I didn’t learn Ladino from a textbook.

I learned it in my grandmother’s kitchen.

When I was little, she would cook while singing Los Guisados de la Berendjena, a joyful song celebrating the many ways to prepare eggplant. As she chopped vegetables, stirred pots and drizzled olive oil, I sang along without realizing I was learning a language.

There was just one problem.

My father had forbidden us to speak Ladino at home.

Luckily, my grandmother was stubborn.

She kept singing to me anyway. And whenever my father caught us, she’d smile innocently and say, “Oh, sorry! I didn’t notice. I always sing when I cook.”

As a child, I thought she was simply getting away with it.

As an adult, I realized she was teaching me something far more important.

Not every battle has to become a confrontation. Sometimes, love, patience, and quiet determination are enough to keep a culture alive.

Before I understood a single word of Ladino, I knew its melodies by heart. Those songs became the soundtrack of my childhood, connecting me to generations of Sephardic women who passed down recipes, stories, and songs from one family to the next.

Years later, those same melodies have taken me to places my grandmother could never have imagined—including the stage of the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C.

Every time I sing Los Guisados de la Berendjena, I think of her.

She probably never imagined that the songs she hummed while preparing dinner would one day be heard in one of the world’s great concert halls.

Neither did I.

To many people, Los Guisados de la Berendjenais a charming folk song about food.

To me, it’s the song that gave me my language, my heritage, and one of life’s most valuable lessons.

Sometimes, changing the world begins with a grandmother who simply keeps singing while she cooks.

♥️  Los Guisados de la Berendjena is on my album Andalusian Brew.
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