I didn’t come to La Alpujarra for the food. Honestly, I was eating like a feral intern in London—microwaved couscous, the odd curry, toast if I remembered I had bread. Food was fuel. Warm stuff to go between spreadsheets and sleep.
And yet somehow, that’s not how it works here.
Not even close.
It started at the market. Órgiva’s. Full sensory overload, smells and noise and fruit that looked like it had been Photoshopped. I wrote about that first trip here. That’s where I met Rosa.
She sells veg like she’s handing out blessings.
And one morning, while I was dithering over tomatoes, she squinted at me like a mechanic diagnosing a bad engine.
“Too thin,” she said. “You come to my house.”
That was the full invitation. No smile. No further info. Just a statement. And somehow, I went.
She handed me an apron, floral, older than me, and motioned toward a pan.
“You stir,” she said, already slicing garlic with a casual elegance that suggested she could also perform surgery if pressed.
I stirred. Badly. With fear.
The pan was full of breadcrumbs—migas. Never heard of it before. Bread fried in oil with garlic, peppers, chorizo. Humble, farmer food. It looked dry. It smelled… powerful.
“It’s not fancy,” Rosa said, not looking at me, “but it feeds the soul. And the belly.”
I nodded like I understood. I didn’t.
Slower Than Boiling Chickpeas
Week later, we made puchero. Chickpea stew. Rosa’s Sunday ritual.
Took five hours. Maybe more. I lost track because at some point, time stopped behaving.
We talked while it simmered. She told me how her mother used to cook the same stew every Sunday. Always in the same pot. Always too much. Always with stories.
The smell filled the house—dense, earthy, oddly moving.
At one point, I checked my phone. Reflex.
Rosa raised an eyebrow, didn’t speak.
I put it down.
Torta Disaster, Round One
Eventually we tackled torta de aceite. Sweet olive oil pastry with anise.
First attempt? Catastrophic. I rolled it too thin, then too thick, forgot the sugar, dropped one on the floor. Rosa sighed like I’d insulted her ancestors.
“Patience,” she said. “It’s not a deadline.”
We drank wine. I swore a bit. She laughed.
Second batch? Edible.
Third batch? Pretty damn glorious.
The Real Recipe
Thing is, it wasn’t about cooking. It took me weeks to see that.
It was about slowing the hell down.
In London, I ate while emailing. Stirred pots while answering Slack. Every meal was half-missed. But here, garlic takes its time. Dough won’t be rushed. And Rosa doesn’t repeat herself.
You learn or you don’t eat.
I thought she was teaching me to cook.
She wasn’t. She was teaching me how to be.
Now I stir without flinching. I taste without checking the clock. I actually know where cumin comes from.
And last week, Rosa said, without looking up from a basket of aubergines, “Soon you cook for everyone.”
I laughed. She didn’t.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is what it means to belong somewhere—not when people invite you in, but when they expect you to host next time.
Either way, I bought new pans. God help me.
