On the women who nourished my soul
And the longing for good things
In one of my final columns for Reader’s Digest UK, shortly before the magazine (sadly) ceased publication after 86 remarkable years, I wrote about the culinary ‘Grandes Dames’ who have profoundly influenced my work. Among them: Julia Child, M.F.K. Fisher, and Elizabeth David. Their words and wisdom have been on my mind a great deal lately, and not without a tinge of melancholy.
The truth is, I can’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia for a time when quality food writing—indeed, quality writing—was something of beauty, value, and meaning. Today, the landscape feels awash with dime-a-dozen blogs cluttered with ads and dubious culinary ‘knowledge.’ Influencers (oh, that word alone) churn out one book after the next, not because of expertise, but because of follower counts in the hundreds of thousands that get them noticed by publishers. Magazines, once sources of true inspiration, now seem more preoccupied with overly styled images than with carefully chosen words and dishes that really work.
And yet, people still turn to these sources in good faith, believing the quackery disguised as ‘expertise,’ or gathering ingredients and following instructions to the letter, only to be met with failure. They walk away having learned nothing—uninspired and disheartened.
What happened to the glory days when food writing stirred the soul as much as the appetite? When a solidly written book enriched us with stories, knowledge, and a real sense of connection. When it wasn’t about the photos but about the words. One of Nigella Lawson’s best books was How To Eat. It was one of the last great pieces of food literature, and it was devoid of images. I long to turn back the hands of time. But more than that, I can only hope that my own words, written earnestly and from the heart, might cut through the noise and mean something.
My aim for 2025 is to carve out more time for writing—to reclaim this craft that I hold so dear. I hope you will join me on this journey and lend your support. Not just to me, but to those other writers who pen words with heart and care. Seek out their work, share it, celebrate it. Do everything to ensure that the art of the written word continues to thrive in a world that needs it more than ever.
With that, I’d like to share a story about two other women in my life who have not just inspired me but truly nourished my soul. Happy reading.
My paternal grandmother, Maria Elena, was my everything while growing up. At the age of seven I went to live with her for a year, and it was the most memorable time of my youth. Mamita Elena loved me fully. By her side I felt safe. She taught me to have faith and, with gentle guidance, allowed me the freedom to blossom.
Though she was well into her seventies at the time, she lived on her own in a small but pleasant apartment. She only needed help with grocery shopping, a task taken on by either one of my aunts or her eldest son, my uncle, Augusto, a beautiful soul. He visited her often and sometimes surprised me with a bag of pizza-flavored Combos or a chocolate-covered marshmallow pie. As soon as he walked through the door, my grandmother would dash into the kitchen to cook him a meal, which he ate in the living room while watching cheesy Spanish talk shows.
Unfortunately, I cannot remember what Mamita cooked, though one dish remains firmly etched in my memory: her scrambled eggs with rice. It was an easy, simple, and humble dish. White rice, a little green onion, and some chopped tomatoes stirred into a couple of scrambled eggs seasoned with just the right amount of salt. Try as I did back when eggs were a regular part of my diet, I never succeeded in recreating that same taste. And it makes sense, as I obviously lacked my grandmother’s touch. My last attempt years ago resulted in something bland and unremarkable—the kind of dish you might eat while recovering from a stomach bug. Sometimes, you just have to accept that the true flavor of good things will only live in your memory.
As my grandmother grew older, her movements became slower and heavier, and she could no longer cook for herself or for the family she loved so much. Still, she found ways to spoil us. Her fridge was always stocked with the things she knew we enjoyed most. For me, that meant Entenmann’s pound cake, in all its rich and buttery glory, waiting for me like a little treasure in its white box. I’d walk in, give her a kiss, and before I even had a chance to sit down, she’d insist I cut myself a slice.
When I finished, she’d immediately ask if I was still hungry. “There’s yogurt in the fridge,” she’d say. “And a tin of cookies on top of the cabinet.” If I thanked her, she’d only persist. “How about some crackers with coffee? Or maybe some soup? Your aunt just brought some over—it’s still hot on the stove.”
Her generosity and love knew no bounds. And though her dishes may have faded from my memory, the joy she brought me and the love of food she passed on will never leave my heart.
Years later, when I moved to the Netherlands, I found echoes of my grandmother’s love and generosity in my mother-in-law, Miep. Her greatest joy was filling the table with food and gathering the family around it for a meal. Oma’s weekend breakfasts—Dutch rusks (beschuit), spice cake (ontbijtkoek), warm rolls, and freshly squeezed orange juice—were something to look forward to. I will never forget how she welcomed me into her home that very first afternoon, offering one of her perfectly crisp apple turnovers (appelflap), or the many tea breaks over the years accompanied by traditional Dutch cookies like stroopwafels. Sometimes, when she visited us, she showed up with a bag of candy bananas just for me. I was a young mom, alone in a foreign country, and those bananas meant so much more than just a sweet treat.
In 2007, a stroke paralyzed one side of her body, stealing from her the joy of cooking and caring for those she loved. Her final years were spent in a nursing home, where she needed assistance with nearly everything. Though she tried to hide it, we could sense her quiet despair. The woman who once began her mornings with a swim and traveled halfway across the country by train to visit us was now confined to a wheelchair.
She could no longer greet us with homemade soup, but her hospitality never wavered. Store-bought cake always waited in the fridge, and the coffee—bravely prepared with her still functioning arm—welcomed us with its sweet aroma. And just like my grandmother, she always encouraged us to eat more, to enjoy more. “I can’t finish what’s left by myself,” she’d say. “So have another slice if you like. There are snacks in the fridge, too. And don’t forget to take a bag of chips before you leave. It’s a long trip, you know.”
Both my grandmother and mother-in-law had endured the heartbreaking loss of their husbands far too young. These remarkable men, loving husbands and fathers, were called home in their fifties. Though I never met them, their presence lingered—woven into the happy stories shared through teary eyes and remembered in the prayers spoken each night.
Mamita Elena was born in Colombia in 1914, and Oma was born in the Netherlands in 1930. Despite the trials life sent their way, these strong, inspiring women never grew bitter. Their faith remained unshaken, their hearts open. The lessons they taught, the love they gave, and their steadfast determination to never let anyone leave hungry—whether in body or spirit—have nourished my soul in ways I will cherish forever.
To read the Reader’s Digest article mentioned at the beginning of this post, click here.