In the so-called Western Balkans, it is a sacrilege to throw bread away. Bread is thought of as the mother of all food, and there are many dishes that use stale bread as their key ingredient. And every bit of it is eventually eaten. Very much aware of the region’s mores, I do my best to share stale bread with birds and animals around me. I make sure that not a bit of it is wasted. But each and every time I throw stale bread into my garden, I remember Jozo Brandić. Coming from Bosnia, the heart of the fraught region, it was he who taught me not to waste bread ever again (“The Waste of Waste,” January 9, 2006). And I also remember my beloved’s words in praise of the man (“Guru Jozo,” June 2, 2013). Sadly, he suffered a stroke three years ago, and it appears that he will never be the same again (Addendum of October 30, 2016, to “Jozo,” January 25, 2004). We are as chummy as ever, but our communication is limited to bare essentials, for he has lost his way with words. Nonetheless, his teachings will stay with me forever, and my Residua are rife with stories that testify to his acumen. This time around, I wish to convey thanks of birds and animals on the Motovun hill to Jozo’s wisdom. Predictably enough, I just threw some stale bread into my garden. There will remain not a trace of it in less than an hour.