The acidic smell of vinegar wafted through the kitchen, cutting through the bitterness of the green beans and the aromas of boiled vegetables. I knew that when I sat down at the table, the ordeal would begin. Spring had burst, the pods were flowering and the beans grew tender and crisp, stuffed with small green pearls inside. There was always a small furrow or two of broad beans in the yard, and some days some of these fruits would arrive at our table in a formidable, unavoidable green bean dish.

Few plants have accompanied humans throughout history as much as gourds. Present in cultures on every continent, they have been much more than food: they have served as containers, tools, musical instruments, and even life preservers. Currently, we associate them with gastronomic terms, as part of creams, in stews, pickles, and desserts.

My slaughtered animal hung from a scaffold. It had its belly open, a large empty cavity from which the gold that would be offered fried had been extracted. It seemed that its eyes had followed point by point the entire sequence of its dismemberment and had been horrified by it: the drained blood, the offal, further on the gut that was beginning to be limed to remove all dirt, the clean and lemoned intestines hanging from some reeds. A wild scene, an impossible puzzle to reassemble.

The streets awaited the passage in silence while the songs were still heard in the distance in a dull murmur. The procession passed, the mournful songs of the mourners chilled our blood with their sadness. They spoke of death and forgiveness, of promised paradises that fled, winding with the jingle of the chain of a penitent and anonymous Christ. We knew nothing of all that, of the grief, we were children and our paradise was a pocket full of sweets.

Making crespells is one of the most deeply rooted traditions of Holy Week in Mallorca. Beyond the recipe, it is also a shared moment: floured hands, molds of various shapes, and children starting in the kitchen almost as if it were a game.

The kitchen filled with a white light, as if flour had taken the place of light.

The porch was small, and the steam from the cooking pot fogged the windows, making the space even more sheltered from the outside world—a little haven for everyday cooking. Inside the pot, a thick, yellowish broth simmered, its aroma heavy and pungent. Chopped parsley awaited its turn on the wooden chopper. Sometimes it was enriched with a snail found among the weeds in the yard, with asparagus from the edges, or a mushroom when it was in season. If I was lucky, it would be rice; if not, noodles or burballes (a type of sausage), and woe betide me, for I would struggle to finish whatever dish they placed before me.

The history of gastronomy cannot be understood without the constant movement of cooks. Long before culinary schools existed, knowledge circulated among those who controlled the kitchen. In the case of royal cooks, it was not surprising that they traveled from one kingdom to another, serving kings, nobles, or high dignitaries. With them traveled not only techniques, but also ingredients, serving styles, and the very essence of a banquet.

The bakery was bright and clean. A sweet, milky air filled the air, thanks to the freshly baked treats, ensaimadas, and cakes that were so tempting. I peered into the oven; more than one person could fit inside, a thought that both unsettled and intrigued me. On the marble counter lay the pastries that would later become cakes, and beside them, whipped cream, fruit, chocolate cream, and a large, pristine, glossy bowl of meringue—a mound of sticky snow, the sweetest of fillings.

We used to play on the seashore, mostly digging holes that would soon fill with water. We would have loved for starfish and seahorses, like the ones we saw in other children's plastic buckets, to suddenly inhabit them. Sometimes we went to the reefs where the rocks fiercely sheltered the snails. I was never able to bring myself to eat them. They had the strength of the sea in their bodies and their taste, perfectly camouflaged in their surroundings. If the waves wouldn't let us swim, we would look for crabs in the crevices of the rocks. It wasn't easy to fool them because our little feet betrayed us, and they would soon retreat into dives impossible for us. Some of these species are now protected, and although I'm relieved I was never the cause of their disappearance, it pains me to know they are in such a fragile state.

I often saw her lying among the trees. The sun's rays melted into the shadows of the holm oaks, and she basked in the warmth. I saw the piglets born; they were like mice wrapped in whitish slime, disproportionately small next to their mother. In summer, they grunted and splashed in the muddy water while the sow grunted. Now that their life cycle was over, she seemed defeated and alone. Huddled on a bed of leaves, she resembled an altar touched by the light, the great sacrificial stone.

With this enthusiastic and apt phrase begins the prologue of one of the most unique and valuable recipe books of the island's gastronomic tradition, Popular Mallorcan cuisinePublished in Sóller in 1931. The small-format work was printed at the printing establishment of Salvador Calatayud, who had already participated in some of the many editions of the work The guinea pig of MallorcaAttributed to Pere de Alcántara Peña.

We had located the great fish; it circled our little boat, chasing the mackerel that served as our seat. The morning passed quickly, amidst the excitement of seeing it and the uncertainty of whether we could catch it. We played cat and mouse for a while until it won and left us alone in the middle of the calm sea. Then I breathed a sigh of relief because deep down I would have been upset to see it end up lying on the deck, its glassy eyes fixed on the sky and yearning for the blue of the water.

Curiosity has been a driving force that has sustained both humans and animals. The need to understand the environment and everything within it has served as an antidote to hunger. For us, it's easy now; we have almost everything at our fingertips. We can even buy peeled oranges, neatly packaged in plastic, ready to eat. I often think of that first person who put a vegetable in their mouth—a few leaves, a piece of fruit. Some of those early experiences resulted in indigestion and unpleasantness. Let's imagine, for a moment, someone plucking unfamiliar leaves sprouting from the earth, a bunch that will drag along fleshy, living roots. And how, after that first taste of earthy sweetness, they will raise their arm in victory, exclaiming in a fervent thought that they will never go hungry again.

The animal stalked me from its wooden cage. It was so cramped in there that it seemed it would burst if I used my strength. If it had been within reach, I would have eagerly released it so it could feel the air again between its open wings. Being round, the partridge could only peek through the bars. Its slanted red eye anxiously watched me, its mask seemingly condemning it to its fate: a thieving bird trapped in a tiny prison.

Bonfires were lit here and there. Some huddled around the fire, others moved away from the smoke. Spirals of embers flew, and a damp branch flickered. Blood sausages and salamis were taken from the pantries and thrown into the coals. Conversations, shouts, and laughter swirled around the fire. Then there was always someone who felt moved to sing to the rumble of the tambourine. The singers kept an ancient song, learned long ago. The sound awoke from deep within, animated by the spirit and the warmth of the burning vines, and then it shone brightly, soaring upwards like the spirals that ignited the dark fire.

Pitiusan cuisine is one of the most unique and least-known branches of Balearic gastronomy, born in a limited territory with a close relationship to the sea and the land. For centuries, isolation and a lack of resources forced the inhabitants to live self-sufficiently. From this context emerged a simple and honest cuisine, designed to withstand the test of time and the limitations of the land. Fish stew is perhaps the most famous dish. Alongside it, the hearty labrador (a traditional stew) holds a place of honor in the island's festive memory: a robust casserole dish featuring chicken, lamb, and other products from the pig slaughter, seasoned with spices and aromas of saffron, cinnamon, and cloves.

Almonds are the most commonly used nut in Christmas baking. They are present in many of the sweets we enjoy during this time of year, such as nougat, shortbread, and almond brittle. One of the oldest preparations made with almonds is marzipan, an ancient and refined sweet baked in the oven, made primarily with raw almonds and sugar, sometimes with a little egg white to help bind the dough.

In the days leading up to Christmas, the oven would be lit and the house would fill with a familiar and delicious aroma. The pastries would take on color as we sat down to eat, our mouths watering at the mere thought of the filled pastries we loved so much. Some people made pastries or cocarrois all year round, and in the blink of an eye, the dough would be ready and the filling warm. But in our house, we followed the rhythm of the seasons and the holidays, so the corresponding dishes were highly anticipated and eaten with gusto and relish.

Every Christmas, some people repeat the same old dishes… while others want to surprise their loved ones without sacrificing their familiar tastes. For the latter, we offer a selection of recipes from Caterina Gelabert that draw on traditional Mallorcan cuisine but incorporate a touch of originality, ideal for refreshing your holiday menu with dishes that are both surprising and deeply rooted in the region. From traditional Christmas sweets to a stuffed baldana that inspires celebration: dishes that break from the usual menu without losing your identity.