Canja de Galinha

When I was small and came down with a cold, Avó Leonor didn't reach for medicine. She reached for her biggest pot. Within an hour, the house would smell of chicken and bay leaves, and I'd be sitting up in bed with a bowl of canja in my hands. This is the soup that heals.

Every Portuguese person knows canja. It's the first solid food we give babies. It's what we make when someone is sick, heartbroken, or just needs to feel held. The broth should be golden, almost amber, from slow cooking. The chicken should fall apart at the touch of a spoon. The rice should be soft, having drunk all that goodness, but not dissolved into mush.

And then there's the mint. Hortelã. This is what separates canja from every other chicken soup in the world. That bright, green, slightly sweet note cutting through the richness. Some families add it to the pot. Avó Leonor always scattered it fresh on top, so the heat would release its perfume but the leaves would stay vibrant. I do the same.

At Mesa da Avó, I've served canja to people who thought they didn't like chicken soup. They'd had the watery, tasteless versions. They'd never had the real thing. One spoonful of proper canja and everything changes. This isn't just soup. This is a grandmother's love in a bowl.