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.

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.

The sofrit pagès suffers like never before. Yes: it's a very bad pun. The situation of Pitiüsan gastronomy is also not good. Sofrit and other Ibizan specialities are drowning amidst an avalanche of pizzas, tacos, sushi, chicken tikka masala and spring rolls. Not to mention the competition from Michelin-starred restaurants, establishments by famous chefs and fast food franchises. It's an unequal fight. A quick search on Google Maps reveals the difference in forces: in the capital of the main Pitiüsa island alone, the search engine offers 23 Japanese restaurants, 16 Chinese restaurants, 24 restaurants classified as Italian cuisine, 21 pizza-only places, and 23 Mediterranean cuisine. There isn't a specific tab for local cuisine, but we must assume it's included in the 'Mediterranean cuisine' category. Without even going online, any Ibizan knows they will have plenty of options if they want to eat sushi or pizza, and practically none if they fancy a sofrit pagès, the main meat dish of traditional Ibizan cuisine.But the sofrit is no longer alone. Last week, the Academy of Balearic Islands Cuisine was presented to the public in an event at the Consell d’Eivissa; this organization, for the first time, has four members from the Pitiüsa Islands, three from Ibiza and one from Formentera. A kind of Pitiüsan resistance against culinary globalization. There was talk of "defending our own" and the "danger of extinction" of local cuisine. It is still relatively easy to find the famous fish stew (bullit de peix) on the menus of Pitiüsan beach restaurants – another matter is whether the fish used is truly Pitiüsan – alongside international cuisine dishes. It is much more difficult to find less popular preparations, such as sofrit and borrida de ratjada. The same applies to desserts; beyond flaó on some menus and perhaps greixonera, it will be almost impossible for you to find any other.

The summer solstice, the moment of the year when the day is longest and the night is shortest, has been celebrated for thousands of years by many of the cultures that have populated the earth. These were pagan festivals where ritual celebrations were held and where the triumph of light over darkness was celebrated. This is the case of the festivities of Classical Greece dedicated to the god Apollo, god of the Sun, during which purifying bonfires were lit. When Christianity spread, the Church adapted many of these existing festivities. This is the case of Saint John, the day on which the birth of the saint is celebrated. According to tradition, Saint John was born at 12 AM, at the same time as Jesus was born and exactly six months before him.

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.

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.

Anthony Bourdain said that the best way to get to know someone is to share a meal, and that when someone invites you to sit at their table, they are really inviting you into their world. Because in every dish, however simple, there is a story, and every recipe is a journey of no return. The municipality of Algaida travels the world through the kitchens of the families who live in the town and in the villages of Pina and Randa, transforming gastronomy into a meeting place where diversity is experienced, shared, and celebrated.

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.