A round conical container with a central opening for circulating warm air.
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Sweet
A round conical container with a central opening for circulating warm air.
I come from a family where good food is deeply cherished. We constantly talk about it, exchange recipes and experiences, proudly share our successes when a dish turns out exceptionally well, and never shy away from admitting when it doesn’t. While it used to be the women who did all the cooking, over time, the younger men in our family have also embraced this tradition, adding their own touch to our culinary heritage.
The pastries, which were baked in large quantities during the holidays, were always the domain of my grandmother Marta Štangelj (b. 1914, d. 2000), my mother Mira Zatezalo (b. 1936), and my mother-in-law Majda Koren (b. 1934). On major holidays, all three of them would also bake the queen of all desserts, potica. Though subtle, there was always a bit of competition between them. My grandmother and mother-in-law baked theirs in a large baking pan with three flat dough rolls or in smaller pans, each holding just one. My mother’s potica, however, was always the best—and the most beautiful—because she made it in a round potica mold.
Much later, I learned that potica was a traveling cake. Mothers prepared them for the boys going off to the army and for the girls going to work. To fit better into the jerbas (basket), the flat potica was given a round shape. My mother bought the round "potičnik" in 1974 at a stand on Grajski trg in Maribor. She immediately received comments from my grandmother, saying that the shape is not right (it really differs little from the traditional Slovenian potica, in which the protected Slovenian potica is baked), that the walls are too high and too thick. But since then, my mother has only baked potica in it.
Baking her potica involved meticulous preparation of the right ingredients, precise measurements, and suitable containers. She relied on a grinder and a mortar, ensured the kitchen was warm, and always washed her tablecloths without detergent to prevent any unwanted odors from lingering on the dough. Once the dough had risen, she covered it with a tablecloth and rolled it out on the same surface. Using chopsticks, she carefully pierced the risen raw potica to release any trapped air bubbles that could expand during baking and spoil the appearance of the finished slices. Even toward the end of the baking process, she continued to pierce the potica, using the scent of the dough clinging to the stick to gauge when it was perfectly baked. Above all, baking potica demanded her undivided attention and a considerable investment of time.
About ten years ago, under my mother's watchful eye and filled with trepidation, I set out on my first attempt at baking potica. The process was grueling, and the results were disappointing. I tried again, but something always seemed off with the potica. Then, in 2018, I participated in a program for the "Kitchen Debate" exhibition organized by the Maribor Regional Museum. At our very first meeting, retired confectionery teacher Ms. Darinka Gostenčnik guided us through the potica baking process. Combining my mother's teachings with Darinka's practical tips and insights, my baking journey finally found success.
My potica is sweet, as it should be, but I’m gradually introducing less sugary versions into our family cuisine. I want everyone to experience the full range of flavors, not just the sweetness. To ensure that it retains its traditional beauty, my mother gifted me her potica mold last year.
A round conical container with a central opening for circulating warm air.
I come from a family where good food is deeply cherished. We constantly talk about it, exchange recipes and experiences, proudly share our successes when a dish turns out exceptionally well, and never shy away from admitting when it doesn’t. While it used to be the women who did all the cooking, over time, the younger men in our family have also embraced this tradition, adding their own touch to our culinary heritage.
The pastries, which were baked in large quantities during the holidays, were always the domain of my grandmother Marta Štangelj (b. 1914, d. 2000), my mother Mira Zatezalo (b. 1936), and my mother-in-law Majda Koren (b. 1934). On major holidays, all three of them would also bake the queen of all desserts, potica. Though subtle, there was always a bit of competition between them. My grandmother and mother-in-law baked theirs in a large baking pan with three flat dough rolls or in smaller pans, each holding just one. My mother’s potica, however, was always the best—and the most beautiful—because she made it in a round potica mold.
Much later, I learned that potica was a traveling cake. Mothers prepared them for the boys going off to the army and for the girls going to work. To fit better into the jerbas (basket), the flat potica was given a round shape. My mother bought the round "potičnik" in 1974 at a stand on Grajski trg in Maribor. She immediately received comments from my grandmother, saying that the shape is not right (it really differs little from the traditional Slovenian potica, in which the protected Slovenian potica is baked), that the walls are too high and too thick. But since then, my mother has only baked potica in it.
Baking her potica involved meticulous preparation of the right ingredients, precise measurements, and suitable containers. She relied on a grinder and a mortar, ensured the kitchen was warm, and always washed her tablecloths without detergent to prevent any unwanted odors from lingering on the dough. Once the dough had risen, she covered it with a tablecloth and rolled it out on the same surface. Using chopsticks, she carefully pierced the risen raw potica to release any trapped air bubbles that could expand during baking and spoil the appearance of the finished slices. Even toward the end of the baking process, she continued to pierce the potica, using the scent of the dough clinging to the stick to gauge when it was perfectly baked. Above all, baking potica demanded her undivided attention and a considerable investment of time.
About ten years ago, under my mother's watchful eye and filled with trepidation, I set out on my first attempt at baking potica. The process was grueling, and the results were disappointing. I tried again, but something always seemed off with the potica. Then, in 2018, I participated in a program for the "Kitchen Debate" exhibition organized by the Maribor Regional Museum. At our very first meeting, retired confectionery teacher Ms. Darinka Gostenčnik guided us through the potica baking process. Combining my mother's teachings with Darinka's practical tips and insights, my baking journey finally found success.
My potica is sweet, as it should be, but I’m gradually introducing less sugary versions into our family cuisine. I want everyone to experience the full range of flavors, not just the sweetness. To ensure that it retains its traditional beauty, my mother gifted me her potica mold last year.
We invite you to summon the muses to the Museum of Flavors by thinking about the flavors in your life—at and away from the table; and remember the moments you associate with a particular taste.
First, we chose the instruments: for the "salty" guitar (Astrid Kukovič), for the "bitter" piano (Sašo Vollmaier), for the "sour" harmonica (Dominik Cvitanič), for the "burning" violin (Andreja Klinc) and for the "sweet" flute (Asia Grauf). Melodies were created spontaneously. "Bitter" improvisations are low and legato, "salty" more decisive, articulate, "sour" high and dissonant, while "sweet" ones are unison, slow and soft.
Asja Grauf, professor of flute
An important mission of modern museums is to connect the past with the present, implement new approaches for the cultivation of new generations and work in favor of culture and society in general. We invite you to read the personal stories of people who have contributed their objects to the Museum of Taste, and at the same time let this be an invitation to participate in the project yourself.
© Maribor Regional Museum