Aroma

It was not one particular dish that caused the memories to crash into my mind, crowding my consciousness with vignettes of time spent in her house. It was the aroma that hit me as the door swung inward.

It recalled every dish, every gathering, every joyous moment spent as a child in my grandmother’s house. My sister watched my face, alert to the reaction that she knew, beyond any doubt, would come.

Tears welled as I inhaled, my eyes finding my sister’s as we both entered, laughing with a mixture of sadness and joy.

That meal was a bittersweet experience of homage and familiarity as we worked our way through the Rosół (Polish chicken soup) and Gołąbki (cabbage rolls), identifying the small differences that staked the restaurant’s version as unique.

The restaurant no longer exists. That lovely time capsule of warmth and local identity was a casualty of progress, replaced by an offering seen as more in tune with the contemporary clientele of tourists and disposable fashion devotees alike. The original interior, filled with genuine and homely cues making way for the indifferent.

To this day, my whole family make Rosół; it’s the perfect remedy when feeling unwell, simple ingredients creating an uplifting aromatic salve that cures both illness and ennui. The large stockpot that dominates my mother’s galley kitchen is to this day a familiar and welcome sight.

My own recipe I have tweaked to include ginger and turmeric and many, many cloves of garlic, and the traditional use of chicken has been reinterpreted by us all in slightly different ways. My grandmother used only beef bones, resulting in a rich, intense broth that despite the deep flavour profile lost none of its subtleties. My mother chars the onion on a flame before adding to extract maximum sweetness and is unwavering in her commitment to turkey necks, the subtle, flavoursome meat a delicious addition prior to serving.

My sister remains the only one to keep the tradition. Adherence to the classic ingredients the result of which my niece was practically weaned on, ensuring that tradition endures.

The broth is the perfect base to a risotto, the ideal marriage between our combined Italian/Polish heritage. We dismiss the convenience of pre-packaged stock in favour of a dedication to ‘making from scratch’, a position that has been drummed into us as a cultural imperative. And there exists an unspoken competition as to who is able to achieve the most robust ‘jiggle’, the result of perfectly extracting the goodness that lies hidden in the marrow. It seems that both cultures are equally obsessed with this element, both broth and panna cotta alike judge it as a determinant of success.

Today’s contemporary wellbeing ethos, fixated on bone broth would come as a ridiculous affectation to my grandmother. She would recognise the powerful gut-healing powers of the broth not because it’s on trend but because it’s been a proven part of her culture going back generations. I could never have told her that at the height of the craze, I paid $12 for a small cup of the elixir. Rosół at least has the additional advantage of being reliably palatable.

My sister and I were fortunate enough to spend considerable time in my grandmother’s kitchen, not only eagerly awaiting her food, but also cooking alongside her, madly jotting notes as she explained her process. We would frown, trying to keep up as we approximated measurements proving just how unaccustomed we were to the fluidity of her intuitive approach.

She was the embodiment of relaxed joy when she cooked. A prolific baker, we would trail the sweet aroma, peering into the formal dining room whenever we visited, eager to spy the spread of pastries, cakes and biscuits that covered every inch of the generous table.

It was only as adults that we were to discover that baking was her outlet. Not only a way for her to take care of people, but a way to process the unpleasant things in her life.

My mother jokes that the love of cooking must have skipped a generation, her culinary proficiency in stark contrast to her level of genuine interest. But my sister and I took up the mantle as young adults, learning, experimenting and delighting friends and family alike. We both use food to connect, cherish and communicate as well as nourish and like our grandmother, use the process to busy our hands leaving our minds to resolve internal conflict. I have been known to enter the house after work and utter nothing more than ‘I need to cook’, for my partner to fully understand what terrors I need to exorcise.

I don’t have any children onto whom I can pass my love of cooking.  But as my niece drags a stool over to the bench and I look down on the floss of her hair, I hope that when she grows up, she will cherish these moments we spend baking together, in the same way that her mum and I did with her great-grandmother.