Stories of Easter — a Time to Eat Cod

Every year, 10 days after Easter, in my hometown of Córdoba, there is a 2-week festival along the banks of the Guadalquivir River. Hundreds of casetas (marquees) are set up and as you walk along they burst into music of all types, from flamenco guitar to dance music, and rock music streaming from the Communist Party caseta. The one thing they all have in common is food. Temporary kitchens are set up alongside bars. You are led by your nose around the city as the evening unfolds. People converge and young and old go out to tapeo (eat tapas) together. I can still remember the smells and the music from my childhood. When we moved to Australia, there was no celebration at Easter to look forward to, no music and no crowds. My parents even stopped going to church. The one thing we still did was to eat together. Mum made piles of torrija (fried bread pudding dusted with cinnamon and honey). She also made fried salt cod and potato fritters. They were so delicious and salty and exactly like the ones in Spain that I was able to ignore the flames of the Geelong refinery and pretend I was back with my aunts along the banks of the Guadalquivir.