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About this book
About this book
In 2004 I made my first trip to Petrčane, the small Dalmatian fishing village just outside Zadar where my family comes from. I'd grown up inside the food — my grandparents had kept it alive in a New York kitchen for decades — but standing in the village itself, eating at the family table there, I understood for the first time that I'd grown up inside a whole cuisine. I came home and started writing it down.
From the earliest days, I was taught that food is how we show love. Everything begins and ends at the family table, where laughter flows as freely as the wine, and where my grandparents always said: "Nobody ever leaves hungry." And they never did.
Our roots are in Dalmatia, on the Adriatic. The sea gives us fish in abundance; meat is saved for holidays and honored guests. Olive oil is our lifeblood — pressed from family trees, poured with generosity, and at the heart of almost every dish. We cook simply, with herbs and fruit and vegetables and whatever is fresh that day. And we grill — always. In the Northeast, where I live now, I grill through snowstorms, through rain, and yes, through hurricanes, to the great dismay of my mother, who still yells at me from the kitchen window. We grow our own vegetables. We nurture the fig trees in the yard. We're close enough to real farms and fish markets that they echo the abundance of home.
What I share in this book is more than a collection of recipes. It's a piece of my heritage — traditional Croatian dishes alongside the American favorites we've joyfully "Croatianized" over the years — written down so it wouldn't be lost. Every page has felt like a conversation with the people who put this food in my hands: my parents, my grandparents Baba Mara, Dido Pere, Dido Pave, and Baba Euphemia, and the wider family both here and back in Croatia. This is their book as much as mine.
This is the food of my family. This is the flavor of my life.
I hope it finds a place at your table too.
In 2004 I made my first trip to Petrčane, the small Dalmatian fishing village just outside Zadar where my family comes from. I'd grown up inside the food — my grandparents had kept it alive in a New York kitchen for decades — but standing in the village itself, eating at the family table there, I understood for the first time that I'd grown up inside a whole cuisine. I came home and started writing it down.
From the earliest days, I was taught that food is how we show love. Everything begins and ends at the family table, where laughter flows as freely as the wine, and where my grandparents always said: "Nobody ever leaves hungry." And they never did.
Our roots are in Dalmatia, on the Adriatic. The sea gives us fish in abundance; meat is saved for holidays and honored guests. Olive oil is our lifeblood — pressed from family trees, poured with generosity, and at the heart of almost every dish. We cook simply, with herbs and fruit and vegetables and whatever is fresh that day. And we grill — always. In the Northeast, where I live now, I grill through snowstorms, through rain, and yes, through hurricanes, to the great dismay of my mother, who still yells at me from the kitchen window. We grow our own vegetables. We nurture the fig trees in the yard. We're close enough to real farms and fish markets that they echo the abundance of home.
What I share in this book is more than a collection of recipes. It's a piece of my heritage — traditional Croatian dishes alongside the American favorites we've joyfully "Croatianized" over the years — written down so it wouldn't be lost. Every page has felt like a conversation with the people who put this food in my hands: my parents, my grandparents Baba Mara, Dido Pere, Dido Pave, and Baba Euphemia, and the wider family both here and back in Croatia. This is their book as much as mine.
This is the food of my family. This is the flavor of my life.
I hope it finds a place at your table too.
From the book
On a personal note
On a personal note
Every recipe has a story
I wanted this cookbook to be different. Every recipe has a story — a family member who made it, a holiday it belonged to, a stretch of coastline it came from, a reason it ended up on our table and not someone else's. I wrote those stories alongside the ingredients, because the why of a dish is usually the part that makes you want to cook it. Food is never just food. It's the record of how a family chose to live.
One-person team
Most cookbooks are a group effort — writers, stylists, designers, publishers, each taking a piece. I wanted this one to feel personal in every way, so I did every part of it myself. After a career leading creative teams, that wasn't about figuring out how — it was about keeping the whole thing in one voice. No handoffs, no committees, no decisions softened by process. Just the book I meant to make.
Most cookbooks are a group effort — writers, stylists, designers, publishers, each taking a piece. I wanted this one to feel personal in every way, so I did every part of it myself. After a career leading creative teams, that wasn't about figuring out how — it was about keeping the whole thing in one voice. No handoffs, no committees, no decisions softened by process. Just the book I meant to make.
