Hello and welcome to this blog! I will get to the Catalan recipes soon…but I wanted to explain a bit more about me and in Catalan in-laws. (Read: out-laws.)
So, here we go.
If you think your in-laws are opinionated, let me introduce you to mine”
Take a seat.
JC’s parents, Pilar and Josep, are the dictionary-definition of Catalan pride efficiency, and culinary perfectionism. They have very strong feelings about everything – from how I chop onions to the correct way to eat pa amb tomàquet (hint: I’ve been doing it wrong for years).
Pilar: The Unofficial CEO of the Family
Pilar runs the family with the precision of a well-oiled machine.
She is the matriarch, the keeper of traditions, and the undisputed authority on all things food-related and much else. If I so much as attempt a traditional Catalan dish, she will appear – sometimes physically, sometimes via a critical phone call – to make sure I don’t cagarlo (literally “sh*t on it”).
Her escudella recipe is sacred, and my ongoing attempts to replicate it are met with amused scepticism bordering on slight annoyance. I can never quite tell.
I once suggested adding a dash of something ‘for flavour,’ and she reacted as though I had proposed burning down the Sagrada Família.
Lesson learned: Catalonian cuisine needs no embellishments. Only reverence to the ancestors.
Josep: The Wine Connoisseur (and Olive Oil Purist)
Josep is the quieter of the two, but make no mistake. He has his own set of strongly held beliefs, particularly regarding wine and olive oil.
He’s spent years trying to educate me on the nuances of both, but my apparent inability to distinguish between ‘acceptable’ and ‘catastrophic’ olive oil remains a sore point in our relationship. To be honest, I’m not overly bothered but I play along, nodding accordingly.
He also has an uncanny ability to detect the presence of non-Catalan wine in the house. One evening, JC opened a bottle of Rioja, and within five minutes, Josep had arrived unannounced, shaking his head in deep disappointment.
He claims it was a coincidence. I remain unconvinced. He’s a bit of an enigma that one, but he’s a devoted Granddad.
The Balancing Act
Navigating family gatherings is an art.
On one hand, I adore them—they are warm, generous, and deeply devoted to tradition.
On the other hand, I live in constant fear of culinary judgment. I have learned that some battles are unwinnable (like attempting to innovate Catalonian classics), while others are worth fighting (such as convincing them that Albert’s sensory issues are not just ‘pickiness’).
Despite our cultural differences and my frequent culinary missteps and total disasters, there is a mutual understanding at the heart of our relationship: food is love, tradition matters, and no meal is complete without a healthy dose of good-natured criticism. I’m just saying that.
But I wouldn’t have it any other way.