For generations, rakija lived in our family without needing to be documented. It was understood. You knew when to bring it out. You knew who poured first. You knew a guest should never be left with an empty glass, even when they insisted they had already had enough.
There were no brand guidelines, tasting notes or carefully constructed origin stories. There were only people. People making it, sharing it and carrying the knowledge forward.
Sometimes what stays with you is not the full story. It is the way someone said your name. The sound of chairs being dragged closer to the table. A kitchen that was always too warm. Fruit being washed, cut and prepared. A bottle placed in the middle of everything, never announced but always present.
These details can feel ordinary when you are living inside them. Later, you understand they were the story.
We inherit more than recipes. We inherit ways of caring for people. Ways of gathering. Ways of making room. The Stories We Inherit is our attempt to hold onto those things before they disappear - and to give other families a place to do the same.
