Kancha was born from a simple yet profound memory, one of those customs that quietly shape who we are without us ever realizing it. In Peruvian homes, before any main dish reaches the table, there is always a small bowl of cancha, toasted corn that is crunchy, golden and generous, always there without being called, always expected without being announced. It is a gesture that gathers people, a symbol of warmth and togetherness that turns an ordinary meal into something more meaningful. I grew up watching it appear on every table and learned to love that in-between moment when hunger, conversation and the sound of the cancha crunching in your hands make you feel that sharing food is another way of sharing life.

As a child I loved it so much that I ended up putting cancha on everything, soups, rice, stews, whatever was in front of me, because for me cancha went with everything. There was something about its texture, that light crackle when you bit into it, that made every meal feel more alive, as if the sound itself added flavor. My grandmother knew it too, she would always save a little for me because she understood that behind that small habit there was comfort, a quiet joy and a kind of love that needed no words.

With my aunt Mary, cancha became more than food, it became a name, a way of affection. She used to call me “canchita,” a nickname that carried warmth and tenderness every time she said it, and although I didn’t realize it back then, that word stayed with me forever. When I told her I wanted to move to Australia, she was one of the first to encourage me, to tell me to go for it, that it was never too late to begin again. Her voice gave me courage, her faith pushed me forward and even today, whenever I think about how all this started, I can still feel her presence guiding me.

That is why Kancha is not just a name. It is a way of returning to my roots and of honoring the people who taught me that simplicity has its own depth. It represents what is shared without effort, what sits on every table yet carries a story of its own. Every bread I bake holds a piece of that memory, the taste of my childhood, my grandmother’s patience, my aunt’s faith and the quiet hope of keeping something alive through time. Kancha is a bridge between my past and my present, between the home I left behind and the one I am building now, a way to stay connected to what I love even when I am far away.