The Beginning
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| Pablo Picasso, Le Repas Frugal, 1904, etching, 46.4 x 37.8cm |
The title of this project was inspired by an artwork by Pablo Picasso,
The Frugal Repast. This iconic image marks the beginning of Picasso's prodigious career as a print maker. As a young art student I was mesmerised by this image. The gaunt and desperate figures intrigued me, their emaciated forms exaggerated by the harsh contrasty lighting. They sit disinterested in their frugal remnants, the sense of despondency and isolation typical of Picasso's work from this time. I remember copying it many times over, not really sure why but always with great interest. Now more than 20 years later the significance appears more obvious.
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| The apartment buildings where my Mom grew up in Madrid |
As children, my brother, sister and myself were oblivious to our parents difficult past. My mother and father were both from Madrid, and came from working class, traditional Catholic families. Born during and shortly after the Spanish civil war meant experiencing ‘misery, death, famine, assassination and persecution that had brought such misery to the people of a beautiful nation who rose against their brothers for the simple fact that their political ideas and beliefs were different.’
What was familiar to us as children were the delightful aromas which wafted from the kitchen while our mother spent long hours cooking and baking when preparing our meals.
My mother had an ability to turn the most basic of ingredients into a banquet of culinary delight. When you though that the cupboards were bare and there was nothing significant to eat, all of a sudden eggs potatoes and onions would become the delicious tortilla de patata; flour, water and oil would turn into churros, our very favourite we would dip into hot chocolate that was so thick the churros could stand up on their own, and lard which was rendered from pigs fat would be saved for our Christmas Mantecados, the delicious sweet biscuits that crumbled to touch and melted in your mouth.
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| Alexandra Torcal, Madrid, approx. 4 years old. |
What we didn’t know as children was that for my mothers family to have potatoes meant my grandfather risking his life crossing enemy lines, or that milk was so scarce that my mother was feed on condensed milk as a baby. Seems like sad story but we were never told sad stories as children or left feeling as though we were particularly affluent in comparison. We were just taught to work hard and respect other and most importantly respect yourself.
If my parents have any characteristics that I could identify as stereotypically Spanish I would have to say that a strong sense of pride was one of them. Proof of this character is in the saying that Spaniards had during hard post-war times to describe their dark rationed bread. My mother recounts;
'Rationed bread made with several kinds of grain, but never white wheat bread, mostly dark oats and other (God knows what!), it was very hard to eat and the Spaniards made jokes about it, saying what could be liberally translated as : "Our bread is brown and yellow because it is made with eggs!" "Yes, and you need real "eggs" to be able to eat it!" (In Spanish "eggs" translates at times like this as balls (testicles).'
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| Jose Fernandez, Madrid, approx. 3 years old. |
I remember that my mother would never waste anything, rendered pork fat would be kept and later used for the amazing Christmas cookies, dry orange peels would flavour rice pudding and the left over turkey and ham from Christmas made my sisters very favourite, croquetas.
I remember whenever we would go and feed ducks a the park my mom would joke with my sibling and I as children that she would be bringing a pillow case and we would have duck for dinner that night. I was always horrified but of course it never happened.
My mother recounts her childhood experiences ‘In my childhood I recall seeing a city completely dismantled, with the only luxury represented in the religious festivities in which the church dressed its images in light and silks.’
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| My mother and father in 1959 |
I decided I want to record all of the stories, anecdotes and memories from my mother and to start by cooking together. I thought it would be interesting to learn these traditional family recipes and photograph my interpretation of the food, stories and time though my art practice. It would be a great document to have of my background and history and something nice to give to my brother and sister and their children so they could also share these recipes as well as learn more about their cultural background.
It wouldn’t be so much a cookbook as such, it would simply be a sharing of a collection of recipes, anecdote, reflections and memories from a particular time, passed down from mother to daughter and interpreted in images. It would be a celebration of food, family and friends and homage to the strong spirited, creative and resilient Spanish character.
Finding the recipe cards
The box of recipes had been around for my whole life, but it was as though I was seeing them for the very first time. Like pieces of the puzzle were all coming together.
They were always in my family for as long as I can remember. Little palm sized cards, discoloured with age and use, with tiny writing, carefully stored away in an old wooden box.
The tiny meticulous handwriting flowed from one edge right to the other as if conserving the cards on which they are written, even though some recipes only took up half on the card, I think waiting to fit another below. On others, another recipe would be positioned right underneath or sometimes even 3 on the 1 card, and then more on the back on the card.
The recipes don’t really appear to be recipes as there is never any reference to measurements or cooking times as conventional recipes have, and the writing is all together with no paragraphs or spaces. They would instead have statements like ‘take a piece of meat’ or ‘cook until ready’, it is as though, instinctively, the reader would understand.
There are obviously different handwriting on the cards, the difference between my mothers and fathers quite distinctive. My fathers is the beautifully rounded and curly style from the hand of an artist, with the titles highlighted in coloured pencils, where as you could sense my mothers was swift and purposeful, and sometimes difficult to read, a woman with things to do.
The recipes are mostly in Spanish and written in the early years of my parents immigration to Canada in the early 1960s. They now appear as a recording of the past and attempt to not loose their connection to their culture. Some of the small pieces of paper include the handwriting of my maternal grandmother, these obviously mailed to my parents, one with a sweet note on the end which says, ‘Si no hay ahi oregano lo ___ y te lo mandare con el regalo del nino’ ‘If you don’t have oregano there, let me know and I will send some in a present for the baby’.
When the old wooden box would appear in the kitchen, we always knew we were in for a treat. This was the vault that held the secrets to our much-loved mantecados, churros, and many other special delicacies.
The box of recipes had been around for my whole life, but it was as though I was seeing them for the very first time. Like pieces of the puzzle were all coming together. 
The recipes are mostly in Spanish and written in the early years of my parents immigration to Canada in the early 1960s. They now appear as a recording of the past and attempt to not loose their connection to their culture. Some of the small pieces of paper include the handwriting of my maternal grandmother, these obviously mailed to my parents, one with a sweet note on the end which says, ‘Si no hay ahi oregano lo ___ y te lo mandare con el regalo del nino’ ‘If you don’t have oregano there, let me know and I will send some in a present for the baby’. 
I prepare the rabbit according to the recipe as my mother starts on the tortilla. I watch carefully as she prepares the potatoes and onion and starts to cook them. I have attempted this dish myself on a few occasions with no success and end up with a huge mess of raw egg and potato dripping down my stove as I attempt to turn the tortilla over. If I manage to turn it successfully, then I usually end up with a tough tortilla, 'dry like the sole' of you shoe as my mother says. My mom seems to make it prefect each time with a minimum of effort and this time is no different. 
