Djordje, not George.

You’ll come to know me intimately in the entries. You’re invited. These aren’t your journals—they’re mine. Written by me, in the way I need them written. The way that resonates with me first, before it ever gets the opportunity to resonate with the world. If an opinion or criticism creeps up in you as you indulge, that’s a sign for you to go back to your house.

One of the central truths of this “heritage”—this house you’re about to step into—is that although it feels new, it was built long before any of us could name it The Djordjes.

You feel legacy in these bones.
You’ll feel the spirit in these words that hold up the walls of this Maison.
And I invite you to steep in the warmth of being deeply, intimately recognized.

“Djordje” is pronounced George.

Which is funny, because I spent years trying to outgrow that name—and even longer learning how to reinterpret it.

I’m 38. Full Taurus. Born in Fort Lauderdale, Florida in 1986.
If you’re millennial-minded, you’ll probably relate to my knee-jerk reaction to architect my childhood into a sentence that smells like 1995.

That year is the emotional centerpiece of almost every childhood story I carry. And honestly, that’s about as much factual family heritage I can tell you. I don’t come from a long documented line of crests and heirlooms.

I used to envy those who did.
The families with crests.
The ones who talk about their great-great-grandmother like she’s in the next room.
The ones who pass down land, companies, recipes… stocks and shit.

That’s stunning. I genuinely love that some people get to live that reality.
And I don’t feel victimized (anymore).
Because I’ve learned how to smolder and smoke the spices of my childhood into a life that is far richer, far more decadent, than if someone had simply handed me a dream life with a bow.

I was named wrong.

I felt energetic offense the moment I came out of the womb.
Something was off. I sensed it.
And I knew that I’d known that feeling before I even sensed it.
I’ve never forgotten it.

Not dramatic. Just honest.

I carried the sound of my own misnaming like background noise—like music I never picked, but everyone assumed I liked.

My mom called me George. They all did.
Mainly because she told them to. I get it. I understand how that works.
But it was wrong. I knew it.

And how could y’all not know that?

At first, “y’all” meant everyone. Including you.
Eventually, I realized I was really talking to her.

She was the human I saw most. The softest and most consistent presence I had.
And with no words, no understanding, just instinct—I began expecting her to meet all of my needs.

All I had was sense back then. But that sense had enough sense to know:
She was the move.

My family? No kind of traditional fabulous.

And for a long time, I held a quiet disappointment about that.
These weren’t the people I’d seen in my visions.
I was born with other people in mind.
And these puzzle pieces... just didn’t seem to fit.

But what choice did I have in the matter?

Turns out, I had to make my own.
It took me a couple of decades to piece it together.

You’ll learn the sauce that flavors the base of this rich and complex tomato soup.
It’s been simmering for centuries.
And I’ve been chosen to serve it.

You’ll know these people.
You’ll feel the energetic tug of curiosity, sparkle, and awe as you unfold them.
And you’ll come to realize:
This is your family too.

They are felt.
Their visions. Their aspirations.
They’re manifestations of love, stirred with complex herbs and holy heat.

My specialty in the lineage is product and packaging.

The ancestors sent me to give this to you with style.

The expensive shit, baby.

So expensive the “rich people” don’t even recognize it.
So soft it doesn’t show up on radars.
So slick oil cans can’t hold it.
So bright, words block its view.

You have to know what you’re looking at to appreciate this.
And those who don’t?

Well... aren’t we glad they don’t? Don’t come crowding my spot with unqualified tastes.

My soul has brought you The Djordjes—our deeply human story, dressed in elegance.
I’m only one kind. But a kind none of us can fully comprehend.

This story I’m coming to tell?
It’s rough, as in raw. Rustic, as in rough chopped on purpose. Organic for health, not for trend. Then, draped in “Djordje Inheritance Teal” for a velvety texture. You haven’t had it before. It takes some time for your palette to align with this.

And it started with two beautifully imperfect souls.
My real-life father, George… a paraplegic English school teacher.
And a teenage chanteuse of a mother—Veronica, 17 years old, now with two children in tow.
The undeniable core ingredients of “The Djordje” recipe. It’s in everything we serve here.

They weren’t who I pictured.
But God?
He’s the best artist there is.
He paints with colors we never think to ask for.

He did His thing with those two.

They got my name wrong though.

_______

Upgrade your latte and then return, darling.
This is a slow sip and no place for skimming.

If you felt even the slightest be of discomfort from reading this, I highly suggest studying The Djordje Codes before you continue your time in the parlor. Don’t get full, I haven’t served you yet.

Christopher.