I have a clipping on my vision board at home that reads: “If you want to see my soul, eat my food.”If I were to tell my story through food, I’d be… The centre of a cinnamon bun. I bring sweet comfort, a home for the sticky secrets that will set you free in the middle of my warm embrace. Slow-stewed plums with star anise and orange peel. I’m witchy, full of spells, with the patience of sweet orchard fruit breaking down over low heat. Sunny side up egg, layed by a hen who loves her life because she is free to roam. My yolk is tender, spilling sensually, unafraid of what it is running towards. Butter. Crock-churned. I’m a miracle of persistence, devotion and cream. Hearty rye bread, sturdy, scholastic. Yeasted with pockets of stories, where the truth can melt and nestle. Applewood smoke from a creekside fire, I ignite dreams and spark what is glowing in you.
I have a clipping on my vision board at home that reads: “If you want to see my soul, eat my food.”If I were to tell my story through food, I’d be… The centre of a cinnamon bun. I bring sweet comfort, a home for the sticky secrets that will set you free in the middle of my warm embrace. Slow-stewed plums with star anise and orange peel. I’m witchy, full of spells, with the patience of sweet orchard fruit breaking down over low heat. Sunny side up egg, layed by a hen who loves her life because she is free to roam. My yolk is tender, spilling sensually, unafraid of what it is running towards. Butter. Crock-churned. I’m a miracle of persistence, devotion and cream. Hearty rye bread, sturdy, scholastic. Yeasted with pockets of stories, where the truth can melt and nestle. Applewood smoke from a creekside fire, I ignite dreams and spark what is glowing in you.