This blog is supposed to be about Catalan recipes…but first, a bit of background.
Buying a house in Catalonia was supposed to be a dream. It was the picturesque Mediterranean life that me (a Brit) and my partner (a born-and-bread Catalan) envisioned.
Sun-soaked patios, sprawling terraced vineyards nearby, a rustic kitchen perfect for experimenting with Catalonian recipes…you get the vision.
But what we got was, well, a fixer-upper of epic proportions.
On our first visit, we were enchanted by the high ceilings, exposed wooden beams, and the promise of a home filled with character. What we conveniently ignored were the cracked walls, outdated plumbing, and the fact that the kitchen looked like it hadn’t been updated since Franco was in power.
“It has good bones,” JC had assured me, his Catalonian optimism shining through.
“It just needs a little work.”
A little work turned into a full-scale renovation that has, at times, made me wonder if we should have just moved into a cave instead. Memories of the film Money Pit sprang to mind. And still do.
The Kitchen: A Battle Zone
The heart of any home is the kitchen.
The heart of our home, however, was a disaster zone for a solid six months. The kitchen tops were collapsing, the tiles were chipped beyond recognition, and the wiring?
Best described as a fire hazard in waiting.
JC’s parents, Pilar and Josep, had many opinions about the renovation, most of them unsolicited. Pilar was devastated when we decided to replace the ancient (and frankly unusable) wood-burning stove, while Josep, ever the traditionalist, fought against any modern cabinetry that dared to challenge the “authentic Catalan aesthetic.”
I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to, mind.
In the end, we compromised. The stove was updated (though I still get passive-aggressive comments about it), and we found hand-crafted cabinets that satisfied both functionality and Josep’s sense of historical justice. I don’t particularly like it but hey ho, anything for peace and quiet.
The Bureaucratic Nightmare
If you’ve ever renovated a home in Spain, you’ll know that getting permits approved is an exercise in patience. Paperwork disappears into mysterious black holes, official responses move at a glacial pace, and the phrase “mañana” takes on an entirely new meaning. Que? Also comes into play a fair old bit.
We spent weeks chasing signatures and enduring goldfish-like stares from government officials who seemed personally offended by our desire to have a structurally sound home.
One particular clerk, whom I suspect moonlights as a professional discourager and naysayer, sighed deeply every time he saw me walk in.
During renovations, we unearthed a small, walled-off storage area beneath the house that contained an assortment of old wine barrels and farming tools. Josep was convinced we had stumbled upon a piece of forgotten Catalan history. JC was convinced we should turn it into a wine cellar. I was convinced that we should make sure the house didn’t collapse first.
(Ancient history my arse!)
The (Almost) Finished Product
After months of dust, drama, and debates about “what’s truly necessary,” our home finally started to resemble the vision we had in mind.
The kitchen became a space where I could experiment with traditional Catalonian dishes without fear of electrocution or burning the entire neighbourhood down, the walls were no longer crumbling, and we even kept a few of the old wine barrels for character (and emergency drinking purposes).
Was it worth it? Ask me when we’re fully done. But despite the headaches, our home now tells our story—one of patience a fair amount of Catalonian stubbornness. And many differing opinions.
Welcome to Catalonia, I thought.