Portuguese-style liver and onions, inspired by my grandma Vovi

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In honor of my late grandmother, I finally asked my mom how my Vovi used to prepare liver. All she remembers is that Vovi marinated it in red wine with garlic and probably bay leaves and other spices, and cooked it with onions. Classic Portuguese cooking. This is my best approximation.

This past week I traveled back to the bay area to attend my grandmother’s funeral, and have been revisiting my saudades, or memories, of her.  It feels to me that a simpler time with fewer conveniences produced heartier people.

This post is too long, but I don’t feel like paring it down any further.  You’ve been warned.

My Vovi, Antónia deSousa Malta

My Vovi was born on the Portuguese island of Madiera on February 10, 1917, one of 14 children. She immigrated to the US on a steamship in 1944 at 27 years old.  She met my grandfather – who was from the Portuguese mainland – shortly after she arrived in California.

During the remainder of the war, she worked in an airplane factory, which also allowed her to repay her brother for her passage.  My grandparents moved out of Oakland to Walnut Creek when my mom was young. From their photos of those early years, the bay area was still largely pastoral at that time.

My mom, the first of three girls, was born in late 1946 – the year after WWII ended and the first year of the baby boom.  My mom’s high cheekbones and wide palette is clear evidence of the immigrant wisdom my grandparents carried.

Toward the end, Vovi knew us all, was cognizant most days, and was usually silly when the kids and I visited.  She had reverted to her native tongue so my conversations with her were in simple Portuguese. Yet, when my mom would ask her questions about her youth, it seemed too far away to get any substantial details.

Madeira Island

So I imagine them. How most things in her early years probably came from that island – from wool and fabric to nearly all available food.  I imagine that animals were pastured and fish was abundant.  The collective effort it must have required to keep and feed such a large family! Sweets must have been uncommon, an actual indulgence.

I imagine how many hours she spent on practical tasks that are completely foreign to me – like dressing rabbits and plucking chickens or embroidering sheets and table cloths.  I have visited her village, now made relatively easy by plane and new roads tunneled through the most treacherous segments of steep mountainsides.

Vovo and Vovi’s home

Meanwhile, my young memories are dominated by the space created in my grandparent’s home. Her mandolin in the corner of the living room.  An animal fur on the bench at the end of her bed.  The richly colored Nativity Scene – right at my height, to be admired over the holidays. The enormous pillows my sister and I would lay on in the family room, watching The Golden Girls reruns every Sunday afternoon. The koi pond and swimming pool, and her little white dog.

I loved the textured green glasses we used at the kitchen counter.  The fragrant smell of mint gone wild along the wall of the house.  Green beans as tall as myself in the garden.  Canning jars, probably hundreds of them, on neat shelves in the garage. The olive tree in the front yard. Always people in and out, visiting and eating. Somehow, a spotless home.

A Portuguese kitchen

I have spent hours dreaming of the food in that home and how to recreate it: Vovo’s homemade smoked linguiça cooked into scrambled eggs, Green Soup (more linguiça), and my ultimate favorite – creamy codfish casserole dotted with garbanzos, olives and hard-boiled eggs.  All the nameless stews, braises, roasts and soups, that don’t have recipes, using what is fresh from the garden and available in the larder. What I now consider to be real food.

I remember the hard-boiled eggs cooked right into the sweet Easter bread, hard cookies, rice pudding with cinnamon criss-crosses over the top, and homemade donuts that disappointed me at the time (compared to ones my dad occasionally brought home – shame on me!). We ate brined olives and tremosos by the dozen.  And spent hours cracking and eating fresh walnuts.

In that home, there was all the time in the world for us to clean our plates.  In fact, there was all the time in the world for everything, especially all the visiting. Time moved slower there – like the old country, no doubt.  I remember the last specks of stew in a bowl, and Vovi washing the dishes.

Stardust

My grandma passed away peacefully at the small board-and-care home where she lived, in her sleep.  One hundred one years old. She died on the same day, within the hour for certain – and possibly at the exact same time – as her late husband. Twenty-one years later.

Portuguese-Style Liver and Onions

In honor of her, I adapted this recipe from a marinated braise that I often make, that captures the Portuguese flavors of my youth.  I know that Vovi cooked plenty of beef liver, which you could use here, but I went with pork liver because I also know that every pig part was consumed in that home.

My mom added that once they started dating, my dad always came around for liver and onions, which Vovi served every week.  If he lived nearby, I would have had him taste test for me.  Regardless, this dish is flavorful and nourishing like I imagined Vovi’s to be.

In true Portuguese fashion, serve with boiled red potatoes and a light green salad.  Or, whatever is fresh and abundant in your garden.