Sericaia

This is what happens when nuns have more egg yolks than they know what to do with. The monasteries of Alentejo received eggs by the cartload, yolks separated from whites that went to clarify wine and starch the nuns' habits. What remained became some of Portugal's most beloved desserts. Sericaia is one of the finest.

Avó Leonor made this for special occasions. Baptisms. First communions. The feast of Our Lady of the Assumption in August. She'd pull the dish from the oven still trembling in the center, dust it with cinnamon that perfumed the whole kitchen, and serve it with a bowl of ameixas de Elvas on the side. The plums are not optional, she'd say. The sweetness of the custard needs the deeper sweetness of the fruit. Together they're complete.

The technique is simpler than you'd think, but it demands attention. The eggs must be at room temperature. The milk must be warm, not hot. The baking must stop while the center still wobbles. Overbake it and you have scrambled eggs. Underbake it and it won't hold. There's a moment, and you have to catch it.

At Mesa da Avó, I serve sericaia the way the convents did: in the same earthenware dish it baked in, a spoon resting on the side, the ameixas glistening in their syrup nearby. No individual portions. Everyone reaches in. That's the tradition. A cozinha é memória.