.
I have always participated with a lot of will and joy; initially by my grandmother’s side, then by myself.
The connection to my grandmother was big and I inherited her likes.
The best jury was my father.
He appreciated being around and sometimes he was delighted; even if it was not at the point, he just said “You have to repeat to clear”. And if the cake did not come out of the form he would ate right from it.
These are the reasons for my passion and I do it at grandmother`s that is “my home”.
Joy conveys itself in the flavours, so the flavours are always good.