“But in the homes, not only of the Turks but also of the Serbs, nothing was changed. They lived, worked and amused themselves in the old way. Bread was still mixed in kneading troughs, coffee roasted on the hearth, clothes steamed in coppers and washed with soda which hurt the women’s fingers.” – Ivo Andric, The
Steaming pans of scrambled eggs and fried chanterelles, piles of eggy bread with lashings of creamy cheese and ajvar, doughy bread fritters with sweet jam and – my favourite – oozy, rich cicvara (pronounced seets-vuh-ruh)… Bosnian breakfasts are meant to be approached with an empty stomach and the willingness to fill it. They are, much
Daily markets are a thing to behold. Colourful, unpretentious, local affairs that are there simply because the demand exists. I took this picture in a small town called Trebinje in Herzegovina. Every day I’d find local producers selling the season’s fruit and vegetables, local cheeses – especially kaymak and ‘cheese in a sack‘ – olives, olive oil,
The first time I had ajvar (pronounced ayvar) it was dolloped on a plastic plate with a hunk of cold pork and white bread. I was in a Slovenian village at the local men’s club – essentially a community centre with a bar in it – where every Friday the village men came to play boules, drink Lasko
Pod beans, sip coffee, pod more beans, chit chat, sip more coffee, chit chat, coffee, chit chat. This week, I had the real pleasure of staying with this lovely woman, Mira, in the middle of the northern Bosnian countryside. We got up early, the air still cool and fresh and we sat down with a cup of coffee