My grandmother has two kitchens. There is the “normal” kitchen, which is beside the dining room and is adorned with a gas stove, a refrigerator and a freezer. Then there is the “downstairs kitchen,” which is behind the house, passing the old chicken coup, a hundred plants, and the laundry area. This kitchen has a wood-burning stove. It is a beautiful thing.
About three times a week there is an old man who comes with his donkey loaded with small pieces of wood he collects several kilometers away in the Sertão - the arid landscape down the mountain. This man is the husband of the lady who used to do the laundry at my grandmother’s house for 30 years. She is now retired. Her husband and his donkey have been fueling the yellow stove since my mother was a teenager.
The yellow stove and the wood are together partially responsible for the amazing taste of all my grandmother’s food. Her cooking has been spoken about by many people. It has been written about in several newspapers. People come from far away for the peculiar, and incredibly simple, cooking created in the yellow “downstairs” kitchen.
I was raised by grandmother. I spent my first years playing in this lively kitchen, watching the processes that happened daily - people that came in and out, different dishes being prepared, laughter, coffee being roasted, clothes being ironed... It is a multi-faceted space with lots of history and lots of light. For me, being there is like walking into another time. The images are blurred and out of focus. The smells and the sounds are the same as decades ago. In an era when we are ever more disconnected from any place to which we can attach our history, I feel so very lucky to be a part of this magical space.
