I didn’t move to La Alpujarra for the food. But the food, somehow, became the thing.
Didn’t see that coming.
Back in London, I cooked because I had to. Quick meals, nothing special. A bit of chicken, some pasta, whatever could be thrown together without much thought. Just something to shove in my mouth between work and sleep.
Then I met Rosa.
She sells veg at the market. Tells you what you need before you even ask. One day, I bought some tomatoes, and she looked at me—really looked—and said:
“Too thin. You come to my house.”
That was it. No choice in the matter.
So next thing I know, I’m in her kitchen, wearing a floral apron that smelled like olive oil and fifty years of cooking, standing in front of a frying pan of migas.
“You stir,” she says. No instructions. No patience for hesitation.
I stir. Badly.
A Lesson in Slowing Down
Migas is simple. Just fried breadcrumbs, garlic, olive oil, peppers, chorizo. Farmer’s food. No frills. Just fuel.
“Not fancy, but it fills the belly,” Rosa says, watching me struggle.
And I realise—that’s the thing.
In London, meals were transactional. Here, they’re the event.
No rushing. No shortcuts.
Just chopping. Stirring. Smelling. Talking.
I didn’t know how to do that. Not really.
Stew That Takes Forever (And That’s the Point)
Another day, we make puchero. A chickpea stew. Big pot, slow cook, hours to wait.
While it simmers, Rosa talks. About her mother, her childhood, how the same pot sat on her family’s stove every Sunday for decades.
The smell fills the house. Earthy, rich, warm.
I check the time. She notices.
“Relax,” she says, “it’s not a race.”
And for the first time, maybe in my life, I do.
Pastry Fail (But Not Really)
Then there’s torta de aceite. A sweet pastry made with olive oil and anise.
I suck at it.
Dough too thin, rolling uneven, rushed the whole thing.
“Patience,” Rosa says, shaking her head.
The first batch? Terrible. She laughs. I swear. We drink more wine.
Second batch? Perfect.
Turns out, slowing down works.
More Than Just Food
At first, I thought I was learning to cook.
I wasn’t. I was learning to stop rushing through life.
In London, food was something you ate while doing something else—working, watching TV, answering emails.
Here, it’s the thing itself.
Peeling garlic. Kneading dough. Stirring a pot with a glass of wine in hand.
“Soon,” Rosa says one night, grinning at me, “you’ll cook for the whole village.”
I laugh. But maybe.
Because food, it turns out, isn’t just food. It’s belonging. And I think I finally get that now.