I am talking with Jozo Brandić about village life of his youth. He grew up in Donji Hasići near Šamac on the right bank of river Sava in Bosnia. He is telling me about ploughing with his father, collecting wood for the winter, taking care of newborn pigs that could be squashed by their oversized mother, smelling fresh bread coming out of the oven, listening to his parents and relatives talk and laugh over some food and drink, watching the blacksmith shape iron with unfathomable skill, picking pumpkins in cornfields… “It all fit together so very well,” he chuckles and shakes his head. “Oh,” he continues before I could say a word, “I remember one of my aunts calling me as I would pass by her house on my way to school and handing me an apple over the picket fence.” Jozo closes his eyes for a moment before he shakes his head again and whispers: “How good that apple would always taste!”