There’s a kind of dish that doesn’t make a scene. It doesn’t sparkle. But when it’s there, it makes everything feel softer. That’s Canjica. It’s not something I eat often, but when I do, I wonder why I ever stopped
It’s a warm, creamy Brazilian dish—made with white corn and milk. Usually sweet, sometimes dressed up with coconut or peanuts. There’s cinnamon in the air, and something about it makes you stop for a second
What It Really Is
Canjica is usually made during Festa Junina, Brazil’s traditional June celebration. People gather, dance, and eat together. There are lanterns, bonfires, and music. Canjica is often part of that—but it’s not only for festivals
You can make it on a cold day. Or when you’re feeling distant. You stand near the stove, stirring slowly, thinking of something—or nothing. It’s just that kind of dish.
This dish doesn’t need a full supermarket run. Here’s how I make it:
- 1 cup of white hominy corn
- 1 litre of milk (honestly, whatever kind you have works)
- Half a can of condensed milk
- Sugar
- A cinnamon stick or powder
- A pinch of salt
- Optional things: coconut, peanuts, or both
How to Make It (No Rules Cooking)
First, soak the corn overnight. It softens up that way
The next day, cook it in water until it is tender. Add milk and condensed milk, then stir. Keep the flame low. This isn’t fast food
Add the cinnamon while it simmers. Take a spoon. Taste it. Think. Stir again.
Once it turns thick—like a loose pudding—add sugar and salt. Then whatever toppings you like. That’s it. Serve warm. Or don’t. Some people eat it cold. I’ve had both. Depends on the day
Why It Sticks with You
Making Canjica is not about the recipe. It’s about what happens while you’re making it. You don’t need to talk. You don’t need to check your phone. It’s one of those rare kitchen moments that lets you just… be
There’s comfort in watching something slowly come together. No rush. No perfect measurement. Just you, the smell of cinnamon, and a pot that bubbles when it’s ready—not when you say so.
More About Canjica
Canjica is made whenever the heart asks for warmth; there is no schedule. Once a year or less, whenever it comes, it feels right
Every time it turns out a little different, days are thicker and others are sweet. That’s part of its charm. The smell that fills the kitchen, the gentle simmering in the pot, and the comforting feel of spooning it up; this time is less about perfection and more about being there
If you’ve never made it, make it. Do it for yourself, not to impress or to Instagram. Let it simmer, let it breathe, and let it just be. Because sometimes, a bowl of Canjica is not merely food; it is just a small, gentle moment of peace.
