The Melody of Two Mountains: Finding Home in the Andes

Chapter 01The Parallel Peaks

I was born in the Caucasus, in beautiful Rustavi, not too far from the capital of Georgia. My earliest memories are shaped by the colors, scents, and shapes of this marvelous country, but when people ask me what shaped me most, it is undoubtedly the heritage and culture of the Georgian people. It is a deeply held belief among us that guests are a gift from the heavens, messengers of God who should be treated like family. So I grew up between neighbors who spent hours in the company of one another, who knew one another for years, who played together as kids, birthed and buried loved ones, and co-existed with care for one another.

In Georgia, hospitality isn't just a polite practice; it is a profound devotion. It was the early 90s, and I was just a toddler in the arms of young parents, intoxicated by the sweet scents of blooming mulberry and plum trees that drifted through the air, and the melodic voice of a neighbor who broke into beautiful song, engraving the Georgian language forever into my soul. I remember wandering the vibrant markets with my grandma, breathing in the earthy aromas of blue fenugreek and bright marigold. Every vendor had their own mound of freshly ground khmeli-suneli, a Georgian traditional spice blend that varies so slightly in taste between one vendor and another, infusing family secrets into the very tapestry of tradition. Above it all, colorful strings of churchkhela hung from the shop fronts like edible jewels. Food was everywhere, embedded into who we are as people; we shared our lives, treating every neighbor as family, the kitchen being the heart of this sacred connection.

When I first arrived in the Sacred Valley of Peru, I expected to feel like a stranger at the edge of the world. Instead, I experienced an immediate, undeniable ancestral pull.

Shortly after my arrival, around the month of March, I was honored to be invited to a local Yunza festival. We gathered around a towering eucalyptus tree draped in gifts. We danced, we laughed, and we took turns striking the trunk with an axe while blessing the earth, until the tree finally fell and everyone ran joyfully to collect the treasures.

Surrounded by shared food, the warmth of the people, and the scent of woodsmoke, I realized a profound truth: the geography was new, but the spirit of the mountain people was entirely familiar. There is a universal thread that connects mountain people across the globe, a profound resilience and a deep dedication to community. I saw it immediately here in Peru, in the mamis and papis working the market stalls well into their old age, their faces lined with the same enduring warmth and grit I remembered from my childhood. The mountains demand respect, and in return, they shape people who know how to take care of one another.

Georgia - where every market stall holds a thousand years of memory

Two mountains - one familiar spirit

Chapter 02The Shared Melody

That familiarity extended even to the language. Some linguists might argue, but to my ears, the Georgian and Quechua languages share the exact same deep, ancient melody. There is a weight to the words, a resonance that only comes from people who have lived in reciprocity with stone, sun, and soil for millennia.

For years, I was unconsciously searching for this frequency. Despite all my comforts, life in the city was just too fast, overwhelming, and ultimately hollow. I remember one day having a quiet panic attack in a Costco food court, watching hundreds of people in their mass consumption journey through the endless aisles. I felt poisoned by it all, the endless ad-campaigns, the lights, the rhythm. My body was growing weaker despite being young and healthy, and I was simply feeling lost and disconnected. I was craving a slower pace, a quieter rhythm, and the basic right to know what was going into my food. I was blessed enough to travel all across the world to find the raw beauty of the Andes, which naturally connects one's being deeply into the core of mother earth.

Chapter 03The Scent of the Caucasus

My transition back to my true culinary passion wasn't born in a professional environment; it was in my tiny kitchen wherever I lived, born from a deep, aching craving to feel simply at home. I was homesick for the tastes of Georgia, for the recipes of old that my grandmothers used to make.

In my once-again tiny Peruvian kitchen, I decided to stop missing home and start creating it. I took the gorgeous, sun-drenched red peppers grown by our farming neighbors and began crafting Adjika, the traditional Georgian fermented spice paste that adds fireworks and liveliness to any dish there is.

As the spicy red peppers fermented alongside our authentic Georgian spices, the kitchen began to smell divine. It was a potent, earthy aroma that brought tears to my eyes. This was the true scent of the Caucasus, my homeland. As the jars bubbled and cured on my counter, I realized what was happening. The ingredients were purely Peruvian, but the soul was fiercely Georgian.

The ingredients were purely Peruvian - the soul was fiercely Georgian.

The Heart of the JarThe Alchemy of MamiChurro

This is how MamiChurro truly began, as a way to bridge my two homes through the alchemy of a cooking pot and a fermentation jar.

But what exactly is Adjika? In the high Caucasus, it is more than just a condiment; it is the fiery heartbeat of the table. Historically, it began as a vibrant paste ground on large, flat stones by shepherds to season their food during long, harsh mountain winters. The traditional process is a patient labor of love: we take local red peppers and crush them together with pungent garlic, mineral salt, and Georgian spices like blue fenugreek and marigold. Through the slow magic of lacto-fermentation, these raw elements cure over weeks, transforming into a deep, complex paste that is entirely alive with probiotics.

Blue fenugreek, marigold, and mountain spices - the Caucasus in your kitchen

Fermenting this Adjika became my own research project into healing through flavor and nervous system regulation. It brought me profound peace because it reminded me of simpler times. There is a beautiful music to it, spices and vegetables coming together in a dance that pulls you into deep presence and mindfulness. Every taste and texture plays a role.

When you cook like this, you are entwined in the living process of creation. It transported me back to the marvel of my childhood, watching women in the beating heart of the kitchen, dancing between the pans and pots, crying, and laughing together. This is where real connection was established. Through nourishment, we opened up to each other; we got to know our neighbors. Food gives us a profound sense of belonging and security. It unravels feelings of liveliness, worthiness, pleasure, and joy. This is the exact spirit that stands behind MamiChurro, which now proudly presents our exclusive red-pepper Adjika.

MamiChurro's Georgian Adjika - weeks of fermentation in every jar

If you love heat, you spread it straight onto fresh bread or use it as a gourmet dip that burns and unravels in layers of beaming flavor. You can mix it into yogurts, stir a spoonful into your favorite salsa, or drop it into a stew to enliven everything from shakshuka to fresh fish.

I am sure when you taste our Adjika, time will stop for just a glimpse of a second, and you'll be transferred all across the world to a different valley with similar mamis and papis, who sing to the mountains and honor life in marvelous ways.

The Ancestral PantryYour Questions, Answered

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Fermented with Andean peppers, Georgian spices, and weeks of patience. The fiery heartbeat of our table - now yours.

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