I’d wake up to the smell of cornbread muffins. These, she made out of a box, but they were distinctly her: her morning signature. I’d come down to the kitchen and she’d slice one in half for me, put butter on each half, and place the plate in front of me. She buttered with a heavy hand, as she did everything. And it was delicious. She’d sit back as I ate the muffin, a small proud smile on her face. She was a proud woman.
Next, it was time for the activity of the day: Portuguese Soup. Every visit, her house or mine, she made this at least once. And it was a family affair. The day prior, we’d travel to the grocery store, driven by my grandfather. My grandmother sat in the front passenger seat. This is how every car trip went — my grandmother didn’t drive. Prior to his retirement, my grandfather worked two jobs, but he still drove my grandmother to all her errands. Every Saturday, he drove her to get her hair done and waited outside until she was finished. My grandfather was a fiery, impatient guy, but he did this wordlessly, lovingly, consistently. They were a unit.
At the grocery store we’d get short rib, white beans, leeks, kale, and other soup fixings. Now let’s get one thing straight: this was prior to kale’s glow up. In fact, Portuguese Kale Soup was my one exposure to kale in childhood. There was no Kale Yeah! shirt proliferation or signature SweetGreen salad. Kale was an unknown, but my Portuguese roots made me an insider. I felt special to eat this exotic green whose foreignness made it sexy. Traditional Portuguese cuisine appreciated the beauty of the work required to tame the tough green, to massage it and render it soft and malleable.
On The Day Of, we’d soak the beans to soften them. We’d cook the short ribs and set them aside before adding them to the broth. We’d then add in the kale that my grandfather chopped finely. He was the best, as my grandmother always said; nobody chopped as well as he did. The process was all hands on deck. While my grandfather chopped all the vegetables, my grandmother was the head chef, delegating everything to complete her masterpiece. She was the boss. And she was bossy. I liked to stand on a stool and help her put everything in the pot. I appreciated all the prep work required, but I liked to watch the magic. I wanted to see the soup come to life. After adding in the ingredients, we’d have to let the soup sit. And sit. And sit. It was a slow cooking process, and we’d wait all day as our mouths watered. The smell permeated the entire home. It was a heavy smell. It made the air feel dense, but not in a bad way. It felt sturdy, like this tradition was a lasting fixture that took up space.
At dinner time, we’d all sit around the table with warm bread and butter and bowls of soup ladeled from the seemingly bottomless pot. The short ribs were tender and the kale draped around the meat and hung off the spoon as you fed yourself. There were white beans and spices and it was all so tangible and hearty and delicious.
“It’s delicious!”
“God, this is my favorite!”
“It’s so good, Nana!”
“You’ve outdone yourself!”
“Nothing beats this!”
There erupted a resounding chorus of accolades after we all took our first bite in unison. My grandmother’s always at first sat untouched, she instead sat back watching us in order to witness our verdict.
“The short ribs are so darn good” my dad would always say. “Yes, they’re so tender. They’re falling off the bone!” my grandmother would respond proudly. We all would chuckle. They’re falling off the bone. She said this every time. The short ribs always fell of the bone. But, they always did. There was something so special about this meal. There was a togetherness. A deference. It was where my grandmother reigned. We sat around the table, eating together, admiring her hard work. As her sons moved on to lead their own families and plan their lives with their wives and raise their children, Portuguese Soup was the realm where she reigned supreme.
My grandmother prided herself on being a good cook. And we always described her as one. “Nana Myra is the best cook!” I’d say to my poor mother as she made me another delicious daily dinner at home. Was my grandmother a good cook? Apart from Kale Soup, I’d never really seen her make any other meal. She’d make mac & cheese with us, and her corn bread muffins from a box, and every visit, Portuguese Kale Soup from scratch. It wasn’t the cooking that set her apart, it was the magic. She liked providing for us. She liked having her family admire the traditions of her past and her sons’ past. She liked feeding us and she loved feeding my grandfather. Even in his old age, he’d eat at least three bowls of the soup. Sitting at the table like a teenage boy scarfing down plate after plate, endlessly hungry. “He loves my soup.” She took pride in that too. And so did he.
Daily cooking can feel like a box to check, something to fit in between work and fitness and evening relaxation. But with my grandmother, it was the event. You sat down to enjoy her food and learn from her and appreciate her and all be together. We honored her for doing something that my mother did every day, and that I now do every day as an adult. But when my grandmother did it, we honored her because her process demanded honor. She demanded honor.
Daily cooking deserves pride. My mother, roasting chicken for me every night, or making chili, or roasting vegetables… she deserves honor. Cooking for those you love, whether it’s corn muffins from a box or Portuguese Kale Soup from scratch is an act of love that should be celebrated. It’s a process that demands attention and love and appreciation. Everyone eats a meal every evening, and in fact, three times each day. So what is the beauty in slaving over one of the thousands of instances of meals that someone will get in their lifetime? Why should we marvel over a corn muffin from the box and the person who made it? Because their intention deserves appreciation. Sometimes, it is the ephemeral that has the longest impact. The ephemeral stands for more. My grandmother’s legacy is corn muffins and Portuguese Kale soup. And it’s more.
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