My mother's kitchen
And a recipe for you to enjoy.
Last night, I decided to cook pork belly for dinner. It’s a dish I’ve made countless times before and, as always, I follow the method passed down from my mum—and from her mum before her. It’s a recipe as intrinsic to my family as it can get, and there’s comfort not only in its simple preparation but in the result: because there are no fancy methods to master, it always delivers a delicious dose of nostalgia with every bite.
As a child, we used to have Friday night dinners together at my grandparents’ house. It was a ritual that I don’t recall ever skipping, and although I’m sure part of our commitment to these dinners was due to familial expectation, my grandmother—fondly known to us all as Vecāmami (pronounced vats-a-mum)—was an incredible cook and would serve up a feast as effortlessly as any Michelin-star chef.
Her pork belly was often requested and, luckily for us, would enter frequent rotation come winter. Cooked slowly over a bed of apples, onions and carrots, the meat would melt in your mouth whilst the crackle was crisped to perfection.
After she passed away, my mum took over pork belly duties and, if possible, hers was even better.
While I don’t claim to have stolen the title, I must admit that every time I prep the dish I feel as though I’m honouring my lineage. A lineage of women who loved to cook and feed their families simply because it brought them joy.
Tonight I’ve decided to make another recipe that was Mum’s: her Latvian lamb soup. I didn’t plan two of her meals in a row—I think it’s more to do with the sudden arrival of winter in Sydney, and my subconscious reaching for ingredients I know to be comforting—but in opening my fridge this morning, I felt that familiar wave of grief swell over me again.
That’s how my grief seems to move now. It’s so much less about the big, obvious moments like birthdays or anniversaries (although I still brace for those, of course), and so much more the unsteadiness of grief coming to land between my hands as I cook. Sometimes I don’t even know that what I’m craving is less about the dish and more a longing to be closer to her.
As I do my best to recreate her dishes for my own family, I know that while she may not be at the table to enjoy them, the lineage of our family goes on. We keep cooking. We keep grieving. We keep loving.
If your winter needs a little comfort too, here's how it's done. Vecāmami's pork belly…may it bring your table the same joy it's brought ours.
Vecāmami’s Pork Belly
1 pork belly (approx 1.5kg, but don’t fuss over it—it always works out)
4 apples, cored and sliced into eighths
1–2 brown onions, sliced into eighths
4–5 carrots, unpeeled, halved lengthways then cut into thick batons
Preheat the oven to 160°C. Grab an oven bag and throw the vegetables in the bottom.
Score the pork belly (I often do this earlier in the day and leave it to dry, uncovered, in the fridge for a couple of hours). Drizzle with a little olive oil and rub it into the skin—it should be moist, but not dripping. Using standard table salt, salt the pork liberally, making sure the skin is well covered.
Place the pork in the oven bag on top of the vegetables, set the bag on an oven tray, and cook for 90 minutes.
Slice the oven bag open and move the pork to a clean oven dish (keep the vegetables warm in the bag). Turn the oven to grill and crackle until perfect. Serve with the veggies, creamy mash or braised red cabbage.
