Dije’s Llokuma and the Language of a Kosovar Kitchen

Art, Culture, & Social Impact Intern in Kosovo 

This blog was originally written by Lucia Caputo as part of a university food writing course assignment and is shared here with her permission.

On a lazy Sunday morning in July, Jack, Sierra, and I (my housemates for the summer) heard a soft knock at the door we had been patiently waiting for. Dije, our landlady, arrived with her arms full of ingredients, flour tucked under one arm, a bag of sugar pressed against her chest, and a tub of yogurt balanced carefully in her hands. Despite being weighed down by supplies, she embraced us in turn, reminding us that we were like her children in her broken English. Then she went into the kitchen and announced that it was time for our Llokuma lesson. 

I was living in Kosovo for eight weeks over the summer as part of an Isla internship and during that time, language was often the most visible marker of how far I was from home. Dije spoke almost entirely in Albanian, a language where I was beginning to be able to recognize a few words, but not fully understand. Occasionally, our local friend Dijana helped translate, stepping in when something needed explanation, but Dije was eager to teach through actions rather than words. We tried, as much as possible, to follow her lead, to watch closely, imitate her movements, and trust the process without asking for constant clarification. 

Cooking became a space where translation felt unnecessary. Dije showed us when the dough was ready by feel, not by measurement, and corrected us with a glance or gentle motion of her hands. In those moments, the kitchen felt unexpectedly familiar. It reminded me of cooking with my own family, where recipes lived in memory and repetition rather than on paper. At the same time, the experience was entirely new. I was learning how to make a traditional dish in an unfamiliar country, guided by someone whose language and life were different from my own. Through the shared rhythm of cooking, that distance softened and the kitchen became a place of connection and care. 

Llokuma are simple fried doughnuts from Kosovo, crispy on the outside and soft in the center, usually eaten warm and served with an assortment of sweet and savory toppings. Dije never handed me a written recipe. She simply tried to explain that pretty much every Kosovar person knew how to make Llokuma. She coaxed me to imitate her movements and learn by observing. Later when I finally wrote down the recipe in my own cookbook, it looked something like this: 

Dije’s Llokuma: 

Ingredients

• 2 eggs 

• 1 cup of Greek yogurt 

• 1 tablespoon salt or sugar (depending on if you want the dough to be sweet or not)

• 2 ¾ cups all purpose flour (combine until dough becomes a thicker consistency)

• 1 tablespoon baking powder

• 2 big spoons of oil (for frying)

Directions:

1. Crack eggs in a bowl and mix in the Greek yogurt until they are fully combined.

2. Mix together dry ingredients in a separate bowl (salt or sugar, flour, and baking powder). 

3. Combine wet and dry ingredients, adding enough flour to the point where the dough is no longer sticky. 

4. Cover the dough and leave to rise for a bit (not specified how long). 

5. Roll out the dough and cut it into square shapes (no worries if it isn’t perfectly consistent). 

6. Heat the oil in a pan until it is hot (should be crackling and popping). 

7. Fry each piece of dough until they have puffed up and are golden brown on both sides (this is where you have to really eyeball it). 

8. Serve the Llokuma with a sweet and savory spread (best with honey and Ajvar (a local roasted red pepper spread). 

Even now, the recipe feels incomplete on the page. Dije measured by instinct, adjusted by sight, and knew the oil was ready by sound alone. Writing it down was less about preserving precision and more about preserving a feeling. It’s the memory of standing beside her, learning a dish that welcomed me into a place that was still becoming familiar.

When I returned home from Kosovo, the first thing I did was make Llokuma. It wasn’t a dramatic decision, but the act of frying dough in my own kitchen felt like a quiet way of bringing a piece of that summer back with me. The smell of hot oil and fresh dough filled my house, and for a moment I could almost hear Dije’s voice, her hands moving quickly as she showed us what to do.

Making Llokuma at home changed the way I thought about what “home” could mean. It wasn’t just a place I lived; it was something I carried. The recipe became a bridge between two kitchens, two countries, and two different versions of myself. Now, as I add it to the hand-painted recipe book I’m making, I’m not simply preserving a dish, I’m preserving the care that came with it. The recipe belongs to my family now, but it also belongs to Dije, to Kosovo, and to the weeks when I learned a new language without speaking it. It’s a reminder that food can travel with us, quietly keeping our memories alive. Recipes don’t just feed the body; they carry the places and people we love into whatever kitchen we’re in next.