On Wednesday I was at the summer party of ARA, where, besides greeting colleagues and readers, I heard live the conversation between Albert Om and Ada Parellada, who in September returns to the newspaper to share her recipe book with her numerous followers. Ada is a whirlwind of a woman, and you can easily imagine her cooking four dishes at once. But she is a person with a very thoughtful discourse, in which enthusiasm responds not only to impulse but to a method and an idea. When I hear her, or Maria Nicolau, or Empar Moliner, and so many other people who talk about the land, the product, the wines, and agriculture, I realize that behind their fiery speeches there is not only hedonism, good habits, and environmentalism, but a whole idea of country, of how what is now called the territory should be managed, of how food connects us with a way of doing and living that are also past, heritage, and culture in all senses of the term.I would venture to say that, in these times of political discredit, these proclamations are an authentic reformulation of Catalanism, that concept which, as Josep Pla said, links with everything, and which always knows how to reinvent itself and disguise itself in the most useful way to approach the objective – which is, as always, the defense of the right to exist of a national community–. In the 17th century (and until 1714) Catalanism was revolt; in the 18th, economic development; in the 19th, simultaneously and not always friendly, it was cultural renaissance and social revolution. In the 20th century, political Catalanism exploded, harshly repressed by two dictatorships. And now, in times of political weariness and authentic demographic metamorphosis, one of the safe havens of Catalanism is the land, also threatened, but which continues to function as a mirror of the values and intangible heritage of the country. If cuisine is – back to Josep Pla – the landscape put in a pot, the nation is a human collective living together in the same space. If the political landscape is a wasteland, and the human landscape changes constantly, the natural landscape, the space where we exist, becomes even more the repository of some essential truths that define us and allow us to face changes with the tranquility of knowing that some things – the fruits of the land and culinary tradition – remain unaltered, even if they are enriched and diversified over time. They are the roots that prevent the tree from having to suffer from the length and reach of the new branches, which alter its shape without damaging its essence.This Catalanism of the land, or of the fruits of the land, does not only serve to claim escudella, garnacha, sea and mountain or ratafia. It is also the guarantee of a model of country that respects the environment, the sown fields, fishing and livestock; a country that does not let itself be swallowed by exorbitant growth or the greed of tourism. A country, in short, that respects itself, that does not renounce offering all the good it has to the world. Of this, in politics, we would call it sovereignty. And while history shows us that politics ends up being necessary to defend the country's model, we also know, as is tradition in this land, that when politics fails it is society that protects and organizes itself, shines with its own light and makes the country remain despite not appearing on maps with its own color. I toast, therefore, to all the farmers, ranchers, fishermen, restaurant or home cooks, sommeliers and disseminators who help us understand that, under a surface increasingly battered by plastic and cement, there is the land, watching the centuries and millennia pass, reminding us who we are.

It seems to me that the event was announced as the presentation of Empar Moliner's latest novel, but no: it ended with the writer performing a monologue standing up worthy of stand-up comedy, telling a story that she assured could only have one ending to be good, a bang-ending, the kind she also uses in her columns for ARA, in her stories, and, I see, in her events. The audience laughed because they felt treated by their favorite writer who, in fact, ended up inviting everyone "to a free hop" at the party we're having for subscribers next week at Damm.

One of the most controversial aspects of both the articles and the television and radio appearances of Empar Moliner (Santa Eulàlia de Ronçana, 1966) are her criticisms of certain discourses and positions of feminism, discourses that, according to the writer, reinforce clichés (that of the strong male and that of the helpless and weak female), erase nuances and ignore differences and similarities between men and women. It is known, however, that preconceived ideas, personal convictions, or the clarity with which journalistic collaborations are made are never exactly the same as those with which literature is written. Bearing this in mind, it should not surprise us that Moliner's new novel, Instructions for Living Without Her, takes an element or motif that feminism always places at the center of its discourses – that of the woman burdened with duties and responsibilities who deforms, violates, and enslaves herself to the extreme in order to care for hers – and makes it its dramatic core.The plot premise of the novel is a bit convoluted, but it offers a lot of possibilities both from a narrative and formal point of view, as well as regarding the explanation of social codes and the psychological exploration of characters. The protagonist, Clàudia Pruna, is an author in her late fifties who has enjoyed considerable professional success for years: she writes novels that sell well, collaborates with TV and radio, publishes a daily newspaper article, has loyal readers... The common points with Moliner herself are quite evident, but they end there and, in reality, the question of whether the character is or is not a transcript of the author is of no importance.What is important is that the protagonist has just received a terminal medical diagnosis, knows that she will die in a few months, and suffers from the double economic and logistical hardship her family will face when she, the caregiver who changes her grandson's and grandmother's diapers and the provider who pays the bills and the mortgage, can no longer care for or provide. In what would be a particularly grim and harsh version of the mental load that many women have to manage in their daily routine, Clàudia Pruna makes an extravagant and radical decision: to continue acting as a caregiver and provider posthumously. This is why she spends her final months of life writing articles to be published after her death, this is why she instructs an admiring reader to learn to write like her (so she can continue producing and sending articles when she is no longer there), and this is why she devises a very complicated plan for her to be buried without the news of her death becoming public.A dysfunctional family

From these materials, Moliner constructs a convoluted but plausible artifact, dense yet agile, self-aware yet alive, in which the narrator's voice of the admiring reader, who is the one telling the story, overlaps with Pruna's voice, in which reflections on language go hand in hand with observations about society, in which the fragile and tormented male personality of the admiring reader contrasts with the decisive and hedonistic personality of the writer Pruna, and in which concerns for the family's well-being coexist with the description of an absolutely dysfunctional family life and, even, in an unstoppable process of degradation: the apathetic and neglectful husband, the very young and irresponsible daughter, the already very decrepit grandparents... The general picture is grotesque, and Moliner does not hesitate to emphasize it with details full of malice (the admiring reader's almost vaginal micropenis, the husband's tractor accident while picking his nose), but at the same time compensates for it with the protagonist's vitality and with gestures of unsentimental but profound tenderness. Moliner's elastic and concise prose, refined yet substantial, helps to shape and express a novel that is deeper and more ambitious than the title and editorial design might suggest.

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"Writing a chronicle should be an act of freedom," Empar Moliner said towards the end of the presentation of his new novel, Instructions for living without her (Column, 2026), to the readers who listened to her with devotion this Monday evening at the Finestres bookstore. Among the audience were a man who bore a striking resemblance to Michel Houellebecq—one of Moliner's favorite authors—a former director of TV3, a handful of journalism students, and someone who exuded an intense stench of tobacco, camouflaged by the perhaps even more pervasive fragrance of chewing gum.

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In the new novel by Empar Moliner (Santa Eulalia de Ronçana, 1966), Instructions for living without her (Column), death, journalism, and literature are invoked from its very first pages. If a Dear (Columna, 2022; Ramon Llull Prize) The writer, who dissected the ravages of time, now explores the end of life through Claudia Pruna, a highly productive and successful author who is the breadwinner for her entire family. Allied with a librarian who is a fanatic of her work, the protagonist throws herself into writing articles and recording radio segments so that the income doesn't stop when she's gone. With a bittersweet sense of humor—at times tinged with cynicism, at others full of tenderness—Moliner has written a novel that revolves around honesty and is, ultimately, a literary invitation to enjoy life.

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This week's featured woman is so wise that she has instilled in her three children a love for cooking and a passion for it. One of them, Josep Sucarrats, is a food journalist. He has written books on food and edited a magazine. Kitchen And he writes for various publications. His mother says that he and his two brothers have been raised in the kitchen since they were little. "At home, we drank water from the well. At nightfall, since we have a shop here at the farmhouse, we go and choose a cabbage, or whatever is in season, so it's fresh and good, it adds up. Everything comes from Grandma. Eating good fruit, eating rabbit, good wine is what matters most, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me. eh?"

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Today we call "coliving"And before we used to say 'share a flat,' and before that, even earlier, 'be a lodging housekeeper,' if the lady of the house was there, often a widow with children, who cooked and kept the clothes ready for those who rented rooms from her. Our wise woman of today, like many who have lived in big cities, came colivingShe came from Huelva when she was eight years old. Her family came, as you can see, in fits and starts. "My father lost his job back in Andalusia. And a brother-in-law he had here called him and he found work right away. They had a house... Well, a house. A room with kitchen privileges. And in that room, first and foremost, were my father, my mother, my brother Manolo, Manel, who were very young, and me." Then, when her parents had settled in, which was very quickly, "because my father was very resourceful, they brought them here; my grandparents and the three children."

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Teresa lives in the Gràcia neighborhood. She's the first Barcelona native we've featured on Cocina Sabia, but she's a Barcelonan by choice. She was born in Rasquera and came to Barcelona as a young woman because the village felt too small for her.

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Joana Cusiné Olivella, from Vilafranca del Penedès, prepares a casserole for us featuring one of the most beloved and unique local products of her region: the Penedès Muscovy duck. In this case, it's called "ánega," and we'll soon understand why. The Muscovy duck belongs to a breed that has been raised for over five centuries in the farming areas surrounding Vilafranca. Today, you'll find it in cooperatives and shops (often by special order), as it's growing in popularity—like the Penedès breed of rooster—and is highly prized by chefs. The Muscovy duck has leaner meat than the traditional duck. If you watch the video (don't miss it, as our wise cook treats us to a dance with her husband!), you'll see that the meat is darker than that of other ducks. It lives in a pen and eats feed, corn, and vegetable scraps.

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My name is Roser Creus, I'm eighty-three years old, I'm from Mollet del Vallès but now I live in Santa Maria de Palautordera.

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I'm Maria Ubals, I live in Cabrianes, and today I'm going to make you a recipe for chickpeas seasoned with bacon. We can also season them with just oil, if anyone doesn't like it!

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I'm Aurora Mas Galvany, Massicas' widow, and today I feel like making you some vegetable rice. It's the best thing in summer. It's not overpowering. In summer, everyone finds it so, so fresh. It's a dish that goes well because sometimes you have a few vegetables left in the fridge. Some chard, an artichoke... And you clean out the fridge and you have some rice... If you make it with love like I did!

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I'm Dolors, I live here in Llagostera, in Can Regolta, and you could say I've always cooked... Oh, I came here because this house used to be my husband's family farm, and my mother-in-law didn't like cooking. I think you've heard this story more than once, right?

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Well, look, my name is Agustina Oliveras Calsina. I was born... wait for it...! On September 10, 1942. I was born in the countryside. But we didn't live like farmers at home. My father, since farming wasn't enough to make a living, immediately bought a truck and transported the bricklayers. He'd done this all his life.

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