My little vegetable garden grew every day. Weeding, tying up the tomato plants, and watching how the water, drop by drop, quenched the plants' thirst rewarded me with a bounty of tasty fruits. Only the pumpkin plant resisted, until one day it seemed to wake up from its laziness, as if the heat had plunged it into a long lethargy. Its shoots began to grow and exceed the parceled limits of the garden. A branch, free on the other side of the fence, filled with healthy and vigorous fruits, like an open hand generously offering its gifts.

The British presence in Menorca during the 18th century left its mark on many aspects of island life. Contacts with England favored the arrival of new tastes, ingredients, and customs that, over time, were incorporated into the recipe books of Menorcan households. One of the most significant elements of this legacy is butter, which occupies a prominent place in many preparations. In a domestic kitchen where lard played a fundamental role in the making of pastries and sweets, butter offered other possibilities: it provided an unctuous texture, a characteristic aroma, and a particular consistency to the doughs. Its incorporation did not necessarily mean the abandonment of traditional fats, but rather the expansion of a repertoire enriched with new ingredients and techniques.

The 'panadera' is one of the most representative stews of the traditional Menorcan recipe book. The DCVB defines it as a "potato stew with a previously made sauté of garlic, onion, tomato, and parsley". It must be said that the potato, so present now, was not part of the dish in its origins, as is demonstrated in theArt of cooking, the cookbook that Friar Roger wrote in the 18th century. In this cookbook we find up to twelve preparations that receive this name. Friar Roger's "panaderes" are made of fish, lobster, shrimp, oysters, freshwater crayfish, and even kid goat feet. There are also some made of carrots, spinach, and artichokes.

Arriving in a town and seeing a bar in the square is synonymous with people, with town life, but if we also add that the establishment bears the name Café, we immediately understand that behind it there is a patina of history that most likely speaks to us of ancestry, of stories and generations. In Sencelles, the bustle and the stir, the history of the town in short, must be written with Café Ca'n París as a pillar. Parties, meetings, funerals, and conversations have had this place as a reference point. Behind the counter, Miquel Llabrés Amengual (Sencelles, 1961) and Maria Llabrés Munar (Sencelles, 1964) have held the reins from 1981 until this summer. But as we say, Ca'n París has a long history, and for that reason, sitting at a marble table and with our coffee finished, we wanted to talk to them about it.

I would crumble bread a couple of days old with my fingers and collect it in an earthenware plate that had a little rim painted red. Then I would crack the eggs into it, beat them, and make that tasty and consistent omelet in a small, blackened frying pan. Sometimes I would add garlic and parsley, but I preferred the primitive simplicity of the one that only had bread. We would eat it on the porch, sitting at the low table protected by a floral oilcloth battered by the cut of some knife. I still seem to taste it. It was so good that I was in no hurry to finish it and tried to make the bite last.

My mother used to collect fennel seeds from the paths surrounding the small house and leave them to dry on a piece of newspaper. Those little seeds in the sun were the beginning of a cycle that started with small routines: the prepared white cloths coming out of the box, the clean jars, the long and thick needles, the parts of the manual machinery being checked again, the threads and the ropes. A whole dance of objects that, when the time came, would come to life until the cycle closed once again. It has been a few years since this cycle was broken and I have a small grief anchored within me. A small, constant, and annoying prick that seeks that awakening of inanimate things. A system collapsed like a house of cards made of newspaper.

Paella is the favorite dish of 57% of the inhabitants of the Balearic Islands, according to the La Fallera Study: Paella, the dish that unites all Spaniards, prepared based on a survey of 1,000 people between 18 and 65 years old. This percentage places the Islands as the second autonomous community where this dish is chosen the most, only behind the Valencian Community, where it reaches 74%.

Pere Garau square will host the second edition of the Variat Fair on the upcoming 26th and 27th of September, an event that grows this year and incorporates changes to avoid the logistical problems of the first edition. The main novelty will be the possibility of buying tickets in advance through the fair's website, a system that will allow acquiring the consumptions before or during the event and exchanging them at any of the participating stalls.

Summer stretches out like a heavy shadow. There is no conversation that does not begin with the heaviness of these months, the difficulty of enduring the high temperature, and how the humidity has clung to the skin like a heavy fabric. They say that next year they will be even higher and we breathe deeply while we think about how we will be able to endure it. But we will adapt to it, for survival, as we have adapted to what the land gave us, to the changes in the landscape, to the loss.

Xisca Alzamora is the owner and cook of Nou Convent Cafeteria. “I put a lot of love into it,” she says when we ask her how she manages to prepare and give that good flavor to the daily dishes of Mallorcan cuisine or the varied tapas of the place, right in front of Manacor Town Hall, which reopens after a well-deserved vacation. Everyone who knows her knows that she doesn't like to boast about her knowledge in the world of Mallorcan cuisine, but people who have tasted any of her daily dishes or tapas know that she has something that makes her so special when entering a kitchen.

Cod has been for centuries one of the great protagonists of our cuisine. Its long preservation made it an essential food when fresh fish was scarce or inaccessible, but also an ingredient capable of adapting to the rhythm of the seasons. While in winter it was accompanied by seasonal vegetables such as green leaves, with the arrival of summer it found its best allies in garden fruits: tomatoes, peppers, and in some cases, eggplants.

The folding chairs and rocking chairs swirled in groups from one end of the street to the other. My grandmothers, Aunt Magdalena and Mrs. Juanaina, sat in our midst. Further on were Mrs. Panerera and Mrs. Verda, and on the other side were Ms. Xisca from Can Feliu, Ms. Bet, and Ms. Tonina from Can Sastre. They began to enjoy the cool evening air before dinner, when the heat subsided and it felt better to be outside than inside the houses. When it was time to sit down to eat, the chairs were outside, alone, as if a cataclysm had made disappear the people who had occupied them until then. As the street filled with darkness, the neighbors reclaimed the street and the murmur of conversations and laughter resumed. We children went back and forth from one side to the other, from group to group; at times we played, at others we sat and listened to stories to pass the time. Sometimes someone brought out ice cream made with an almond preparation. We enjoyed the cool air. The street was ours.

Lobster fishing is one of the most traditional and valuable artisanal fishing activities in the Balearic Islands. This crustacean lives on rocky bottoms and is mainly caught with traps, a selective fishing gear that allows young specimens and egg-bearing females to be preserved. Its exploitation is subject to very strict regulations, with closed seasons, limitations on the number of traps, and a minimum catch size, measures that have contributed to maintaining some of the best-preserved populations in the Mediterranean. Although catches are limited, its high commercial value makes it one of the most profitable fisheries for the Balearic artisanal fleet. Beyond its economic interest, lobster holds a prominent place in the gastronomic heritage of the Islands, especially in Menorca.

One of the most emblematic bars of traditional Mallorcan cuisine says goodbye. Ca'n Biel Felip has announced the definitive closure of the restaurant, in a publication on social networks, after more than thirty years of trajectory, a decision that the establishment itself admits "is never easy". The venue, recognized this year with the award for the best classic bar in the Balearic Islands, is now negotiating a possible succession so that the business can continue with a new stage. According to reports, the main reason for the closure is the lack of generational succession.

Born in Montuïri in 1944, Antònia Verger Jaume Sopeta is one of those anonymous but key figures in the local history of Pla de Mallorca and, in this case, Montuïri. Antònia Verger was for many years the lady of the Puig or of Cas Carboner, later. Without realizing it, she was a leader, a reference for other women who in the last quarter of the last century too often did not escape household chores. Verger began like this, not in vain when she is asked about her studies, she explains that she managed to take exams at the Institute of Felanitx, but, "the boys continued their studies and the girls, as was usual at that time, ended up doing household chores or as seamstresses". It was at the beginning of the seventies – and not without difficulties, as you will see in the interview – that she embarked, together with her husband, Biel Bennàssar Mayol Carboner, on the adventure of managing the bar and restaurant of Puig de Sant Miquel. In this conversation, Verger reviews from the beginning the success of her cuisine to the tensions and the social transformation that, without knowing it, it represented for the women of the town.

They had installed the perch in the kitchen. The feathered ducks swayed there, hanging from a hook. A macabre curtain from which the animals had just dripped the last drops of blood. The scorched skin gave off a metallic and penetrating smell that mixed with the scalded feathers. Those powerful animals that organized the coop with their scandalous comings and goings looked like others, stripped and sad, staring at you from that small head with cloudy eyes.

The dining hall of CEIP Pare Bartomeu Pou in Algaida is, since last June and forevermore, Can Moncho. It is in recognition of José Ramon Gómez Lorenzo (Pedrayo, 1962) who from 1988 until this year has been the cook at the public school in the municipality. At times and amidst nostalgic memories, he explains very valid and practical tricks and recipes for any family trying to get the little ones at home to eat everything. Moncho didn't want any farewell party, but after almost 40 years of service, the event was completely inevitable.

We had coffee facing each other, sitting at the kitchen table. It was the little pleasure after lunch with my grandmother. She prepared the coffee maker and I took out the cups and the anise. Inside the display cabinet where she kept it, the smells of liqueurs and the wood of the furniture mingled. Some bottles had never been opened, the yellowish seal unbroken betrayed them, others were wrapped in cellophane; presents from France that were savored on special occasions. She poured me that transparent liquid like one perfumes coffee with a pinch of cinnamon. This was our ritual: coffee, conversation, and a teaspoon of sweet anise while she watched me with a mischievous girl's smile.

Then the street was flanked by plots of land. The almond trees leaned over our path, offering such green almonds that we could still eat the skin. We opened them with our teeth and took out the kernel that burst in our mouths like a small gulp of acidic water. We filled our pockets with them and ran off in fours for fear that some neighbor might give us away. In the month of September, when it was time to harvest the almonds, I always ate some of those we shelled outside the cloths. The pulp broke crunchily in the mouth, milky and sweet, braving such a wonderful transformation, just like a chrysalis waiting for its final state.

There are cuisines that not only nourish, but also explain who we are: those that are passed down in silence, from generation to generation, and that live in memory before recipe books. From this invisible thread starts A kitchen in every home, the book by Pau Gómez Calvo, which combines memories, recipes, and reflection to reclaim a domestic legacy that, according to the author, is undergoing a complete transformation.