THE WATER OF LIFE

Rakija. You all know what I’m talking about. Please forgive my presumptuous tone when I say that I know your parents kept and perhaps still keep a recycled wine bottle filled with sljivovica, or perhaps dunjavača, in the freezer. It was made by your grandfather or your uncle and it contains 50% alcohol, but when the glass was under your nose, it didn›t smell like a chemical the way vodka does. It was fragrant with the fruit from which it was fermented and distilled.

But not just any fruit. The various fruits that grow on the hillside orchards of the Balkans are far from ordinary. They are of exceptional quality owing to the unique climate, characteristics, and history of the region. When processed with methods that have remained unchanged for centuries, exceptional rakija is the result. These practices were handed down from father to son and have endured as an essential part of the culture of the land. They have withstood plagues, foreign invasions, long occupations, and the social upheavals of repeated warfare. Tyrants and hardships have come and gone, but rakija has outlived them all.

Enter Srpski Zet. There have been only two occasions in my life that I have suffered the worst effects of over-indulgence. Both of these episodes occurred, in different years, at my father in-law›s weekend home in the hills south of Belgrade. Chatting for hours with family, I innocently sipped what smelled innocuously of apricots, feeling this sly potion slide down my throat with such velvety texture as to obscure its strength. Both incidents resulted in a two hour struggle to drag my dehydrated carcass out of bed the next morning, thinking the whole while that I might die.

But death passed me by, and there was not the slightest trace of a hangover headache, either. The elixir of which I was a willing victim was decanted from an old bottle labelled in elegant, Cyrillic handwriting as “kajsijavača”. It

was crafted by our neighbour, a refugee from Knin who, as they say, “knows the knowledge” (zna znanje). What an apt phrase for this man of so many rustic talents. Every year he produces what is still the gold standard by which I assess any distilled spirits.

I don’t mind boasting that I have become somewhat of a connoisseur in the matter. My personal collection includes rakije made from apricots, plums, apples, grapes, pears, wild pears, quinces, cherries, and, my favourite

from Banat, mulberries (known to you as dud).

Almost all of these were concocted by the same people who gave them to me, and they are treasures I share with Yugoslav guests.

But what is it about this substance that it can slip so smoothly over my tongue and subtly blur the line between my life›s joys and sorrows? What is this aromatic deception that first teases the mind with the scents of late summer harvests in Šumadija, and then eases the burden of the less favourable aspects of consciousness? I wonder

if there is hidden in the rural belief in rakija as medicine a metaphor for the soothing of the Serbian soul. One thing became clear to me: this liquid gold was something special and deserved proper consideration for its use.

So I adopted the habit on Saturday mornings of pairing my domaća kafa with a choice shot from my precious trove. Taken together these two cherished flavours induce in me a sweet reminiscence of the times I’ve spent

in the countryside just north of Kosmaj. This combination triggers precisely the relaxation my weekend needs.

And do you know what? I wouldn›t have it any other way.