In an era obsessed with speed and convenience, I find myself ever more drawn to what is slow, seasonal, and deeply rooted. At Brugarol, we live and work by the rhythms of the land. Off-season, when the buzz quiets and the vineyards breathe, I’m reminded of the quiet privilege of proximity — to soil, to food, to origin.

There is something very special in preparing a dish from ingredients you’ve just harvested. A bean salad, for instance, becomes something more than a side dish when the beans still carry the warmth of the sun from earlier that morning. You can taste the energy. You can feel the aliveness. To me, this is real luxury: not marble countertops or Michelin stars, but the knowledge that what you’re consuming has a story — one that you’re part of. When I wrote my cookbook From Me to You, it was less an act of authorship and more an act of love and transmission. I wanted to give my children a tangible piece of our family’s soul — something they could hold long after I’m gone.

Embedded in its pages are not just recipes, but memories. Aromas. Gestures. The quiet magic of nourishment. I never imagined the book would go beyond our circle. But as I see it now in the spaces we’ve created — from Mas Salvà to the Brugarol Cellar — and in the hands of strangers who are no longer strangers, I’m deeply moved.

The most common feedback I receive is not about technique or taste. It’s about feeling. People tell me they can feel the love that went into it. That, to me, is the highest compliment one could hope for. Because in the end, food is not just sustenance. It’s a medium for care. A way of saying: I see you. I honor you. I want you to thrive. And perhaps that’s what conscious living really means — not just being aware of what we eat, but remembering how we offer it.