These past two weeks I’ve been cooking, nonstop. Cooking for friends at home. Cooking for friends who’ve given birth. Cooking for expat friends. Cooking for families. Baking cheesecakes on the weekends because I still feel like it, and orders keep coming...

And cleaning. Endless cleaning. My house still looks like a mess. A beautiful, sticky mess.

And I loved it. Not the untidiness — the cooking. The prepping. I loved every single minute of it.

It was a reminder of why I started all of this. Not the Instagram. Not the Substack. The feeding. The sharing.

There’s real satisfaction in knowing someone is eating a healthy, nutritious meal that I made. The same meal I make for us. Some people don’t care that much about health or nutrition or taste — or at least not as much as I do. And that’s fine. It makes me stupidly happy that I get to take care of them anyway, even if it’s just once in a while.

Cooking for people is the reason Room for Siesta exists at all. It gave me purpose during Covid, back when purpose was hard to come by.

Giving back, feeling part of a community — that’s always been the point. I did it weekly for years, in a format that stopped working for me somewhere along the way. It faded out on its own, quietly, the way most things do.

Since becoming a mother I’m more precious with my time. But also more aware of what’s actually in the ingredients. Before feeding a baby, I didn’t know what the dirty dozen list was. I didn’t plan that far ahead either.

Now I feel like I have the capacity to go back to it. To cook for anyone who’d like to eat my food. Homemade, delicious meals. Nothing fancy. But always tasty.

For families or friends. For the ones who’ve just given birth, or the ones stocking their freezer beforehand. For the ones with no time or no cooking skills. For the organised ones and the chaotic ones. Especially the chaotic ones.

Because meal services always feel a bit despersonalizados for my liking. No one’s abuela ever handed them a Tupperware with love baked into it.

I’ve been thinking about a takeaway menu — where people could order, or tell me their preferences. Maybe gift vouchers. Maybe a surprise delivery, so I could take one thing off your mental load without you even asking.

Could be a cute gift for your pregnant friend. Or your postpartum friend, whose body is craving a homemade, slow-cooked beef and not another meal kit box.

Because at the end of the day, the algorithm doesn’t care if you ate well today. I do.

SHARE THIS with whom would be interested on eating my food. Family and friends from The Illawarra. And Sydney? Why not? Let’s cook!

Besitos, Celia 🧡

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Spanish Lentil Stew, My Way

The recipe I hated as a child — and now desperately want to eat.

Today’s recipe was probably one of my most hated meals growing up.

Why? Maybe because I had it too often. Maybe because the lentils were always overcooked and the sauce was too watery. Or maybe I simply decided, at some point, that lentils were a meal for kids.

I’m not quite sure.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped liking them.

And then, almost overnight, I became a grown-up.

Now that I’m apparently supposed to be one, all I want is the lentil stew I used to have as a kid — just made my way, with a little more flavour, a little more texture, and a proper recipe.

So here it is. And I´m glad my child absolutely loves it! - for now.

Spanish Lentil Stew

This is hearty, comforting and deeply savoury, with smoky paprika, cumin, sweet carrots and pork sausages.

And unlike the lentils of my childhood, these are not going to be overcooked or swimming in watery sauce.

Ingredients

• 2 Italian pork sausages — about 250g, but add more if you feel like it

• 1 onion, finely chopped

• 3 garlic cloves, finely chopped

• 3 carrots, sliced

• 3 celery sticks, sliced

• 2 bay leaves

• 2 cups green lentils

• 1 tin chopped tomatoes

• 1.5 litres chicken stock or water (my mom always just uses water)

• Sweet Paprika, 2 teaspoons

• Cumin, 1 teaspoon

• Coriander, 1 teaspoon

• Salt and black pepper, to taste

To serve

• A squeeze of lemon or a splash of white wine vinegar

• Good-quality toasted sourdough or fresh baguette

• Piparras or other piquant chilli peppers

  ---

Method

1. Start with the sausages

Remove the sausages from their casings and break the meat into small pieces.

Heat a little olive oil in a large pot over medium heat and cook the sausage until browned and caramelised.

Don’t rush this part — those little browned bits at the bottom of the pot are where a lot of the flavour comes from.

2. Build the base

Add the onion, and garlic and cook for a couple of minutes.

Add carrots and celery. Cook for about 8–10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables soften.

Add bay leaves, paprika and cumin. Cook for another minute or two, just until everything smells amazing. - but without burning the paprika.

3. Add the lentils

Add the lentils and chopped tomatoes, then pour in the chicken stock.

Give everything a good stir and bring it to a gentle boil.

4. Let it simmer

Reduce the heat to low, cover with a lid and let everything simmer gently for about 30–40 minutes.

Stir occasionally.

You want the lentils to be tender but still have a little bite, and the sauce to be thick, rich and spoonable. The tomatoes should be melted in the sauce.

If it starts looking too thick, add a little more stock or water. Until the whole thing becomes one.

5. Taste and finish

Remove the bay leaves.

Taste and adjust the seasoning — more salt or pepper if needed.

And then comes my favourite part:

Grate a lemon and squeeze some of its juices in it. Or a splash of white wine vinegar just before serving.

That little bit of acidity wakes everything up.

Serve it properly

Ladle the lentils into bowls and serve with really good toasted sourdough or a fresh baguette.

Add a few piparras on the side for that sharp, vinegary kick. And a pinch of flaky salt.

And if you’re anything like me, you’ll want to drag the bread through the bottom of the bowl to get every last bit of sauce.

Maybe I never hated lentils after all.

Maybe I just hated the way they were made. Perdón mamá.

PS: leave a comment if you have any questions. It´s late and i don´t even know what I´m writting. I just want to rush to the couch and watch Off Campus. Alone. Undisturbed. Untouched.

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On Monday, my country won the World Cup. I woke up at 5am to watch it happen. Pitch black. PJs on. Headphones on. Just me, under a blanket, completely alone.

Nobody in my house even knew the game was on.

MONDAY — THE WIN NOBODY SAW

I headed to the gym at 6:30 because nothing else was happening and I needed to move my body. I scanned the room for someone, anyone, watching the same screen. An accomplice. A friend. A supporter.

The only goal went in. An old lady near me groaned in disappointment. I looked at the score. Spain had scored. I hated her.

I looked around, full of joy. No one responded.

I drove home and fed my baby breakfast. I told my partner we won. He didn’t care. He didn’t ask. I took a shower and went on with my day like nothing happened — while thousands of people were out drinking and hugging and crying in the streets of Spain, having the best night of their summer. I just pushed my pram down the park. Alone.

That night I didn’t feel like cooking, so I quickly sniffed some leftover chili from before a trip to Brisbane and decided it was fine. Everything’s always fine to me. I never get sick.

I got REALLY sick. Food poisoned myself. How lovely.

TUESDAY — THE CRASH

My baby and I spent the whole morning on the couch watching Bluey. We — the two of us who are never home during the day, the kid who’s never watched a screen — just sat there under a blanket. Him smiling like he’d never smiled before. Me feeling absolutely miserable.

I went to bed at 7:30pm and woke up at 6am, completely recovered. Full of energy.

When was the last time I slept that long? When was the last time I woke up on my own — no alarm watch, no baby screaming me awake?

WEDNESDAY — THE LIGHT

The sun was out. Matcha and friends. Kids playing on their own. The ocean sparkling. Everyone happy. I felt light, almost hollowed out from the sickness. I loved my life.

THURSDAY — BACK TO SOLO

We went to the orchard. Had a great time. But I felt far away, like my body was somewhere else entirely. I just wanted a break. To be back in Spain. To not carry all this weight on my shoulders alone.

I feel like at this stage of life, I’m just waiting.

Waiting for the postman to bring me something. New clothes. Skincare. Maybe an LED face mask. Maybe someone telling me how big a crush they have on me — because I’m incredible, and I’m the best mum, and the best chef, and I deserve something. Or at least something easy.

Because nothing ever feels like it’s changing. I wake up at 6am. Go to the gym. Eat my protein. Hit my 10k steps. Drink my water. Post my weekly Instagram videos. Write my weekly Substack post. Limit my screen time. Clean. Organise. Be a good girl.

But nothing changes. The house is never clean. I still don´t look like a model. There´s no success. No Cherry Bombe cover. No cookbook deal. No US book tour. No lifetime EVOO subscription. No Rhode freebies. No free stay in the Maldives. No “what’s in my bag” video. No ad deal. No money. No nothing. Not even enough spare cash to spend on Depop or Vinted, the way I’d like to.

My blood test results came back. I’m totally fine. Which was almost disappointing — some small part of me was hoping they’d find something.

Can I have postpartum depression at almost two years after giving birth?

Being a full-time mother, solo parenting most of the time, with my entire family and support system on the other side of the world, is wild.

Maybe I just have Mad´s post-birthday-party depression. I just want to be out with beautiful women all the time, pretending — for one night — that I’m not a mother or a wife. Just Celia.

Maybe sometime soon.

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Today’s recipe is my consolation prize. The warm hug I need sometimes. Something sweet, but not too sweet. Something with cinnamon essence that can uplift the mood with just one spoonful.

Arroz con leche

It surprised me how many people already know it. Rice pudding, as everyone else calls it. I always thought it was just a Spanish dessert from the Basque Country. I guess there have always been farmers everywhere — turning rice and milk into comfort, in every corner of the world.

Ingredients

• 100g bomba rice

• 1 litre full-fat milk

• 240ml cream

• 100g sugar

• 2 cinnamon sticks

• Peel of 1 lemon

• Ground cinnamon, for dusting

Method

Start by rinsing the rice well under cold water. Let it soak for about 10 minutes, then drain and rinse once more.

In a medium saucepan, combine the milk, cream, rice, cinnamon sticks, and lemon peel. Bring everything gently to a boil, then reduce the heat to low.

Let it simmer slowly, stirring every five minutes to prevent the bottom from catching. This is not a rushed process — the magic happens in the gradual thickening.

After about 15–20 minutes, stir in the sugar. Continue cooking and stirring until the mixture becomes luxuriously smooth and the rice softens to the point where the grains almost melt into the cream.

This usually takes around 30–40 minutes in total.

Once you’re happy with the texture — thick, glossy, and spoon-coating — remove it from the heat. Let it cool slightly for about five minutes, then discard the cinnamon sticks and lemon peel.

Serve warm with a generous dusting of ground cinnamon.

Notes

I love this best while it’s still warm, when the texture is at its silkiest. But it’s just as good chilled — thickened further after a night in the fridge, becoming something closer to a soft custard.

Either way, it’s comfort in a bowl.

Besitos, Celia.

PS: leave me in the comments if this is how you make your rice pudding! :)

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Summer fairs are happening all over Spain right now, and I have full-blown FOMO. Another euro summer I'm missing — even though it's the middle of July, which here in Australia means the middle of winter.

I miss summer fairs. The anticipation of them. Even though they're always exactly the same — same food, same music, same everything — it still feels nostalgic. The thought of a whole crowd knowing every pop song by heart and singing it out loud together makes me want to be there so badly.

Every 15th of July I remember it's la feria del Carmen. The summer fair of my hometown neighborhood.

Every summer there were two important dates. One was the feria del Carmen. And the other was la Feria — the big one, the one for the whole town.

I used to get so excited about it with my best friend at the time. As kids, it was all about which rides would show up, what new toys and bracelets we'd buy with our grandparents' pocket money.

By the time we were teenagers, it was about which fake handbags and sneakers would be on display. We'd do what we called la putivuelta — slow laps around the fairground, over and over, hoping to cross paths with our summer crush. We'd smoke a sneaky cigarette on the curb, feeling like adults, feeling cool — even though we absolutely were not. My friend coughed every single time and swore he'd never smoke again.

I really miss that. And I really miss him.

I miss the summers you only get when you're still in school. The repetition of the exact same summer, over and over. Being in one place. The excitement of not knowing what the new school year would bring. And I miss the zurra — that white wine punch everyone's abuela pretends not to drink too much of — and the pinchos.

Pinchos morunos, rotisserie chicken, and churros con chocolate: the perfect trifecta of any summer fair. At least where I grew up.

I only got to enjoy it twice a year. When the traveling little bars rolled into town and set up their plastic tables and chairs under white paper tablecloths. Restaurants appearing out of nowhere. The pollo asado vans — hundreds of chickens turning slowly on a spit until the skin goes deep amber and starts doing more advertising than any sign ever could. Drippings served with capsicum and fries.

Every table had its own old-school silver napkin dispenser, the kind that never actually soaks up any oil but always thanks you for your visit anyway.

I really miss it. The family you only see once a year. Your grandma's old friend, who tells you either how beautiful you've become or how much weight you've put on — no in-between. The helium balloons shaped like knockoff Disney characters. The oil smell drifting from the churro fryer. The noise. The heat. The sheer familiarity of all of it.

Fucking hell. I'm so homesick.

I'm writing this in my Notes app while my toddler sleeps on me on our flight to Brisbane. It's bizarre sometimes, being a mother. Knowing I'll never again be the kid getting excited over rides and cotton candy.

There's no feria in Brisbane. No churro smoke, no plastic chairs, no old silver napkin dispensers thanking me for my visit. Just me, a sleeping toddler, and a whole childhood I can only get back on the notes app of my phone.

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Spain is pinchos morunos country, and has been for longer than anyone can explain to you with a straight face. Moorish spice roots — cumin and paprika worked deep into pork or lamb, threaded tight, cooked fast over real heat until the edges char and the middle stays stupidly tender. Always on metal skewers, always over stale bread to catch the oils.

Today I’m sharing what I’m missing.

I hope you like them.

Pinchos Morunos

Ingredients

- 1kg lamb shoulder or pork

- 3 garlic cloves

- 1 onion

- 2 tsp sweet paprika

- 1 tsp spicy paprika

- 2½ tsp turmeric

- 2 tsp cumin

- 2 tsp ginger

- 2 tbsp parsley, fresh or dry

- Salt and black pepper, to taste

- 1 cup EVOO

- Lemon, to serve

Method

1. Cut the lamb into 1–3cm cubes and add to a bowl.

2. Blend all marinade ingredients (except the lemon) into a thick but pourable paste.

3. Coat the lamb well and let it marinate — minimum 4 hours, but overnight is best.

4. The next day, pull the lamb out an hour before cooking so it can come to room temperature.

5. Thread 4–5 pieces onto each skewer.

6. Cook over medium heat on a pan or BBQ.

7. Finish with a squeeze of lemon.

Besitos, Celia 🧡

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I just came back from a second-hand market with three new tops and a pair of shoes. - Another pair of shoes? YES, because the only thing it doesn’t seem to change in my body is the size of my feet.

Impulsive buys. Excessive spending. It was actually only $150 — but for me, these days, that still feels like A LOT.

Why do I do this? Because I’m tired. I’m bored. The endless loop of full-time parenting eats me alive some days. The slow life of a coastal town is, sometimes, just too slow.

These days the only new clothes I buy are from Depop, op shops, random markets, or whenever I’m back in Madrid. The one time I actually go to Uniqlo or Zara and try something on in a real changing room feels like an event. It’s wild.

I grew up in a big city where everything was available, always. Where everyone seems to care about what are they wearing.

So I took it for granted. It used to take me literally just 15 minutes, door to door, to get from my house to my favorite Zara—the one on Gran Vía, simply because the building is beautiful. I just had to hop on the metro, and I’d be there after only four stops.

Now every little outing feels like a small, precious window — a chance to try something new, because who knows when it’ll come around again.

I didn’t value it back then. Now, I realize that kind of accessibility is priceless.

I’ve started baking more too. For us, for friends, for my son… just for fun. Just to try something new.

Because honestly? I like my own sweets more than anything I could buy from a shop. And the best part is I decide what goes in — how much sugar, which ingredients.

Cooking and baking your own treats might be the most beautiful way to look after yourself. And the people you love.

It’s been a long week of a toddler refusing to nap and IKEA furniture waiting to be built.

My partner’s away, which means I can’t really be bothered cooking much. I’m back to my two big salads and the two mains I rotate every single night.

Before becoming a mum, leftovers felt second-class. Uninteresting. Lame. I never wanted them — I always wanted something fresh, something new.

Now? A leftover meal feels luxurious. A frozen meal feels like a win. Like a hug from my past self, who knew exactly what I’d need.

Sometimes I eat the same dinner three nights in a row and it feels amazing. I know exactly what time I’ll eat. The washing up is minimal. My shower can run long.

There’s an extra hour to just sit on the couch — alone, in silence.

That’s what a leftover meal means to me now.

Today I’m sharing my new favourite dessert: flan. Or crème caramel — whatever you want to call it. Something small, something delicate. Perfect for a sunny winter afternoon.

Best eaten standing at the counter, once the baby’s finally asleep. And, today, to celebrate Spain winning this morning’s game.

Silky, caramelised, and so light you could eat ten in a go. This is the dessert that every grandma has served on Spanish tables for centuries - and for good reason.

No shortcuts. No twists. Just a little patience and a little faith.

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Favourite Flan

Serves 8ish | 1h 45 minutes

Ingredients

• 4 egg yolks

• 100g sugar
  + more to make the caramel

• 250 g Whole milk

• 250 g Cream

For the caramel - melt sugar slowly in a crazy hot pan until deep amber. Don’t rush it. Don’t touch it. Trust it.

Mix the cream and milk together. Really gently, we want to avoid any bubbles.

Pour into your mould, add your milk and cream mix, bake in a bain-marie low and slow. Four about 1h and 15 minutes. Refrigerate overnight.

Unmould with confidence.

That’s it. That’s the recipe.

Save this for the weekend. Your table deserves it.

P.S. This flan is pretty runny, what I personally, kind of love. Because everything is about textures.

Besitos, Celia.

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“What are you talking about, sweet?” he said. “You’re doing an incredible job as a mom and a wife. Isn’t that enough?”

It was so nice to hear.

But somehow, I still felt incomplete.

I can’t help wanting my career to succeed — to make an income while still being a full-time mom.

On the days I don’t cook for fun, or I don’t create content for Instagram, I feel like a failure. Like I’m stuck. Like nothing will ever happen.

And honestly? That’s a pretty sad way to think. My life is SO rich in SO many ways — and no one actually cares whether I post on the evil algorithm today. Meanwhile I’m piling this insane pressure on myself, on top of an already endless to-do list, that’s probably completely unnecessary.

What I actually want is to be a better mom. More present. More relaxed.

Instead of trying to do everything at once:

My steps.

My protein.

My thirty plants a week.

My skincare.

Reading instead of scrolling.

My weekly Substack.

Two Instagram videos a week...

Raising a toddler. Doing the washing. Vacuuming the house. Doing the dishes. Vacuuming the house again. Meal prepping. Healthy snacks. Bath time (again).

What is his toothbrush doing under my doona? Where is the other shoe?

Please, please, PLEASEEEEE!!!! get off there!!

If I could just let go of some of that pressure, it would be better for everyone.

I find myself constantly frustrated by my own lack of control.

Sometimes I just want to meet a friend and have a proper conversation over coffee — instead of sitting on a piece of wood overlooking a carpark, because that’s where my toddler wants to be.

And if I try to redirect him, he’ll make it very clear — to me, and to everyone back in Spain — that this exact spot is where he wants to be. Nowhere else. Definitely nowhere I’d actually want to be.

Parenting a toddler boy is hard work. Especially without any real support. No family nearby. No help.

This week I’ve been feeling low and far away. I’ve been surrounded by the most beautiful friends every day, but my mind still feels like it’s somewhere else entirely.

I’ve been so tired lately that I finally got a blood test done — just to check if it’s motherhood, or another deficiency I need to start to taking care off too.

Let’s be honest.

I might never be a successful cookbook author.

I might never have beautiful, polished long nails.

I might never confidently wear low-rise jeans.

So I decided to stop fighting all of it.

And just surrender.

This Sunday, I made paella. P-A-E-L-L-A. Not paelllllla, not pallella, none of that. Paella. Even if it’s not technically an “authentic” paella — it’s what we call it in my house, so that’s what it is.

The Sunday Ritual

Every Friday, my mom makes tortilla. Every Sunday, paella. And I think I like it that way.

The routine. The tradition. The mental relief of knowing that, every single week of your life, those two meals are already decided. You get two whole days off from having to invent something new.

I made it my mom’s way — the only way I know. She never measures anything, never writes anything down. So it tastes a little different every time.

But this time, I wrote mine down.

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Mamá’s Paella (The Way We Actually Make It)

Serves 5-6 | 45 minutes

This isn’t science. Quantities depend on your taste and the size of your paella pan.

Ingredients

• 400–500g bomba rice

• 1.5L fish stock (homemade is better)

• 500g prawns

• 2 squid tubes

• 750g frozen clams

• 2 small monkfish fillets, or any firm white fish

• ½ onion

• 3 garlic cloves

• 1 bay leaf

• ¼ cup passata

• 1 tbsp tomato paste

• 1 tsp paprika

• 1–2 tsp paella seasoning

Step 1 — Make the stock

Peel and devein your prawns, keeping the heads and shells — that’s where the flavor lives.

Heat a couple of spoons of olive oil in a medium pot. Add the prawn heads and shells and smash them with a wooden spoon to release the juices.

Once bright red and smelling incredible, add 1.5L of water. Cover, reduce to low, and simmer for 30–45 minutes.

Step 2 — Build the sofrito

In your paella pan, heat a generous amount of olive oil with the onion, garlic, and bay leaf.

Cook 3–4 minutes until the onion turns translucent, then add the passata, tomato paste, and a pinch of salt.

Let it cook low and slow for about 5 minutes, until sticky and caramelized. This is where the flavor starts.

Step 3 — Seafood, then rice

Add the chopped squid and cubed fish. Cook for a couple of minutes, just until they turn opaque.

Stir in the rice, spreading it in an even layer across the bottom of the pan.

Step 4 — Layer it beautifully

Pour in the stock, then arrange the prawns and clams on top — take your time here. Wherever you place them is where they’ll stay once it’s cooked.

Step 5 — Cook (and don’t touch it)

Cook over high heat for 10 minutes. Taste a grain of rice from the edge closest to the wall of the pan — that’s the part furthest from the heat, and the last to cook.

Still hard? Drop the heat to the minimum. Nearly there? Drop to medium and cook 10 more minutes.

There should be no liquid left. If there is, keep going until it fully evaporates — you’ll know it’s ready the second you catch a faint toasted smell (not burnt!) rising from the bottom. That’s your socarrat, and it’s the best bit.

Step 6 — Rest, then serve

Cover with a clean tea towel and let it rest for 5 minutes.

Serve immediately with lemon wedges.

The Golden Rule

The paella stays in the middle of the table. Everyone serves themselves from the section closest to them. Don’t be rude.

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I hope you make it.

Besitos, Celia

PS: This week’s obsessions:

• The super green salad I´ve been having for lunch everyday

• Huberman lab podcast about the lymphatic system

• IG videos about lymphatic massage

• Face taping

• cookbook as my relaxing retreat

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We said goodbye to a new friend — one we’ll probably never see again.

It was love at first sight. My baby and this little girl clicked from the very first second. They ran together for over an hour — hand in hand, sharing smiles, swinging in sync, high-fiving, playing drums on everything in reach. So special. So purely, ridiculously cute.

No language needed. (And we’re not going to judge the fact that she was three years older.)

And then I thought: how strange, to share something so real with someone — and then just... never see them again. How volatile a child’s life is. How soft and open they are to the world, before the world teaches them not to be.

I was reminded of my last nanny job a few years ago. When it ended, I found myself genuinely wanting to stay in touch with that kid. But toddlers don’t have phones, so I couldn’t exactly text and ask: Hey, what’s up? How are things? Do you miss me too? Are you still into Kangaroo Beach?

There’s something about connections with children that hits differently. So completely present — no agenda, no small talk, no follow-up. Just pure, uncomplicated love.

Our new little friend was, I suppose, a one-day stand.

It’s been a beautiful week.

Friday brought cheap pizza and friends, and an Aperol Spritz after a month sober that sent my brain on a very needed mini vacation.

Saturday, the most beautiful couple had us over for the most beautiful lunch to celebrate the winter solstice.

And Sunday I started a new rule: I’m going analog. No phone unless it’s an actual call. Photos only on my camera. Music only on tapes or records. My new absolute favourite thing. We had a picnic on the shortest afternoon of the year — full of happy, chaotic kids, golden light, and the particular kind of peace that only comes when you’re not documenting everything.

Life has felt a little off since my favourite café closed for renovations. More social planning is suddenly required, and it’s easier to slip into that particular loneliness that comes with motherhood — the one nobody really warns you about.

So, as always, I found comfort in the kitchen.

And I found new things to get obsessive about. Which, for a solo parent 80% of the time, is basically my coping mechanism. Every week there’s something: a podcast, a meal, a show, a snack, a book, a record, a purchase I research extensively and never actually buy.

This week’s obsessions:

• Selfdom podcast

• Monica Brooks’ tapes

• Roxie Nafousi’s Manifest

• My dry brush

• Scrolling activewear sales and pretending I would look like that

(To be fair: I have been training. I’ve even started running with the pram when my partner’s work schedule rules out the gym. I’m letting myself be proud of that.)

But the real star of the week? My mum’s squid stew. My version of it, anyway.

What I love most is how quickly it comes together — and how deeply nourishing it feels. My partner took one spoonful and said: “it tastes like Spain.”

That’s the whole review. That’s everything.

My mum’s (ish) squid stew

Serves 2–3 | 45 minutes

Ingredients

• ½ onion, finely chopped

• 3 garlic cloves, diced

• A generous splash of white wine

• A pinch of saffron (or a little yellow food colouring)

• 3–4 tablespoons of almond meal

• 1.5L fish stock (homemade is best, but no judgement)2 squid tubes

• 2 white fish fillets (I’m Spanish and I still can’t remember the name of the fish I bought — bass grouper? Toothfish? Something very Australian)

• 3 medium potatoes, cut into chunks

Method

1. Cook the onion and garlic in a generous amount of olive oil, low and slow, for about 10 minutes — until soft, sweet, and totally surrendered.

2. Add the white wine and let it reduce until the alcohol has fully evaporated.

3. Pour in the fish stock and bring to a boil.

4. Add the fish and squid, cut into bite-sized pieces, and simmer for 15 minutes.

5. Steep the saffron in a small cup of boiling water for a couple of minutes, then stir in the almond meal until you have a thick paste.

6. Add the paste to the stew and simmer for another 10 minutes.

7. Taste, season with salt and pepper, and serve immediately.

Both fish and squid should be so tender they dissolve the moment they hit your tongue.

I hope you make it.

Besitos, Celia

P.S. If you made it this far, or if you try the recipe — a like or a comment means more than you know. It’s the fuel that keeps me going.

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1. I finished a show that really made me laugh. Like, really laugh. -Envious, on Netflix. It was my retreat when I´ve got the flu, and it has always been there for me when I´m feeling low.

2. I had to cut my nails after three months of growing them. For someone who has always been a tomboy working in hospitality, growing my nails felt like a big accomplishment. So I had to start from the beginning, because — annoyingly — they kept breaking with all my cooking and cleaning.

Why does it seem so impossible that feeling feminine and being responsible for a normal amount of household chores can´t go hand in hand? When will I be able to wear something white again? When?!

I’ve been solo parenting for another two weeks. And looking after a toddler is like getting a raise without the money.

I’m exhausted and overstimulated. And I feel guilty and like a bad mother half of the time.

I’m sick of becoming the kind of mum who can’t stop yelling NOOO at her kid every five minutes. And it’s not about messing around the house, eating crumbs off the floor, or trying to open the toilet cleaner with a cute: Duckie! It’s just about his safety — he keeps trying to walk straight into the ocean like he’s Alfonsina Storni. While I can’t stop yelling and feeling like the worst mother on the entire planet.

Things that kept me sane lately:

My early morning walks to the beach in almost complete silence. My baby is quite busy chewing on his banana while my mind is completely blank — not chewing on anything.

Listening to Josh Cohen as soon as we get home. It’s relaxing and beautiful. It makes me feel more human and keeps me sane.

Talking to my parents at the end of the day. They do all the talking and all the entertaining, and they make me feel like there’s another world out there.

My easy dinner bowls — all the veggies about to expire, roasted in the oven with rice cooked in bone broth and a batch of minced beef I’d cooked ahead (also about to expire, of course). Yummy, healthy, and easy.

Dinners used to be the biggest joy of my day. Time to slow down and properly enjoy a meal. Now my dinners are with a toddler on my lap, so my enjoyment has shifted to just the tiniest piece of chocolate (guilt, obviously) and a hot tea once he’s in bed. I know — I sound like an eighty-year-old.

There are also glimpses of deep happiness during the week.

Like taking him to toddler time and watching him get so excited about bubbles that I couldn’t help but cry a little, because it breaks my heart how cute he is and how lucky we are.

Someone I’ve admired and followed for years started following me back on Instagram, and it felt like the biggest achievement of my career.

Or making from scratch the packet soup I used to love as a kid, as a teenager, and — let’s be honest — as a fully grown woman during my first Covid. And realising it tasted exactly the same. But obviously healthier and better.

I’m getting heaps of cheesecake orders and a couple of small catering jobs. It’s been a lot of work. But at the end of the day, I feel so proud of myself. The house is clean. My to-do list is finished. All my cooking and baking is done and put away. I just feel so accomplished.

We also went to Sydney, and it was incredible. Just wandering around with nothing to do. A cheeky browse through Mecca. A cheeky Rhode purchase, because at almost 36 I’ve become obsessed with Hailey Bieber — why? I’m not entirely sure. Because she just looks incredible? A few lovely meals and frozen yoghurt with my cute little date.

It’s been a good time.

So today I’m sharing that packet soup I was — and still am — obsessed with. But the from-scratch version.

I hope you like it, besitos Celia.

SOPA DE ESTRELLITAS

Ingredients

• 1 medium chicken (I use everything except the breast)

• 1 large carrot, peeled

• 1 onion, peeled

• 1 leek

• 1 bay leaf

• 2 teaspoons onion powder

• 2 teaspoons garlic powder

• Salt, to taste

• Soup pasta or star pasta

• 2 litres water

Method

1. Make the stock

Place the chicken, carrot, onion, leek, bay leaf, and water in a large pot.

You can cook it in a slow cooker for 24–48 hours if that’s your thing. I used a pressure cooker for 1½ hours because patience is not one of my culinary virtues.

Once cooked, strain the broth into a large bowl, separating the vegetables and chicken. Discard the bay leaf.

2. Build the soup

Blend the cooked vegetables until smooth.

Return half of the broth to the pot and stir in the blended vegetables. If you’d like a richer golden colour, add a pinch of saffron.

Season generously with salt, onion powder, and garlic powder.

3. Add the pasta

Bring the soup to a gentle boil.

Add the soup pasta and cook for 5–6 minutes, or according to the package instructions, until tender.

4. Finish

For an extra boost of protein and flavour, shred some of the cooked chicken and stir it back into the soup.

Serve immediately. Or freeze for the days ahead when you will be exhausted and overstimulated.

I hope you like it, besitos Celia.

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Not dinner. Not a sad desk salad inhaled between meetings. Lunch.

Or at least it was before globalization, productivity culture, takeaway options, and the obsession with always being busy arrived and quietly changed the way we live.

When I was little, siesta time was sacred. Even if nobody actually slept.

Lunch wasn’t just eating. It stretched into sobremesa — staying at the table long after the plates were empty. Talking. Resting. Sharing. Existing without rushing onto the next thing.

That’s the part I think we’ve lost.

A normal lunch was usually two courses or a hearty stew, fresh bread from the bakery, and dessert. In my house, dessert was always fruit. It still is.

When I was at school, we had two full hours for lunch because almost everyone went home to eat. From1:30-3:30pm. Most children had a mother or grandmother waiting with food already on the table.

Very few kids stayed at school for cafeteria food.

Looking back now, it feels almost unreal.

My favourite meal was macarrones con chorizo. Obviously. Every millennial I know grew up eating some version of it. Every family made it differently. Every kitchen smelled slightly different.

And isn’t it funny how, as children, we always thought food tasted wrong at our friends’ houses?

I used to hate the macarrones with chorizo they served at summer camp. We ate it constantly. Eventually I loved it purely because it became familiar.

At summer camp, we didn’t eat from lunch boxes sitting on the grass somewhere. We took a bus into town and ate at the local restaurant like adults, ordering from the menú del día.

Again: a first course, a second course, and dessert.

And the waiter would somehow manage to take orders from a chaotic group of thirty 6-year-olds.

The restaurant was called Tío Pepe. Even though it was only a five-minute walk from what is still my home in Tomelloso, back then it felt like the furthest place in the world.

Now I’ve become Australianised. Maybe even Americanised.

Lunch in our house is usually eggs in some form — boiled, scrambled, omelette — with bread, avocado, salad. Something quick. Something cold. Something efficient.

And honestly? Sometimes that makes me sad.

The days fill up too quickly with activities, errands, obligations. Since breakfast, we’re usually out of the house. Dinner has become the only meal where we slow down enough to really sit together.

So this week I wanted to reconnect with the little girl I used to be and cook something different for my baby. Something comforting. Something slower. Something from home.

So here’s my favourite childhood recipe.

This time with gluten-free pasta because apparently I’m now the kind of adult who makes health decisions based on vague personal theories.

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Macarrones con tomate

Ingredients

• 1 medium onion, finely chopped
• 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
• 2 chorizos (around 200g)
• 2 cups passata
• Macaroni pasta
• Cheese to serve

Method

Cook the onion slowly in olive oil over low heat for about 10 minutes, until soft, sweet, and slightly golden. Don’t rush this part — this is where the magic starts.

Remove the chorizo from its casing, chop into small pieces, and add to the onion. Let it cook for a couple of minutes until the oils turn everything gloriously red and smoky.

Add a splash of white wine if you have some open. If not, spiritually pretend you did.

Pour in the passata and let everything simmer gently for around 15 minutes, until the sauce thickens and turns rich and slightly caramelised.

Meanwhile, cook your pasta in heavily salted water.

Mix the pasta through the sauce like your life depends on it.

Then either:

• serve immediately with cheese on top, OR

• bake until bubbling and golden if you want maximum comfort-food energy.

I used vintage cheddar because that’s what was in the fridge and somehow it absolutely slapped.

I hope you make it and love it.

Un besito,
Celia

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And even though I think my baby is teething again and I’m running on broken sleep — it feels so good to sleep in my own bed.

Being away reminded me of how rich our lives actually are. Not in money. In everything else.

Things I’ve been loving lately

1. Cooking for the joy of it.

Not to tick a box. Just playing — making sauces, pairing ingredients, roasting different vegetables every day. This week I made a big pot of chili con carne for cook club, and honestly, I treat cook club like my personal postpartum meal train. I always crave warmth and meat. And even though none of those moms have newborns anymore, their lives are so busy and packed looking after others that a chili con carne felt exactly right.

2. Back to decaf.

Long blacks. No guilt. I haven’t been coping well with stress lately — not big stress, just those small moments through the day where your kid has unlimited potential to get hurt, your house has unlimited potential to be destroyed, and your partner has been working so hard as the sole provider that weekends away feel like the norm. Cutting the caffeine won’t fix any of that. But I feel a little calmer, a little more relaxed. And that counts.

3. Reading in bed at night.

I used to read so much before becoming a mum, and this year I’m trying to get back into it — even if the window is tiny. My brain works differently. Quieter, slower. No screens, no scroll. I sleep better for it. I feel more who I used to be.

4. FaceTime with my parents.

The time difference is now 8 hours instead of 10, and that gap matters more than I expected. Watching my baby interact with them — the way he recognises their voices, remembers their jokes — makes me so deeply, quietly happy.

5. More vegetables. More fibre. More intention.

I just needed one hungover day to remember how good it feels to actually take care of myself. I’m not in my twenties anymore — I can feel bloated for days with just a slice of bread and a couple of drinks. So I’m eating as diversely as I can and tracking my 30 plant points each week. Am I a wellness nerd? Yes, completely. To the point of hyperfixation sometimes — my head needs to latch onto something it can control. This is the thing it chose. I’m fine with it.

6. Dinner before 6:30pm.

Days are shorter now and evenings feel later. Getting everything done by 7:30 — house reset, baby clean, kitchen closed — gives me a pocket of time that’s just mine. I digest better. I wake up feeling incredible. It’s a small thing that changed everything.

7. Lifting weights.

Moving my body again. Lifting weights even when I feel completely unfit and like I’ve thrown out the window all the progress I built this year. Going for longer, faster runs. Being away — or my partner being away — means I never get a break, and without breaks, everything falls apart. Getting back to it feels like returning to myself.

8. The Sesame Street CD in Spanish.

We play on repeat in the car. It’s a silly thing. But it absolutely makes my day, every single time. Our little inside joke.

9. Opening the fridge at 5pm to cook club meals.

Beautifully labelled, stacked, ready. My mental load gets a break. Every meal different, every one delicious — better than any takeaway, made with actual love. I cannot overstate how much this matters.

10. My Selfdom gratitude journal.

Just five minutes. Morning and night, I stop and write down what I’m grateful for. Even on the hard days. Even when I’m exhausted. We have a roof, our health, delicious food, a beautiful community, and the ocean one street away. It’s worth stopping to remember that.

So today I’m sharing the recipe I’ve made for fun this week. Charred cabbage with a Smokey capsicum sauce.

Charred Cabbage with Smoky Capsicum Sauce

Ingredients

Cabbage

• half cabbage - any colour works or try radicchio.

Capsicum sauce

• 450g of roasted red capsicum, homemade or from a jar

•   ½ cup dry roasted almonds (tamari almonds would be delicious too)

•   ¼ cup sun-dried tomatoes

•   3 garlic cloves

•   1 tablespoon sherry vinegar or red wine vinegar

• 1 teaspoon of honey 

• 1 teaspoon pimentón de La Vera or smoked paprika

•   ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper

•   ½ cup EVOO

• Salt and pepper to taste

+ To finish: flaky toasted almonds, fresh dill, flaky salt — and a sneaky drizzle of hot honey if you’re feeling it.

Method

Cut the cabbage in half and char it in a hot pan with a little olive oil — a couple of minutes per side. Transfer to the oven at 180°C for 30 minutes, until the centre is completely soft.

For the sauce: blend everything together until silky smooth.

To plate: sauce on the base, charred cabbage on top, finished with toasted almonds, flaky salt, fresh dill, and a drizzle of good olive oil.

It looks impressive, tastes incredible, and takes almost no effort.

Besitos , Celia.

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It actually is.

We came home. And then we left again.

My almost-19-month-old beautiful boy has been on 11 planes so far in 2026. Eleven.

The family is still on tour.

I’m writing my weekly Substack sitting in yet another bed that isn’t mine. My baby sleeps beside me in another borrowed travel cot — with incredible views of the Brisbane Botanic Gardens from the 68th floor.

It still feels insane. How much we’ve traveled this year. How absent my partner has been too.

And yet — I feel like I’m living a dream. Even though it’s not my own career making any of this possible.

I feel so, so grateful to escape the routine and the bubble of full-time motherhood.

For a year and a half, I’ve been almost entirely on my own. In our little house by the sea. With my routines, my schedules, my rhythms — which, knowing me, means holding myself to an impossibly high standard. As a mother, as a wife, as the one who holds everything together.

Traveling gives me permission to let that go. Because not everything is under my control anymore — and honestly? What a relief.

I can’t cook as much. I have fewer boxes to tick. I let go a little more. And I have the immense luck that my baby follows our rhythm, apparently happy to go from one place to the next.

I miss home too. And by home I mean the small space we’ve built — in a metaphorically sense — in Austinmer.

Coming back was so sweet, even knowing we’d leave again. I love where we live.

The warm morning sun comes in through one side of the house and disappears out the other. I spend most of my time in the kitchen, watching how the light shifts across our island countertop as the day moves along. It never gets old.

And all the encounters — with so many people I adore. Close friends. Familiar faces. Small, lovely conversations that remind you why you chose the life you chose. And how lucky I am to be surrounded by such a special community.

The best thing of leaving and coming back is the appreciation that comes with it.

The only thing I actually cooked this week, purely for pleasure, was my mother’s tapenade. Something simple that connects me to my other home, on the other side of the world.

A recipe my baby absolutely devoured — pulling at my pants again and again, repeating “maáh.” His way of saying más. More.

Some things are universal.

So here it is.

I hope you like it.

Besitos, Celia.

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The dip everyone keeps asking me for. The dip I used to make at Franks Wild Years. And the dip I always make when I need to feel the comfort of being home.

My mom’s tapenade

Ingredients

• 100g extra virgin olive oil

• 330g pitted black olives

• 50g canned tuna in spring water

• 3 garlic cloves

• 8 anchovy fillets

• 1 tablespoon capers

• 1 teaspoon thyme​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

• A good pinch of black pepper

This recipe is absolutely foolproof.

Just blend well all the ingredients together until you get a beautiful and smooth consistency.

A few haters have been commenting on the look of it on Instagram. What honestly has made me laugh so hard.

But I can assure you, that it’s insanely delicious. You can’t actually stop coming back to it.

Gracias mamá. Te quiero mucho.

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Coming back is always strange. Those first days you genuinely don’t know what’s real and what was a dream. Nothing has changed since we left. And yet somehow we’ve lived three or four entirely different lives in that time.

Four weeks. Five cities. Three countries. Eight flights. One baby who didn’t complain once.

This was the trip cancelled and we didn’t expect to happen. And that — that — is exactly why it was so good. No expectations. Europe in spring, on a random date when nobody else is traveling. Just us, figuring it out, taking one day at a time.

Madrid first. Not tourist Madrid. My Madrid — the real friends, the ones still left, the ones who show up. The kind of friendships that don’t need maintenance because they’re just… real.

Then Tomelloso to actually breathe. Morning runs. Coffee. My grandmother’s house. The simplest routine in the world and somehow exactly what I needed.

Vilnius to be the tourist. To walk around with my parents on a freezing and grey spring. And to see the amazind end of the tour of Chunky Move.

Then Denmark. Our friends’ house, which should be illegal to be that beautiful. Two kids running around. Shared dinners. The light coming through the kitchen at golden hour — I think about it constantly. Walks through the forest. A sea so calm it looked fake.

And then Copenhagen. My favorite city in the entire world. Fifteen minutes by bike to anywhere. The most effortlessly stylish people you’ve ever seen. Bread with butter and cheese that makes you question every other breakfast you’ve ever had. Parks so good they are just amusement parks without rides. Bakeries. And more bakeries .Natural wine. Expensive brewery beers are worth drinking.

The highlight nobody saw coming? Dua Lipa. Sitting at Banchina. Drinking her wine next to her beautiful boyfriend. Unbothered. Just a girl and her glass like the rest of us. Iconic.

But honestly? The real highlights were quieter than that. Walking back into Lille Bakery on a beautiful sunny morning. Drinking beers I don’t drink anymore. Talking fast in Spanish with people who actually get me. Laughing until I cried. Reading on the sofa next to my mother at night. The train museum with my dad. Every single shared moment in the countryside with friends that always feels like coming back home.

Copenhagen is one of my three favorite cities in the world. So today I’m sharing my local guide — the places I always go back to, the ones that never disappoint, the ones that have earned their spot.

Let’s get into it.

Besitos, Celia.

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Breakfast / Brunch & coffee

• Lille bakery

• Apotek 57

• Atelier September

• Orsa

• Coffee collective

Bakeries

• Hart

• Juno bakery

• Buka

Lunch

• any place that serves smorrebread

All day bites

• Hija de Sanchez

• Poulette

• Gasoline grill

• Smagsloget

Wine & snacks

• Den vandrette

• Pompette

• Delphine

• La Banchina

Dinner

• Barr

• Baest

• Sanchez

• Jah izakaya

• Slurp

• Silberbauers bistro

Please message me if you want to know more about Copenhaguen!

Besitos, Celia.

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I’m sitting in the corner of a sofa, in one of the many corners of our friends’ enormous, beautiful house in Denmark.

It’s spring. The sun has been rising since five in the morning. The birds sing—except when everything goes completely still. The Danish countryside is almost too beautiful this time of year.

And yet, I feel far away from my life on the coast.

In just three weeks, we’ve moved between Madrid, Tomelloso, Lithuania, and now Denmark. Different lives, different rhythms, different temperatures. A baby who has lost all sense of routine.

And me, slightly out of sync with everything.

Today I feel a little sad. Not in a big, overwhelming way. Just quietly.

Because I already miss Spain.

But mostly, I miss who I am there.

In Spain, I feel quicker. More at ease. I can joke without thinking. Conversations come naturally. I don’t feel like I’m translating myself all the time.

I just exist, fully.

My friends don’t need antecedents to a story. They have been knowing forever.

There’s a version of me that only exists in Spanish.

And I’m not sure she translates.

Spain is also where my son has his real, everyday family. The kind that shows up without being asked. The kind that would give everything for him.

It’s hard to accept that he’ll grow up far from that. That my parents won’t see him whenever they want. That everything depends on distance, planning, and timing. That quiet, constant uncertainty of not knowing when they’ll be together again.

And I know how much I will miss to being taken care for, in that legitimately unconditionally way. The only love a family can give.

And Madrid… Madrid is an incredible city. The kind you never really leave, even when you do.

So today, instead of a recipe, I want to share something else: a list of my favorite places.

The ones I always come back to.

None of them are new. None of them are trendy.

They’re the places that have been there forever. Where nothing really changes. Where they always serve the same dishes, in the same way.

Or the ones so good you remember exactly what you ordered, and spend months wanting to go back.

But if I’m honest, the moments I miss the most didn’t really happen inside any of those places.

They happened outside.

On a terrace.

With friends.

Draft beer sweating on the table.

Cheap free crisps. A small bowl of free olives.

Talking about nothing and everything.

Laughing until it hurts. Until you cry. Until you forget the time.

Those are the moments I keep going back to.

Those are the ones I’m afraid of losing.

My favorite places in Madrid

For coffee or matcha:

• hanso cafe

• pan y pepinillos

• hola coffee

For breakfast:

• any local bakery that serves tomato toast or churros con chocolate (the older is the crowd, the better)

For a Fancy breakfast:

• pan y pepinillos

• Watts

• Casa amande

• El gordito

For a quick snack and drink, either before lunch or before dinner (musts)

• El boquerón

• Revuelta

• la gilderia

• la ardosa

Best cocido (the iconic madrid dish)

• malacatin

• Casa lhardi

Best Tortillas

• la Martinuca

• La ardosa

For a nice cozy dinner (Spanish flavors)

• la burlona

• casa macareno

• el maño

For a Fancy dinner

• nakeima

• Sala de despiece

• StreetXO

Drinks and dance

• internacional

• Candela

I hope you love Madrid as I do.

Besitos, Celia.

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I had forgotten this feeling.

Sitting down. Holding a drink. Not rushing anywhere.

I’m writing this peacefully, seated at Hanso Café, slowly sipping on a delicious iced matcha latte. I can’t even remember the last time I properly sat while drinking something. These days, I’m usually standing or racing behind a pretty active toddler.

So this feels… unusual.

It feels strange being on my own. No partner, no child. Just me, taking the metro like everyone else. No one knows who I am here.

No identity.

And it’s kind of freeing.

I can dress more like I want to. A little more like myself. A skirt, a clean cardigan, loafers. My nails are perfectly chocolate brown. I’m carrying just a small purse—keys and wallet.

Nothing else.

My body moves so easily through the metro stations. She knows where she’s going. Everything comes naturally. I left almost ten years ago, but my body still remembers.

Only now, I move with more confidence.

The confidence of my mid-thirties. Of becoming a mother. Of rebuilding myself and building a brand new life in a foreign country.

I don’t compare myself anymore.

I’m proud of who I am.

I had forgotten how beautiful Madrid is in spring. Everything feels so vibrant—the light, the people, the smells.

Mornings feel quiet. Everyone is working. All the kids are in school. Big cities feel so different from the baby bubble we had at the coast.

But when the clock hits 4 or 5pm, everyone is out.

Terraces are always full. Beer glasses sit half empty. Parks are full of children until around 7:30 in the evening. And I wonder—how much do children sleep here? The same school schedules, but dinner at least two hours later than in Australia.

It’s different.

Life feels lighter in Spain, even though things can be harder. People carry this contagious, cheerful attitude no matter what. We get grumpy and upset too—but it doesn’t last.

Community and connection always come first.

The other day I saw a video saying eating and drinking is Spain’s national sport.

And honestly, I agree.

That’s what we do. We go out. We drink. We talk. We share.

I’m still off cooking for now. And yes, I miss it. But I’ve committed to going to all the places on my to-do list.

Not a bad deal at all.

Still, I had to share this one.

Because it’s the recipe I get asked for the most—and the one that always surprises people.

Tomato tartare.

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Tomato Tartare (the one you keep asking for)

It’s fresh, salty, a little punchy—and somehow tastes much fancier than it is.

Ingredients

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This week, I’m back in my hometown.

Probably the first time in my life I’ve been here on a random, middle-of-the-year week.

The air is crisp, and the streets are empty.

Nothing like last summer, with crowded terrazas full of people drinking coffee and eating churros or pan con tomate for breakfast, while I was out for a run.

This quietness feels strange. Even the playgrounds are empty.

In Spain, most kids are in daycare or school five days a week, so my little adventurer has had the time of his life running up and down on his own.

I’m writing this from my sister’s bed, while my baby sleeps in his travel cot next to me—and I have absolutely no idea what day it is. I didn’t even realize it was Wednesday. Which is ironic, because Wednesday is “newsletter day.”

Travel does that. It breaks your routines first… and then your sense of time. Add a jet-lagged baby into the mix, and you’re basically living in a parallel universe.

Still, I can’t complain. This trip has been incredible.

But here’s the thing I didn’t expect: I haven’t cooked in over a week—and I really miss it.

Not the everyday, get-food-on-the-table kind of cooking. I don’t miss that at all.

I miss the intentional cooking.

The recipes I think about for days. The ones I get excited to make. The ones I wait to film until the kitchen light is just right. The ones that feel less like a task—and more like a ritual.

Here, my mum does everything. And I mean everything.

I’m so grateful for it.

But it’s also disorienting.

Because when your life usually revolves around cooking, cleaning, and your routines… and suddenly none of that is yours anymore—you don’t quite know who you are for a moment. Or what to do with your time.

And then there’s Madrid.

Walking these streets again feels like stepping into a different version of life.

And the food?

It’s just… better.

I’ll say it: the average restaurant in Madrid is better than some of the fanciest places in Sydney. The wine is better too—and somehow four times cheaper.

But the real luxury isn’t the food.

It’s walking home after dinner. No Uber, no rush. Just streets full of people, a soft buzz in the air, everyone lingering a little longer because it’s the weekend.

That feeling? You can’t replicate it anywhere else.

Before my partner left for a work tour, we had one date night. Just one.

And when you’re raising a baby far away from family, one night feels like everything.

We went back to one of our favorite places from our last trip—and ordered the exact same dishes.

Because honestly, if something is perfect… why would you risk ruining it?

Madrid right now feels like it’s in constant reinvention. New openings every week. New “must-try” places. New lists telling you where to go, what to eat, what’s worth it.

Keeping up with it all feels like a full-time job.

So I opted out.

No lists. No chasing. No trying to find the next best thing.

I just went back to what I already knew I loved.

And that’s why today’s recipe is my version of a dish from La Burlona: tuna tartare with ají amarillo gazpacho.

Here’s the funny part—I only realized after making it how different mine is from the original.

Still, both are delicious.

And the secret behind that impossibly vibrant yellow sauce?

Yellow tomatoes. That’s it.

Simple. Obvious. Easy to miss.

Saving that for next time.

So now I’m curious—

would you like me to put together a proper guide to my favorite spots in Madrid?

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TUNA TARTARE WITH AJI AMARILLO GAZPACHO

Ingredients

For the tuna

• 1 sashimi-grade tuna fillet

• Juice of ½ lime

• 1 tablespoon soy sauce

• 1 tablespoon olive oil

For the gazpacho

• 800g ripe tomatoes (yellow, if you can find them)

• 200g cherry tomatoes (again, yellow is ideal)

• 120g red onion

• 200g yellow bell pepper

• 300g cucumber

• 25g ají amarillo paste

• 40g lime juice

• 1 garlic clove

• 2–5g fresh cilantro

To finish

• Fresh cilantro

• Thinly sliced red onion

• Pistachios

Method

Start with the gazpacho.

Blend everything except the olive oil. Give it time—this isn’t a rushed job. Let it run for a good five minutes, until it’s completely smooth, almost silky.

Then, slowly drizzle in the olive oil while blending. You’re looking for that moment when it transforms—when it emulsifies into something creamy, light, and cohesive.

Now, the tuna.

Cut it into very small pieces, like a tartare. Place it in a bowl and add a pinch of salt, the lime juice, olive oil, and soy sauce. Mix gently but thoroughly, just until everything is beautifully coated.

To serve

Pour the gazpacho into a beautiful platter —this is your base.

Spoon the marinated tuna over the top.

Finish with fresh cilantro leaves, finely sliced red onion, and a handful of pistachios for crunch.

It’s cold, bright, slightly spicy, and deeply satisfying.

The kind of dish that feels like summer—but elevated.

Besitos, Celia.

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My partner has been working nonstop since early February. So here I am—alone again. The house is chaos. My toddler is teething. The washind is enddless.

And what do I decide to do?

Make hojuelas.

Why?

Because this year, once again, I’m missing Easter in my hometown. And that—more than anything—is what I remember most.

Well… that, and the vermouths and battered prawns at La Lauticia, of course.

This week I also made a decision:

I’m not celebrating Easter the Australian way. Or the Anglo way.

Because honestly—I don’t understand it.

And no one has ever been able to explain it to me:

What’s the connection between rabbits and chocolate eggs?

What’s the meaning of a holiday that seems to exist only for children? One that mostly encourages consumerism—and massive amounts of sugar—for no real reason?

I’m sorry. I just don’t get it.

And because it’s not my tradition, I’ve decided I’m not passing it on to my son.

I have nothing against it—don’t get me wrong.

If one day my son gets invited to an Easter egg hunt (or a hundred of them), I’ll never stand in his way.

But I’m not filling my pantry with chocolate eggs.

I’m not stressing about rising prices or empty supermarket shelves.

Because this tradition isn’t mine.

My memories of Easter are… quiet.

Christmas and New Year were always loud—big gatherings, constant celebrations.

But Easter?

Easter was slower.

It meant going to my hometown.

Lunch on Good Friday with my parents’ friends.

School holidays.

That’s it.

Most of my memories from those days are horizontal.

Lying in bed in the morning, reading—because it was still really cold outside.

Lying on the sofa after lunch, watching whatever movie happened to be on TV during siesta time.

Lying down… eating hojuelas.

If I’m honest, I never even knew where they came from.

They always arrived in a plastic bag, brought by my grandmother—my father’s mother. Homemade.

Maybe she ordered them. Maybe a friend or neighbour made them.

I’ve never seen them in shops. I don’t know anyone else who makes them.

And still—they are my strongest Easter memory.

A sweet you only eat once a year.

In my case, almost always alone.

My perfect childhood afternoon snack.

I’ll ask my grandmother next weekend, when I see her.

And you?

What are your Easter traditions? Whats your take on Easter bunnies and eggs?

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Hojuelas (serves 6–8)

Ingredients

• 1 egg

• 25 ml light olive oil

• 30 ml anise (or any sweet aperitif)

• A pinch of salt

• 150 g flour

Instructions

Start by mixing all the liquid ingredients in a bowl and whisking well.

Gradually add the flour, mixing first with a spatula and then with your hands until you get a smooth dough.

It should be slightly more on the moist side than dry.

Let the dough rest for 10–15 minutes.

Divide into two portions and roll the dough out as thin as possible.

Cut into rectangles (or any shape you like).

Fry in plenty of oil over medium heat for about a minute on each side, until golden and crispy.

Drain on paper towels and sprinkle with sugar.

Eat immediately—especially if you live somewhere humid like we do.

Besitos, Celia.

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Or if I had gone back.

Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet moments—when I’m doing the same thing for the fifth time that day.

Some days, I feel stuck in motherhood. Days when I don’t even leave my neighborhood—moving between naps, meals, dishes, and laundry. Cleaning the high chair. Vacuuming. Picking things up from the floor over and over again.

It’s the repetition that gets me.

The feeling that the day never really ends. That the list is never done.

Some days, I want to feel like more than a mother.

And my mind drifts—to a different version of my life. A city. Getting dressed up. Going somewhere with no purpose. Sitting at a bar, having a glass of wine at a new, cool spot. The aperitivo. My culture…

A life that feels a little more… visible.

And then—without warning—it shifts.

This week, the weather has been beautiful, and we’ve gone to the beach every single day.

And I look at him.

Playing in the sand, talking to himself. Climbing rocks. Trying (a little too fearlessly) to swim in the rock pool on his own. Completely absorbed in his small, perfect world.

And I think—this is it.

This is the life.

The small talk with friends. Familiar faces on the sand. That quiet feeling of belonging somewhere without needing to explain yourself.

The slow days. The same early morning walks. Watching the sun squeeze through the clouds, turning the ocean orange. Playing our little games—spotting rabbits or buses.

It’s repetitive, yes.

But it’s also something else entirely.

I even feel grateful—in a strange, complicated way—for not having a daycare spot. For the chance to be here. To be present. To cook, to care, to spend this kind of time with him.

And still… I wonder.

How different it would feel to have something that is just mine.

How good it would feel to earn something, alongside all of this.

Both things exist at the same time.

The recipe I’m sharing today comes from a childhood craving—just slightly elevated.

A dish I longed for every summer in my early teenage years.

I must have been around twelve when my parents and their friends would go, every Friday night, to this place—a small “bar” called Los Caracoles. A few tables outside, on the side of a park. Only open in summer. Run by a family.

Their kids—around my age—took the orders and brought out the food.

Their signature dish was escargots, but I could never bring myself to try them. Just the thought made me feel sick.

my favorite: the garlic chicken wings.

Sticky. Rich. Full of flavor.

I loved them.

I’ve tried to recreate them over the years, never quite getting it right. It feels like one of those recipes that isn’t really written down—just known. The kind only a grandmother could make without measuring anything.

This version is the closest I’ve come.

Garlicky and lemony, a little sweeter, a little stickier.

Not exactly the same.

But close enough to take me back.

Besitos, Celia.

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ALITAS DE POLLO AL AJILLO

INGREDIENTS

• 500 g free-range chicken wings

• 8 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

• Juice of 2 lemons

• 1 glass of sherry (wine, but vinegar would do=

• Olive oil

• 5 whole garlic cloves (unpeeled)

• A handful of parsley, roughly chopped

• Salt + freshly ground black pepper

HOW TO MAKE THEM

1. Marinate like you mean it
Throw the wings into a bowl with salt, pepper, lemon juice, sliced garlic, and a splash of sherry.
Massage everything together (yes, with your hands—this matters).

Let it sit for at least 2 hours. Overnight if you’re organised.

2. Low heat = crispy magic
Heat olive oil in a pan and add the unpeeled garlic cloves.
Add the wings and cook them low and slow for ~10 minutes.

They’ll quietly turn golden and crisp.
At the end, crank the heat slightly for that final, addictive crunch.

Remove and drain. Try not to eat one here (you will fail).

3. The sauce is everything
Pour off most of the oil.

Add the marinated garlic + the rest of the sherry to the pan.
Let it bubble and reduce until it’s glossy, punchy, and smells like you’ve done something impressive.

4. Finish strong
Add parsley.
Pour that liquid gold all over the wings.

HOW TO SERVE
No forks. No plates if we’re being honest.
Just good bread, cold drinks, and people you don’t mind getting a little messy with.

WARNING:
These disappear fast. Consider doubling.

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I’m exhausted.

There’s an entire set of measuring cups and spoons on the floor that I still need to pick up—but I can’t be bothered.

And yet, I’m here. Writing.

Why?

I ask myself that most days.

Because if my beautiful, almost-blind 78-year-old landlord is still writing a gardening column every single week… I can’t do any less.

I am a committed person. In every aspect of my life.

Even if my dad ends up being the only one reading this—thanks to Google Translate (hola, papá!).

This week, I feel especially exhausted.

Half of it is the emotional rollercoaster of not knowing whether our Europe trip is actually happening. Big hopes and big letdowns, dancing together every single day.

The other half is a toddler who now climbs everything—and throws himself into free falls with the faith of a saint.

My nervous system is fried. The house is constantly a mess I can’t keep up with.

I am behind on everything.

Except this.

So what brings me comfort in times like this?

Food.

Something indulgent. Something nostalgic. Something that asks nothing of me except to sit down and eat.

Ensaladilla.

Creamy. salty. addictive.

Better with picos (our version of breadsticks).

Eaten in pyjamas, in front of a show my partner would absolutely refuse to watch with me.

That sacred hour and a half of silence?

It feels like GLORY. Like getting a small piece of myself back.

My first memory of ensaladilla is from my hometown, in an old bar called La Alhambra, right in the main square.

It was always busy. Always loud.

My parents always knew someone. There was always a familiar face ready to pinch my cheeks like it was their civic duty. - I was probably five?

We’d stand at the end of the bar. Or maybe sit on high wooden stools—I can’t quite remember.

The bar was wooden. The napkins were useless—the kind that just smear oil around instead of cleaning anything.

Everyone smoked. Everyone talked over each other. Maybe everyone was a little bit tipsy.

And behind the glass counter sat the ensaladilla.

Waiting.

It came in small white plates.

And it was perfect.

The last time I had a really good ensaladilla was in San Sebastián.

I was alone at a bar whose name I’ve forgotten, drinking a cold Albariño before lunchtime.

No rush. Nowhere to be.

Just me, the hum of the room, and a plate of something that tasted like home.

Another one: back in my hometown last year.

A bar called La Avenida.

Our first dinner out—just me and my partner—after becoming parents.

We ordered too much. Ate too fast. Regretted it halfway through.

We were in bed by 10pm.

Which, in Spain, is basically when dinner is just getting started.

The original recipe has peas and tuna.

I wasn’t in the mood for either.

So I made it my way.

I hope no one gets offended.

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Ensaladilla (My Way, No Peas, No Tuna)

Comfort food for when you have nothing left to give—but still want something good.

Ingredients

• 1 kg potatoes

• 2 large carrots

• ½ cup Spanish green olives, sliced

• 1 tin anchovies

• 400 g cooked prawns

• 3–4 eggs

• ~2 cups mayonnaise

Method

Bring a large pot of well-salted water to a boil.

Add the potatoes and carrots (skin on) and cook until tender, about 20–25 minutes.

With 9–10 minutes remaining, gently add the eggs to the same pot.

Drain, let everything cool, then peel.

If you have the time—or a dishwasher—make your own mayo. I like using the oil from a tin of mussels for extra depth and color.

But honestly, this is not that kind of day.

Cut the potatoes and carrots into small cubes (about 1 cm).

In a large bowl, combine:

• potatoes

• carrots

• chopped prawns

• anchovies

• olives

• egg whites

Add the oil from the anchovies, a pinch of salt, and a splash of white wine vinegar if you like.

Fold in the mayonnaise.

Be generous.

This is comfort food—not restraint.

How to Serve

Serve it cold.

Even better: make it ahead and eat it the next day, when everything has settled and somehow tastes deeper, rounder, calmer.

Grate the egg yolks over the top just before serving.

Eat it with:

• picos (Spanish breadsticks)

• any kind of crunchy bread

• or straight from the bowl, standing at the counter.
  

Preferably in pyjamas.

Preferably in silence.

Preferably alone.

Just kidding.

Better during the day.

On a sunny day.

Surrounded by people you love.

And a cold beverage.

I hope you make it.

Besitos,

Celia

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Today I feel tired.

But at the same time, incredibly lucky.

Today marks 22 years since the 2004 Madrid train bombings.

A terrorist attack that killed 192 people and injured nearly 2,000.

It’s a day I will never forget. I remember it every year. But this year it feels closer somehow. Heavier. More present. Maybe because of everything happening in the world.

I’ve never lived through a war. Thank God.

But I still remember the sound of the sirens.

They rushed up Paseo de las Delicias while my entire school fell silent. Not the usual kind of silence teachers beg for. A different kind. The kind that arrives when everyone knows something terrible has happened.

Madrid stayed like that for weeks.

Quiet.

There was this strange cold feeling that lived in your body, even when the sun was shining. People stopped talking the way they used to. The usual laughter disappeared.

Fear moved in first. Then suspicion. Then, a little hatred.

No one knew if it would happen again.

There were constant warnings not to take the metro. Soldiers with rifles stood on street corners. Every backpack looked suspicious. Every loud noise made your heart jump.

Even if you were just a kid.

And yet today, sitting here, I mostly feel grateful.

Grateful to live in this tiny, beautiful town by the sea.

Grateful for a healthy little boy who still knows nothing about cruelty, or guns, or bombs, or wars.

His world is shells and waves.

Lizards and fish.

His tiny little feet buried in the sand.

In three weeks we were supposed to be in Spain visiting my family.

Something that will probably not happen now.

Even though a small part of me is still naïve enough to stay hopeful.

And I think the hardest part isn’t not going. It’s the uncertainty of not knowing when I’ll see them again.

Distance feels heavier when you have a child. Suddenly you want your people closer. Your roots closer. Your home closer.

So today, instead of spiraling too much into the sadness of the world, I want to share something small that brings me comfort.

Two recipes that instantly take me home.

The real recipe for Patatas bravas — the way they make them in Madrid. And my grown-up version of my chocolate toast.

Because every time I make them, I’m back at the bar on the corner of my street. The one where André loves the beer so much. The last place we went before we had to leave Spain.

My parents, Lucila and Chus, were there.

And a baby who still didn’t know how to walk yet.

Besitos, Celia.

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AUTHENTIC MADRID-STYLE PATATAS BRAVAS (No Tomato)

Ingredients

• 1 kg potatoes

• 4 garlic cloves

• ½ onion

• ¼ cup olive oil (for the sauce) + extra for frying

• 15 g flour

• 1 tablespoon sweet paprika

• 1 teaspoon hot paprika

• ~400 ml chicken stock

• Salt

There’s a common misconception about patatas bravas: many versions outside Spain drown the potatoes in tomato sauce. But the original Madrid-style bravas sauce doesn’t contain tomato at all. It’s smoky, garlicky, slightly spicy, and built from paprika and stock.

Step 1: Prep the potatoes

Peel the potatoes and cut them into medium-sized chunks.

Bring a pot of well-salted water to a boil. Add the potatoes and cook for 5 minutes.
Drain them and let them dry and cool on a clean kitchen towel. This helps them crisp up when frying.

Step 2: Make the bravas sauce

While the potatoes dry, make the sauce.

Heat the ¼ cup olive oil in a pan over medium heat.
Add the chopped onion and garlic and cook slowly until very soft, about 10 minutes.

Add the flour and stir for 1–2 minutes so it cooks through.

Stir in the sweet paprika and hot paprika, cooking for another minute.

Gradually add the chicken stock, stirring continuously to avoid lumps. Let the sauce simmer until it begins to thicken slightly.

Taste and adjust salt if needed, then blend the sauce until smooth.

Step 3: Fry the potatoes

Heat plenty of oil in a pot or deep pan over high heat.
(For frying, I like to use mild olive oil.)

When the oil is very hot, fry the potatoes in batches for 5–7 minutes, until lightly golden and crisp.

Transfer them to paper towels to drain excess oil.

Step 4: Serve

Pile the potatoes onto a plate and generously spoon the bravas sauce over the top.

For the full experience:
serve with toothpicks and an ice-cold beer or vermouth.

¡Qué aproveche!

PAN CON CHOCOLATE

Ingredients

• 200g good quality dark chocolate

• 200g cream

• 30g butter

• pinch of flaky salt

This chocolate ganache recipe reminds me of my childhood snacks.

Summer afternoons. Or those days after school when you’d come home starving.

I recently saw post something similar, which made me think of it. Growing up, I used to eat baguette with three little squares of chocolate — the kind for melting, or sometimes milk chocolate.

Nothing fancy. Just bread and chocolate.

This is my more grown-up version. A bit more sophisticated, maybe.

But it brings back the same memories all the same.

Step 1: Melt the chocolate

Start by chopping the chocolate into small pieces and placing it in a bowl.

In a small saucepan, heat the cream until it just begins to boil.

Pour the hot cream over the chopped chocolate and stir until the chocolate is fully melted and smooth.

Add the butter, cut into small pieces, and stir until incorporated.

Step 2: Chill the chocolate layer

Pour the mixture onto a flat dish or tray.
Tilt and rotate the dish so the chocolate spreads out evenly, forming a thin layer across the surface.

Place it in the fridge for 1–2 hours, until the chocolate becomes firm.

Step 3: Assemble the toast

Toast a good thick slice of bread.

Using a spoon, gently roll or scrape the chilled chocolate layer so it forms soft curls.

Place the chocolate curls over the toast, drizzle with a good olive oil, and finish with a pinch of flaky sea salt.

Simple, rich, and dangerously good.

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Not a cute tear. Not one emotional song.

The entire show.

It’s been three days and I still haven’t fully recovered. I’ve been low. Not depressed — with respect to that word — but something close to it. Like the emotional hangover of remembering who you are.

It felt like the first big event where the entire Latin, Spanish-speaking community could see itself reflected back. Proud immigrants. Proud of our roots. Dozens of flags waving at the same time — with space and respect for all of them.

And then Benito said, “This concert is about reconnecting with our roots.”

And that was it.

Something inside me cracked open.

The crying didn’t stop until my neck and my back hurt more than my chest. - the aches and pains of being over my mid thirties.

Because we live in a world that makes you smaller in subtle ways. A world where, little by little, you become more Anglo-Saxon and a little less yourself.

So when someone hands you back your culture — loudly, unapologetically — it does something to you.

Being an immigrant is losing parts of yourself.

You are never fully who you were.

Never fully from there anymore.

But you will never fully be from here either.

Your heart divided between two lands.

Your brain divided between two languages.

Two personalities.

Always slightly performing.

I am not the same person in Australia.

I am not the same person in English.

Sometimes I don’t even remember what I used to dance to. What I used to enjoy. Who I was at 20. Because here, that version of me doesn’t exist. And that part of me has been fading quietly.

Until nights like that.

Screaming lyrics I know by heart. Remembering myself dancing drunk in the summer bars of my hometown´s fair. Dressing up again. Moving my body to Latin music surrounded by thousands of people who didn’t need subtitles.

Jarabe de Palo playing before the show. Everyone knowing every word — even if it wasn’t their style. Because music back home isn’t just music. It’s collective memory.

And then I cried for another reason.

My son will never feel it the same way.

He will always be more Australian.

And that hurts.

Not because Australia isn’t home. But because I won’t ever be able to fully pass down the exact feeling of what it means to belong somewhere in your bones.

My father was the first in our family to leave our town.

I am the first to leave the country.

Sometimes that feels heavy.

Maybe my sister will never have children. And I think about a family story built over hundreds of years possibly ending thousands of kilometers away.

It was moving — and refreshing — to feel proud of your country without being a fascist nationalist.

To wave your flag and still hold hands with strangers.

To say where you’re from without shrinking.

To feel immediate intimacy just because you share a language.

Most immigrants don’t leave for fun.

They leave because they have to.

And unless you’ve done it, you’ll never fully understand what it means to leave your roots, your traditions, your family behind.

So thank you, Benito.

Your concert felt like a hug.

A recognition of how hard it is to live far away.

To feel seen. Understood. Respected.

To feel we belong.

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And when I feel that homesick — I cook.

I cook the lamb the way we’ve always made it at home.

No measurements. Just “a ojo,” like my mum does.

Back home we use baby lamb — smaller, juicier, more tender. It makes all the difference. Here I adapt. Like always.

Because my oven is small, I made it in a cast iron pot. But a baking tray works perfectly.

This recipe is foolproof. Truly. It’s almost impossible to ruin. The worst thing that can happen is it’s undercooked — and that’s easily fixed.

The hidden potatoes — as my friend Ashley once called them — might be the best part. Slowly cooking underneath the lamb, absorbing wine, oil, and juices. Soft, golden, almost caramelized at the edges.

It tastes like Christmas in Spain.

Like being home for a few hours.

Roasted lamb

Ingredients

• 1 whole or half leg of lamb (2–2.5 kg approx.)

• 1 cup white wine

• 1 cup olive oil

• 2–3 potatoes, thinly sliced

• 1–1.5 onions, thinly sliced

• Salt and pepper

• Rosemary (optional)

The Only Rule

25–30 minutes at 180–200°C per kilo of lamb.

Directions

Preheat the oven to 200°C. Season the lamb generously on both sides and roast for 35 minutes.

Remove it.

In the same dish, layer olive oil, potatoes, onion, salt, and pepper. Two or three layers.

Place the lamb back on top. Pour over the white wine and a generous drizzle of olive oil.

Return to the oven and lower temperature to 180–200°C. Cook according to weight. Baste every 25–30 minutes if you remember — but don’t stress. It will still be delicious.

Total time: about 2 to 2.5 hours.

That’s it.

I make this whenever I miss my family. Whenever I want one day that feels like Christmas in Spain.

If you make it, please message me!

Besitos,

Celia.

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The other day I saw a friend who told me she thought of me while reading Hot Milk by Deborah Levy. Southern Spain. Heat. Silence. That specific Mediterranean stillness.

And it made me think of my summers.

I used to veranear — a verb we use in Spanish that literally means “to do summer” — in Carboneras, Almería. One of the towns described in the book.

It wasn’t crowded. It wasn’t trendy. It was probably just the cheapest place my parents could afford.

The first time we went there was the first time in my life my parents had ever booked a holiday. I was fourteen. The first time I saw the ocean outside a TV screen. - It’s hard to believe, sometimes, that my baby will grow up by the water, when my grandfather left this world without ever having seen the ocean.

It was a small white town with nothing to do except hang around at the beach. And that was the whole plan.

Our routine never really changed. We would wake up late, have breakfast watching TV. Maybe go for a short walk or visit a nearby town. Lunch every single day at the same hotel around the corner from our apartment, just because it had an affordable and decent menú del día.

If you’re not familiar with it, a menú del día is a fixed lunch menu: six or eight options for the first course, four or five for the second, a few desserts to choose from. Bread and drinks included. Back then it was around 10–15 euros.

I always ate too much. To the point of almost feeling sick. But happy. At fourteen there’s nothing to really worry about. And the two-hour nap afterward would somehow fix everything.

Macaroni with chorizo. Breadcrumb chicken with fries. Ice cream or chocolate mousse. And a mixed salad that my mom would dress herself with what felt like half a bottle of olive oil. In Spain, they leave the entire bottle of good olive oil on the table. Because someone might run away with your phone without a problem. But no one would ever dare steal olive oil.

My sister and I would nap on opposite couches, AC on, TV still playing in the background.

We would wake up around 5 p.m. Always hungry. Don’t ask me how.

A snack — usually bread with something on top, or something sweet — and then off to the beach with my parents until 9 p.m. We’d play cards, do crosswords or sudokus, sunbathe, go in and out of the water constantly. The Mediterranean was warm and almost waveless. Easy.

To this day, those were the most tranquil and happiest summers of my life. The only two weeks we really spent time together as a family. The only time my parents could truly be present.

At night we would “dress up” and go to one of the two places my dad liked. He was — and still is — very picky.

We would order the same things. Something de picoteo. A few small plates to share. Toast with jamón, anchovies, sardines. A simple tomato salad with onion. And again, my mom’s generous olive oil. When I asked her why so much, she would say, para mojar — to dip.

After dinner we’d get ice cream and walk along the promenade, looking at the little markets run by African immigrants, always cheerful, always full of life.

We would always leave at the end of summer with a few bracelets and necklaces. A small reminder that it had happened again.

Why am I thinking about this now?

Because this week I made some beautiful sardines. Just something light to have with a drink before lunch. Or a simple plate for a summer dinner.

And when I tasted them, I felt connected to that time again.

Sardines are underrated. Simple. Cheap. Honest.

Like those summers.

And sometimes, all it takes is good olive oil and a piece of bread to remember who you were before the world got complicated.

Besitos, Celia.

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MARINATED SARDINES

Ingredients:

• 250g fresh sardines

• 1 shallot

• 5 garlic cloves, finely chopped

• Half a lemon, finely chopped

• 2 tablespoons white wine vinegar

• 1 tablespoon fresh chopped parsley

• 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

How to make a simple fish shine

Start by cleaning the sardines, if you haven’t bought them already filleted.

In a bowl, mix the shallot, garlic, lemon juice, white wine vinegar, parsley, and olive oil.

Lay the sardines in a shallow dish and cover them completely with the marinade.

Leave them at room temperature for at least 15 minutes.

That’s when the transformation happens.
The acid firms them. The oil softens them. The garlic settles in.

Eat them straight away with bread to dip. Always bread.

Or keep them in a container in the fridge for up to a week — the flavor only deepens.

How to serve

Take them out of the fridge 10–15 minutes before eating so the olive oil loosens and turns glossy again.

Arrange the sardines on a simple plate. Spoon some of the marinade over the top — especially the shallots and garlic at the bottom of the dish. That’s where the flavor hides.

Finish with a squeeze of fresh lemon and a little more parsley if you like.

Serve with:

• Thick slices of good bread

• A cold glass of white wine

• Or just sparkling water with ice and lemon

No cutlery required, if you don’t want it. A toothpick or hands would do it.

And whatever you do — don’t forget to dip the bread in the oil at the end. That’s the whole point.

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