One of the joys of moving to La Alpujarra has been discovering its cuisine—simple, hearty dishes that reflect the character of the region. But more than tasting it, learning to cook it has been an adventure in itself. Rosa, the woman I first met at the market, became my unofficial cooking mentor, inviting me into her kitchen and sharing the secrets of her recipes. What began as an opportunity to learn new skills quickly turned into a series of lessons about tradition, patience, and the value of connection.
Rosa’s kitchen is a cozy little space, its walls lined with jars of preserved fruits and dried herbs. On my first visit, she handed me an apron and said, “Here, we cook with what the land gives us.” That day, we made “migas,” a humble dish of breadcrumbs fried in olive oil with garlic, chorizo, and peppers. As we worked, Rosa explained that the dish originated as a way for shepherds to make use of stale bread. “It’s not fancy,” she said, “but it’s made with love—and it fills you up after a long day in the fields.”
Another favourite lesson was making “puchero,” a traditional Andalusian stew. Rosa showed me how to combine chickpeas, vegetables, and bits of pork in a pot to simmer slowly over several hours. The aroma that filled her kitchen was incredible, a warm blend of spices and rich, earthy flavours. As we waited for the stew to cook, Rosa told me stories about her childhood, how her mother used the same recipe, and how food was always a way to bring the family together.
The most challenging dish we tackled was “torta de aceite,” a sweet, anise-flavoured pastry. Rosa guided me through the delicate process of kneading the dough, infusing it with olive oil and anise seeds, and rolling it into thin, crisp rounds. “Patience,” she said, as I fumbled with the rolling pin. “Good food doesn’t come from rushing.”
Through these lessons, I came to understand that cooking here is about more than just ingredients. It’s about heritage, resourcefulness, and a deep respect for the land. The olive oil we used came from Rosa’s own trees, pressed just days earlier. The vegetables were fresh from her garden, their flavours more vibrant than anything I’d known in London.
But perhaps the greatest lesson Rosa taught me wasn’t about cooking at all. It was about slowing down and appreciating the process. In London, meals had often been hurried affairs, microwaved or eaten on the go. Here, every step—from peeling garlic to stirring a pot—felt meaningful, a way to connect with the food and the people sharing it.
By the end of each lesson, we would sit down to eat, the kitchen table laden with our creations. Sharing those meals, I felt a sense of accomplishment and belonging that was entirely new to me. Rosa would toast with a small glass of local wine and say, “You’re learning, Robert. Soon, you’ll be cooking for the whole village.”
The cuisine of La Alpujarra has become one of my favourite aspects of living here. It’s taught me that food is more than sustenance; it’s a language, a way to tell stories and build connections. And thanks to Rosa, I’ve come to feel a genuine connection through cooking, one that transcends words. These lessons have increased my love for food and for the life and culture of La Alpujarra.