How to Make Bundevara, Serbia’s Simple and Satisfying Pumpkin Dessert
By: Genevieve D'Jones
Tags: Serbia, Vegan, Travel, Recipe, Food

Belgrade is a beautiful city. It’s full of white-painted buildings so ornately decorated they look like wedding cakes; unique sculptural monuments; and fountains. Most beautiful of all, to me, are the markets full of local produce that you can find in every part of the city.

Belgradians believe in fruit and vegetables. These market stalls are carefully piled high with in-season food, sold by the people who grow it. Likely as not, the farmers still have soil under their fingernails as they hand you your kilos of plums, still with the gentle bloom on, the freshest sweet corn and several different types of tomatoes.

There is an etiquette to market shopping. Never touch those plums, much less go rifling through for the best ones. They are all the best, and that misty skin proves they were picked this morning. The stall holder will hand them to you. Also, never ask for a small amount. This is Go Big or Go Home country — you cannot ask for one cucumber; you’ll receive one kilo. If you insist, you’ll get it, along with a refusal to accept money for such a tiny amount and a laugh which follows you to the next stall. Where you find yourself with a kilo of peppers, because it’s the same thing. The little side salad for two you were planning has turned into quite a feast.

Market stall, Belgrade

The reason for this abundance is that it’s still common for grandmas and mums to cook for the whole family, even when that family has moved out. Young office workers still routinely go to grandma’s for lunch, where they see their siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, and any leftovers are packed for dinner.

Bookshelves are dotted with jars of roasted red peppers in oil and the ajvar made from it, a pepper condiment of which they are justly proud. Other balconies hold copper stills which process the abundance of plums and apricots into powerful rakija, fruit brandy.

Serbians are also really, really into pickling and preserving. I’ve seen small flats with a large barrel parked awkwardly on the balcony. It’s filled with brine and packed to the brim with cabbages, its lid weighed down with a rock. Bookshelves are dotted with jars of roasted red peppers in oil and the ajvar made from it, a pepper condiment of which they are justly proud. Other balconies hold copper stills which process the abundance of plums and apricots into powerful rakija, fruit brandy. Rakija, especially the home-made kind, is both extremely strong and a common courtesy. I’ve been given rakija not only at art openings in place of the cheap white wine I would expect but at people’s houses for an afternoon visit and even at the dentist.

The author cradles a pumpkin

The recipe I’m about to share with you, however, is not for making your own moonshine. Even more delicious, this is a recipe for Bundevara.

Bundevara is a Serbian dessert. It’s made with just a few ingredients: filo pastry, sugar, oil, cinnamon and pumpkin — an accidentally vegan delight. In Belgrade you can buy both the pumpkin and the (home made) pastry at the market. The woman we buy the pumpkin from used to be a university lecturer. Now, hands stained orange, she wields a small axe to chop up her produce. You only see her at this time of year, because she only grows pumpkins, and only two kinds. She has the sweet type and the savoury type, and you can buy it already grated specifically for this recipe, buy a chunk of pumpkin, or buy a whole one pumpkin. A whole one is huge, so we just get a chunk — and even that is the size of a small child.