My story with food begins long before I ever stepped into a kitchen myself. It begins in the warm, fragrant air of my grandmother’s home, where every meal was a ritual and every ingredient told a story. Growing up with South Slavic roots meant growing up in a world where food was never just about feeding the body, it was about feeding tradition, family, and memory.
My baba was the heart of it all. She grew everything herself: tomatoes that actually tasted like the sun, peppers that carried just the right heat, beans dried and stored for the winter. The pantry shelves lined with jars of Lyutenitsa and pickled vegetables weren’t just food storage, they were a reflection of patience, care, and survival through the seasons. Nothing in her kitchen came out of a package; everything had a place in the cycle of the year, tied to the rhythms of planting, harvesting, and preserving.
I watched her hands, strong, practiced, and endlessly capable. Rolling dough for Banitsa, shaping bread with reverence, stirring pots that seemed to bubble with more than just flavor. She never measured, yet everything was balanced. Her secret wasn’t written down in recipes, but carried in memory, intuition, and the belief that homemade food is cleaner, healthier, and truer.
From her I learned that food is not just about taste. It’s about respect for the earth that grows it, gratitude for the hands that prepare it, and the deep comfort that comes from knowing where it all came from. In South Slavic tradition, food is tied to family tables and celebrations, but also to quiet daily meals that remind us of who we are and where we come from.
When I cook today, I carry those lessons with me. I source the best ingredients I can, I make as much as possible from scratch, and I honor the traditions I grew up with. Every dish I share is a continuation of my grandmother’s kitchen, a piece of South Slavic heritage passed forward, one meal at a time.
Because in the end, food is memory. And my memories taste of homemade bread, jars of summer preserved for winter, and the love of a grandmother who knew that clean, simple, honest food was the greatest gift she could give.