Authentic recipes for cooking and pastry making. Often, ink heals wounds. But when you start to write, you realize that ink is bitterer than all poisons.

I wanted to write about the house of my childhood. About the soil I loved and never got to plant. I wanted to write about the olive trees across from our house, the poppies, the daffodils, and the herbs. To write about the sun that set in the sea, dipped like sweet cherry. About the sun that warmed the hearts of people.

About the exquisite miracle of dawn, which every morning did its job, spreading rosy reflections on the horizon gently carving the sea, so that the seagulls began to draw circles. Those times when we smelled the flowers, listened to the music of the birds, sweated over our dance, watched the sun rise, and counted the stars that came so close to us and looked like bulbs of light lost in the infinite and in time.

With the full moon weaving the serenity of the night indifferently, and we, as small children then, unrolling the ball of memories from grandmother and mother, enjoying Mani delicacies. Unique images that were never written on paper, but recorded in our childhood soul...

[Excerpt from the text on the back cover of the edition]