Ink was a decisive invention in human history because it allowed us to fix and transmit knowledge with ease, permanently and simply. The word 'ink' is a very broad term that includes any pigmented liquid or paste used for writing, drawing, or printing and comes from the Latin tincta, meaning 'dyed'.

The imposing mulberry tree offered shade and fruit to the hens when it was the season. There was enough space to roam all day, to peck at small blades of grass that didn't have time to grow, or to put an end to some insect that had had the bad luck to enter. At the back was the old nesting box where the birds went to lay their eggs and the old rabbit hutches that now served to store grain. A metal bed base converted into a door that never closed invited the hens to enter when the sun set. I liked to go looking for the eggs, discovering that offering that the little animals left us inside a box covered with straw. It surprised me that they were so unconcerned, absent of jealousy for that perfect little box that had come out of their bodies.

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.

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.

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.

The wafer rolls hung from the ceiling like cascading snowflakes. Driven by time, they danced slowly, turning in different directions, now one, then the other. Year after year, we enriched the collection. With our parents' help, we made circles, then folded them and trimmed the edges and points. We always tried to make complicated shapes because we wanted to know what picture would appear when we unfolded the paper. However, the simplest ones were the prettiest and most complete. No tree, no baubles, no Santa Clauses—only the nativity scene and the wafer rolls kept us company until Saint Anthony passed by. Now the old ones coexist with the new ones, openwork wafer rolls that my father makes with great skill and patience.

On the appointed day, they set off for the mountain. The godfather walked with a steady stride despite his age, a man well-versed in the trails and shortcuts. Autumn was in full swing, and the rains had soaked the earth. The long-awaited moment had arrived. A pine forest nestled in the shade awaited them. Bushes grew wild, along with the occasional holm oak and the finest mushrooms in the region. The godfather's godfather knew the place, and his great-godfathers before them. The man bent down and showed his grandson how to pick them, always with respect and gratitude. Before leaving, with his basket full, he pointed out the landmarks so they could return when he was gone; markings on the trees and stones, invisible to others. The secret had been passed down.