Level: Stagier

The Scent of Childhood in a Sunday Lunch

Some dishes are more than just flavor, they are time machines. Scents, sounds, the quiet choreography of hands kneading, basting, deglazing… all of it turns an ordinary day into a celebration. For me, one of those dishes is roasted chicken with mlinci and tomato salad, prepared using my grandmother’s old recipe, a recipe that feels etched into the palms of my hands. This Sunday lunch didn’t just satisfy our hunger,it nourished the soul.

I grew up with this dish in Croatia, where in the northern regions it’s traditionally made with turkey, for its richer, fattier meat. Still, I’ve come to love my own version, made with chicken.

The chicken first rested overnight in a brine made with water, salt, a pinch of sugar, and a splash of lemon juice, to soften the meat and let it absorb all that would come next. The following day, I brushed it generously with pork fat, because love doesn’t count calories. 😁 Into the baking tray I placed large chunks of onion and carrot, and inside the chicken, a whole apple to keep it moist and tender from the inside.

Roasting was a slow, patient process… first covered with foil, then uncovered and brushed with a bit of honey, letting the skin crisp up and turn golden, the kind that everyone fights over. But the truly magical moment comes when the chicken is out of the oven and all the juices are left behind in the pan.

Mlinci (traditional thin baked flatbreads similar to dried pasta sheets) were never boiled in hot water in my house, as some do today. My mlinci were brought to life in the roasting pan itself. Gently torn, layered, soaked with the deglazed pan juices (a mix of white wine and chicken stock) then baked just a little longer. Crispy on the edges, soft in the middle. Trends may have changed through the years, but my love for old recipes has never wavered. This is how our grandmothers did it. And so do I.

The tomato salad with red onion was the mark of summer on the plate, a fresh contrast to the richness, a balance.

To me, this recipe is a teleportation to childhood, the scent of home, a moment when life was simple and sincere.

When we finally sat at the table, it was clear… I had managed to invite childhood back. In the smiles of my family, in those first silent bites when no one speaks because they’re too busy enjoying, in the quiet rebellion against diets that surrendered to crispy skin and fragrant mlinci.

This recipe carries part of my heritage, the spirit of my grandmother, and a love for food that is more than nourishment. It is story. It is memory. It is everything that connects us.

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