The Motherland: Madeira
Inspiration comes in many forms, and I have found it to be inevitable during any travel experience. Sometimes it’s not felt until the end of the journey, and other times, it compounds along the way. Throughout my life, I have heard countless stories of the island of Madeira. An autonomous region of Portugal, and closer to Morocco than the mainland, it’s a paradise in the middle of the Atlantic. This is where my family is from. The word Madeira translates to ‘wood’ in English. Fitting, as this is the fuel of life, food, survival, and the livelihood of my brother and me.
My mom was born in the tiny village of Achadas da Cruz, a long journey from the Madeiran capital of Funchal. She immigrated to the U.S. at the age of 11 and later raised her family with my dad in Central Texas. Being first-generation Texans, we understood that our roots were very far away, but felt the strength and resilience of what it means to be the children of an immigrant and a Texan.
Growing up, our family meals were simple: grilled fish, potatoes, and a hearty salad foraged from our ever-present vegetable garden. Seasoned with salt, sometimes pepper, and always a generous amount of olive oil, this food was traditional Madeiran cuisine. Only we didn’t realize at the time, since we were so far away from the island.
In our small Texas town, we never really fit in. There wasn’t any extended family nearby or a generational presence to lock in our place in the community around us. This upbringing shaped us into who we are, while also leaving us searching for our origins. Texas galvanized our ethic for hard work, respect, and friendly gestures that show what community can be. As we grew into adulthood and eventually made our way to Austin and then Lockhart, we came to understand traditional Texas cuisine, which happens to be a blend of indigenous and immigrant cooking styles.
We began exploring more of Texas, mainly the high desert of the Trans Pecos region. There, we found a single bar in a one-horse town; a place where you can make friends with the thirsty patrons, and learn more about that dangerous and beautiful place. The population of Achadas da Cruz is comparable to that of Marathon, in far west Texas, with approximately 300 residents. Instead of high desert ranchers, there are banana farmers, fishermen, and wine makers.
The stories I heard of Madeira sounded like a tropical island paradise, and they were all true. It’s a region with biodiversity, and a culture built on survival. Villages are carved into the volcanic hillsides, in impossibly vertical arrangements. Stone and concrete homes generally perch above subsistence gardens, a small banana grove, and grape arbors that provide a shady outdoor living room. Upon arrival in Achadas, we stumbled upon a small cemetery with most tombstones bearing our grandmother’s last name. Turns out, it was pretty prominent in this place. We found where we come from.
On this journey, I was determined to find the house where my mother was born and raised. Knowing it might not still be standing, I still felt called to find the place where it once stood, the land we come from. Since there was no address, no GPS coordinates, and no guide, we had only a couple of street view photos and a few landmarks as clues to the location of my mother’s home. We were instructed to follow a specific path that involved several steps leading to a fountain. I was picturing a decorative fountain, but it turned out to be a very utilitarian concrete and tile basin with a water spigot. This fountain holds significance as it was the sole source of water and the place where my mom’s earliest memories were forged. Her mother was a potato farmer. They would grow their crop in a seaside plot in the calhou, the fertile flat land at the bottom of the 1500ft cliff that the main village was built on. Their small family would make their way down the single-track trail that hugged the cliffs. Once at the bottom, they would tend to their plot, then venture to the rocky seashore to collect mussels and limpets for dinner. Every year, they joined their neighbors to stomp grapes in the communal lagar to make the following year’s wine. After climbing the trail back to the house, my mom’s job was to wash the bags of potatoes in the fountain so that they could be bartered for salty slabs of bacalhau, young wine, and a single pig each year.
Venturing to the lone bar in the village, an old fisherman was standing out front as if he owned the place. Commanding authority with no words and only grunts, he alternated between sips from a small glass of Malvasia Madeiran wine in one hand and snacking on a fistful of tremoços in the other. Tremoços are salted lupine beans brined in water, garlic, and garnished modestly with parsley. Simply biting the outer shell and squeezing the delicious salty snack directly into the mouth, they pair perfectly with a semisweet wine or cold beer on a hot day. This fisherman offered no help to find the house, but we knew we could find someone nearby who could assist us. The bar felt familiar. Like any bar in a rural area with a draw for adventure seekers, there was a small mix of tourists and locals alike. We knew that with drinks and conversation, we could find the old homesite faster than using an app on our phone. The bartender looked familiar. With dark brown curly hair and a dense beard, I felt like I was looking in a mirror. I had only really seen this specific type of hair and beard on my brother. And of course, the bartender knew where we needed to go to find the path that led to the fountain landmark.
Walking up the path, we noticed the levada. This is a narrow irrigation channel that carries cool freshwater from the top of the island to the villages below, nourishing plants, people, and wildlife along the way. We were directed to keep following the steps leading up. We were not told just how many, many steps it would take to find our destination. We took a moment to catch our breath and hide from the intense subtropical sun, and in that moment, spotted the fountain. I immediately felt a surge of emotions seeing my childhood stories realized in physical form. I imagined my mom as a child, commuting on foot for every simple necessity. These are strong people. I imagined that as a child, she would step up onto the fountain ledge to look at the panoramic view of the steep green cliffs and blue ocean horizon. I did the same and breathed the salty sea breeze. It was quiet and surreal. The fountain was the primary landmark, and we were told that the entrance of the house would be directly across the path.
The house itself was much smaller than I had imagined, and was now overgrown with bramble, vines, and naturalized edible plants. We spotted wild ginger, fennel, and parsley that I can only assume were planted by my ancestors. I’ve heard many stories of the dirt floor, the grapevine-covered outdoor veranda where life was mainly lived, and a humble fire-based stove.
I was searching for the house, of course, but I was really hoping to find my Avoa’s stove. The idea that my grandmother cooked every meal with a single pot in a simple hearth fascinated me. The connection between cooking with limited resources and our own efforts to design and build fire-based cooking tools was a humbling reminder of the interconnectedness of food preparation around the world.
We did not find the stove, but did find closure, inspiration, and finally, our roots. We found a strong and resourceful place that truly conveys this most essential conclusion: that the meaning of life is to live it. Although we didn’t know it when the journey began, what we were looking for was found during the journey, not at the end.
- Matt Johnson
