SATURDAY MORNINGS ARE A TIME OF PREPARATION IN CAPE VERDEAN HOMES, WHEN THE MATRIARCH OF THE FAMILY USUALLY COOKS THE NATIONAL DISH, KATXUPA, A SLOW-SIMMERED STEW OF HOMINY, BEANS, AND A MIX OF MEATS OR FISH. Hearty and sustaining, it was designed to carry people through the long, hot days on the islands. Even the dish itself mirrors the story of Cape Verde: a blend of ingredients, flavors, and influences that reflect the country’s complex history. The Cape Verdean identity, much like Katxupa, was born from the intertwined legacies of colonialism and the slave trade; an enduring mix of African and European cultures that continues to define its people.

Food has become my most enduring link to home, a bridge to the Cape Verdean people and communities that shaped who I am. But due to the lasting effects of colonial erasure, accessing that cultural knowledge isn’t always easy. In tracing my lineage through katxupa, I’ve come to understand just how urgent it is to preserve our diasporic foodways, not just as memory, but as resistance.

Katxupa resists perfection. Its final presentation is exactly as the ingredients appear: a jumble of meats, fish, and vegetables. It’s not just a dish, it’s a language without structure, a time machine that whisks you back to the era of scarcity, and to the warm, fragrant sanctuary of my Cape Verdean kitchen. Preparing katxupa takes longer than eating it, but that’s where its magic lies: in the sacred process of crafting something that feeds both body and soul.

As a home cook and writer, I approach food with curiosity, guided by research and a passion to understand. When I set out to dive deep into Cape Verdean cuisine and truly understand my culture and katxupa, I initially searched for a cookbook written by someone from the islands. Instead, I discovered accounts penned by Portuguese authors or fleeting descriptions from travelers—tourists who blogged about their visits to Cape Verde or dined in American cities with Cape Verdean immigrant communities.

The nuances were missing. Context was ignored. They failed to recognize that Cape Verde is an archipelago of 10 islands, each with its own distinct voice, and a nation with no official language. Even katxupa itself carries its multitudes. For example, it’s “katxupa” on some islands, “munchupa” on others.

When I was growing up, katxupa was a staple. Saturday mornings meant a huge pot on the stove that would later produce big bowls of it, and Sunday mornings were reserved for frying the leftovers with a fried egg on top and sometimes a dash of hot sauce. We often ate it throughout the week as well, stretching its abundance across several days.

It’s such a cornerstone of Cape Verdean childhood that, for many babies, their first solid food isn’t just puréed vegetables, it’s katxupa.

When I first set out to make katxupa on my own, I was overwhelmed with fear. This wasn’t just any dish; it was the ultimate test of a Cape Verdean cook, a rite of passage steeped in tradition and pride. Katxupa is more than a meal; it’s a cultural cornerstone often perfected by the elders and rarely entrusted to the younger generation.

The stakes couldn’t have been higher. Katxupa is a dish designed to feed a crowd and demands a delicate balance; hearty and deeply satisfying, yet bold in its rich, unmistakable flavors. I chose to take on this challenge in the week following my aunt’s passing.

In Cape Verdean tradition, food plays an immense role in moments of grief. When we mourn, we mourn for months in the home of the family of the lost loved one. I wanted to honor my aunt by preparing a large pot of katxupa to bring to my grandmother’s house; a meal hearty enough to feed the many friends and family members arriving to pay their respects. 

This decision to make katxupa weighed heavily on me. The room would be filled with mourning Cape Verdeans, many of them elders with decades of experience crafting this beloved dish. More than a matter of cooking, it was a test of my ability to step into the legacy of our ancestors and offer a dish worthy of their stories and memories, even in the midst of their sorrow.

Preparation started that evening when my mother called me into the kitchen. There were no measurements or specific recipes to follow; it was just my mother’s memory and my eyes following along. Together, we began with the beans, sorting through them carefully by hand, pulling out any bad ones, then soaking the good ones so they would cook more easily the next day. Next came the hominy, treated with the same care.

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DOCUMENTING FOOD IS OFTEN MISUNDERSTOOD AS SIMPLE PRESERVATION, WHEN IN TRUTH IT IS A REVOLUTIONARY ACT.

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For the meat, I leaned into textures and flavors that could hold their own in the stew: pork shoulder and cow foot, each bringing its own rich, unctuous contribution to the dish. This is where the seasoning becomes critical. My mother’s go-to staples were salt, garlic powder, adobo, and sazón, but I wanted something that felt closer to my style. I used a vibrant green seasoning akin to Haitian epis, packed with fresh herbs, aromatics, and depth. The meats were tossed in the seasoning and left to marinate overnight. Next came the chopping of the carrots, cassava, and collard greens, adding vibrant color and hearty texture to the pot. These were followed by Cape Verdean tuna, which brought a deep, savory richness to the dish.

Intentional archiving, like using storytelling and history through cookbooks, holds immense power in preserving and reclaiming narratives that have often been stripped away or misrepresented. For diasporic communities like Cape Verdeans, food is not merely sustenance; it is a vessel for history, identity, and healing. By intentionally recording both the recipes and the cultural significance embedded within them, Black and diasporic communities can reclaim authority over our culinary heritage, ensuring that it survives and thrives for future generations.

In the case of katxupa, this dish demonstrates how food carries the weight of memory and history. Katxupa is not simply a stew; it is a story of resilience, born from a time of hunger yet transformed into a prideful staple. The humble ingredients, once dictated by necessity, have become symbols of abundance and celebration. When Cape Verdeans describe variations like katxupa rika, the “rich” version with layers of meat, fish, beans, and colorful vegetables, they are documenting more than a recipe. They are archiving the transitions of their history: from scarcity to abundance, from struggle to pride.

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Learning to make katxupa, as I did, is a deeply personal act of restoration, not just of the dish itself but of the bonds it carries. The overwhelming feeling I had, nervous to cook for Cape Verdean elders after my aunt’s passing, went beyond the fear of ruining a meal. It was the quiet desperation to get it right and to honor those around me, as well as the generations that came before them, through the food they carried with them as they migrated across oceans and endured hardships. It was an effort to preserve our culture and ensure the flavors, techniques, and traditions were not lost to time.

What I came to understand through cooking and reflecting on my family’s meals is that food is never static. Katxupa changed in response to available resources, adapting to the circumstances and reflecting its makers and their realities. Yet it remained, evolving not just as nourishment but as identity.

As I sought recipes, I realized there were gaps in how Cape Verdean food had been documented, often written by outsiders who lacked the context to capture the nuances of the ten islands. This absence only reinforced the importance of intentional archiving and stepping in to preserve our stories with fidelity and care.

Documenting food is often misunderstood as simple preservation, when in truth it is a revolutionary act. A way to ensure cultural survival for communities whose histories are too often erased or distorted. By consciously recording recipes like katxupa, we reclaim the narrative and take control of how our culinary traditions are shared and understood. We embed the context: we explain why baby food might begin with the broth of katxupa, how elders pass on techniques, and why variations like katxupa rika symbolize prosperity. Through this kind of archiving, the rhythm of our kitchens becomes the heartbeat of history, strengthening the ties between past, present, and future.