Farófias

Avó Leonor made farófias when she had egg whites to spare. Never wasted a thing, that woman. The yolks went into custard, the whites became clouds, and somehow the whole became greater than its parts.

I remember standing on a chair in her kitchen, watching her beat the whites by hand. No electric mixer. Just a fork and patience and an arm that never seemed to tire. "Até ficarem em castelos," she'd say. Until they form castles. And they did. Stiff white peaks that held their shape when you lifted the fork.

The magic happened in the pot of warm milk. She'd drop spoonfuls of that beaten white into the cinnamon-scented milk, and I'd watch them puff and float like something from a dream. Then came the delicate work: turning them without breaking, fishing them out while they were still trembling, building the custard from yolks that had waited their turn.

This is convent dessert wisdom, passed from nuns to grandmothers to granddaughters. The technique looks simple. It isn't. But that's what makes it worth learning. Every Portuguese cook should know how to make farófias. It's in the blood. It's who we are.