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.

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.

Bread, a staple food for humanity, seems to have originated by chance. It is said that the first inhabitants collected wild cereals and then used the grain by crushing it between two stones to make porridge. It is believed that one day, someone forgot some of this porridge near the fire, or perhaps poured it intentionally onto a hot stone. The result was a dry, flat, and crispy paste, the first unleavened bread (without yeast) in history. Bread as we know it today, fluffy, with crumb and volume, was born in ancient Egypt. Chance again played in its favor when some forgotten shepherd captured some of the yeast fungi that live suspended in the air. That dough swelled and when they found it, they decided to bake it. The result was truly a miracle: a soft, tasty, and much easier to digest bread.

Doughnuts constitute one of the most widespread types of traditional pastry within the peninsular sphere. This fried dough, generally in the shape of a ring or a closed horseshoe, made with flour, fat, eggs, and some flavorings, refers to a much older origin, to preparations of doughs fried in oil, often sweetened with honey or sugar, already documented in the classical world and which later developed in medieval cuisine.

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 best llonguet of Mallorca is not eaten in the capital, but in the heart of the Pla region. In fact, it is made in the beautiful center of the island, in Lloret de Vistalegre, and precisely very close to the spot where the marker indicating what - for many people - is the center of Mallorca is located.

The best llonguet from Mallorca is not eaten in the capital, but in the heart of the Pla region. In fact, it is made in the center of the island, in Lloret de Vistalegre, and precisely very close to the place where the milestone indicating what - for many people - is the center of Mallorca is located.

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.

“We started 20 years ago. Little by little. Now everyone promotes and cooks Sant Marc snails… but at the time we were the first”, explains Guillem Garí, owner of the Es Cruce restaurant in Vilafranca, the temple of one of the most sought-after Majorcan dishes this week on the island.

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.

Is the empanada a pie? An empanada? It seems simple, but it isn't. Because when you try to define it, you understand that it's not just a dish: it's a world. On the Mediterranean islands —from the Balearics, with Mallorca and Menorca, to Sardinia— each place seems to know perfectly what an empanada is... until the discussion begins. From Palma to Maó, from Assemini, in southern Sardinia, to Cuglieri, in the province of Oristano, to Oschiri, in Gallura, each community defends theirs as the most authentic. And they are all right.

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 first World Days of Ibizan Flaó are here. Sant Josep de sa Talaia will host several events and presentations on the weekend of April 10-12 with the aim of promoting and reviving one of the most important traditional dishes of the Pitiusas Islands, at a time when globalization seems to be consuming local traditions and history.

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.

Little by little, without much noise, traditional cuisine of the Balearic Islands It's fading away. It's not happening for a single reason or overnight, but as a consequence of a profound change in how we live, eat, and relate to time. Globalization, the culture of immediacy, and a fast-paced diet have been displacing a cuisine that requires slow cooking, patience, and oral tradition. This has led to the disappearance of part of the culinary vocabulary and linguistic heritage that has defined the cultural identity of the Balearic Islands for centuries. Words that once circulated naturally in the islands' kitchens are increasingly unfamiliar to younger generations, reflecting how the disappearance of traditional dishes is accompanied by the loss of language and cultural knowledge.

There was a day when Williamde sa MoletaHe left behind anonymity and his family nickname to become a leading figure in his town, the Pla region, and Mallorca. That first pine arbor on La Moleta, which shaded travelers on the Manacor road, was first transformed into corrugated asbestos roofing and, later, into a popular restaurant. It was then that Guillem Garí Fornés (Vilafranca, 1957) became Guillemfrom Es Cruce