Long before rakija sat on shelves, it lived in homes. It was made from what grew nearby - grapes, plums, pears, quinces, apricots - and shaped by the family making it. Every household had its own way.
Some bottles were soft and fragrant. Others arrived with a warning. Recipes shifted through memory, instinct and whatever the season had offered.
There was no need to standardise it. Its meaning came from where it was made and who placed it in front of you. Rakija was poured when someone arrived, when someone left, when good news travelled through the family and when there were no words for what had happened.
It marked the moment without needing to explain it.
