I grew up in a house where food has always been a language. My mum was a traditional French cook in a time when Ireland didn’t have a real food culture. She threw dinner parties that would ripen past 4 am; my sister and I would act as servers and lie on the floor half asleep, listening to late-night drunken conversations with little bellies full of pavlova. Without it feeling like an education, I learned to make a roux, how to cook down food in stages for depth, and the value of a good herb. There were trips to pick early forced rhubarb and sugar snap peas in the gardens of my mum’s friends. I listened to her chat to the butcher in Limerick about cuts of meat, and the fishmonger in Cashel would save her the good plaice with the orange spots on the back. 

A few years ago, when researching my family, I found the story of Irish poet Edward Quillinan [1791-1851], William Wordsworth's son-in-law, who lived in Ambleside, England, and Porto, Portugal. A lover of Portuguese culture, he became an important translator of Portuguese poetry.  Having already lived in Ambleside, Vancouver and being a very fucking hopeless romantic, I booked a trip to Porto. It was easy to fall hard in love there. The nights were long, the Portuguese are similar to the Irish (good craic, loud, never serious for a moment too long), the heat dry and easy to do nothing under, each corner touched with colour. It was the food that got me. Iberian, Middle Eastern, and African influences throughout the day. Not too many photos, as most meals were late in the evening, and danced into the same hours of my mum’s dinner parties.  But, a few of late lunches, coffee, and the requisite pastel de nata.

I took it into my language.  Harissa as a base note, a simple dal, lime to tenderize, lemon to brighten, always good fish, warm spices, and time. Time to prep, eat, and sit. A quick photo now and again, love letters in the language my mum taught me.