How Limits Spark Creativity - A Letter from My Lazy Kitchen

Dear reader,

I’ve been hesitating to continue—maybe even resisting myself these past weeks—as grief found a new way to show up. It crept in, quietly but heavily, and I just became tired of myself. Physically. Mentally. Exhaustion settled in, and suddenly, asking for help became my daily bread. I’m learning to live with this fatigue, trying to embrace it instead of fight it.

I’m relearning solitude. It feels like every day I have to figure out how to live without my brother all over again. For someone with an overachiever mindset like mine, that’s a hard pill to swallow. But I’m moving into a space of understanding, and maybe that will eventually lead to action. Or maybe there’s no action needed right now. Maybe, for now, all I need to do is breathe.

One small but mighty tool I’m holding onto: I’m writing this letter from my own apartment, from my own bed. Can you believe it? Because I still pinch myself every time I walk through the door. I’m giving myself the grace to simply be here. This is my kind of royalty at the moment.

Home, Mantas Platukis ''Hotel Room I, II", 2023

The Black Drop

These past few months have been excitingly hectic—between moving into my new tiny home and renovating the studio. But through it all, one thought kept looping in my mind:

“When this is over, I’ll finally enjoy it.”

That surprised me. I’ve always been someone who enjoys the process more than the finished product—especially in design process and cooking. And yet, lately, all I want is for the process to be over.

Still, in the thick of it all—in the noise, the numbness, the weight of days blurring into each other—I made something. A quiet release I called The Black Drop. It wasn’t born of clarity, but of instinct and circumstance. These pieces weren’t crafted for calm or contemplation; they were made for the city’s rhythm—for the pulse of the everyday rush.

Card Holder Mess

A Cabbage on a Bike

Truthfully, I didn’t know what they meant when I made them. I was still walking through the long shadow of my brother’s funeral, holding onto little more than momentum. The shoot was already booked, so I switched into “just do it” mode—moving on instinct, not inspiration. Not knowing why. Not needing to.

When the stylist called and asked what was behind the drop, I told her honestly: “I have no idea.” She said, “That’s okay—we’ll figure it out.” And we did.

I found myself standing in my freshly painted studio, wrapped in plastic sheeting, watching a model in a crisp white shirt balance a cabbage on a bike. The direction wasn’t mine alone—Une stepped in with quiet clarity. The most intuitive set designer I’ve ever worked with, gently carried the vision forward. We had long, thoughtful conversations, carefully choosing props like glues to a story I hadn’t yet told myself.

Onions & Garlic on Set

And somehow, in that surreal, beautiful moment—I felt it. That familiar flicker of magic. The kind that only a team like this could unlock. So simple. So precise. So true. We had captured the months I had just survived. From the girl on the farm to the woman in the city. From long days weaving bags in silence, stuffing ravioli with garden spinach, and cycling a hundred kilometres home like it was no big deal—to the fast, fragmented rhythm of urban life: therapy sessions, brain fog from renovation decisions, back-to-back meetings, last-minute lunch dates. A beer on the corner. Or two.

You might see a man in that photo—someone who’s seen life. But when I look at him, I see myself. I see six months that felt like six years, when the city’s rush overtook the farm’s quiet. And still—I’m embracing it. It’s one of my social selves. The one who touches down just long enough to gather strength. The one who adjusts quietly, moving forward—even when the direction isn’t clear.

Marius Autukas, Cycling With Cabbage

The Quiet Kitchen

I’ve always been quietly, stubbornly against food waste. I can’t even fully explain why—it might come from how I was raised, or maybe there’s a deeper thread I’ll one day untangle. But it’s something I carry with me. I build most of my meals around what’s already in my fridge, or whatever’s in season. That’s the language I speak when I cook—resourceful, a little chaotic, and always evolving.

After our recent shoot, we divided the leftover produce among the team. I walked away with a bag of garlic (yes, more garlic ironically, if you read my previuos letter) and a cabbage that still makes me smile whenever I see it. I’m not quite myself in the kitchen yet. Still a bit hesitant. Still grieving. But I pulled out my old reliable method: roast it all.

Where The Garlic Still Speaks, Home

I peeled the garlic, drowned it in olive oil, and tucked it into the oven. That smell? Immediate comfort. Caramelised cloves, soft and golden, filling the apartment with the kind of scent that makes you close your eyes. I smashed some into Greek yogurt, added tahini, and poured in a little of the garlicky oil. Stirred it into a sauce that somehow became the base of everything—tuna tacos, breakfast burgers, late night salads. It stayed with me for weeks, like a little secret in the fridge. The best sauce I’ve made in a long time.

And that cabbage—the one “who saw life”? —met its fate as crisps. Torn into pieces, rubbed with olive oil, sprinkled with flaky sea salt. I roasted them in between cutting leather for a Farm Bag. A quiet, crunchy snack in the middle of a busy day.

Cabbage Crisps, Farm

There’s a certain kind of creativity that only comes from limits. From working with what you’ve got. From slowing down long enough to hear what’s actually needed. My lazy kitchen isn’t really lazy—it’s just soft. Unrushed. Forgiving. And somehow, between garlic, cabbage, and the quiet in my kitchen, I’m learning to be okay with not having all the answers yet. Having a quite table. 

Becoming

So this is where I find myself—Somewhere between what was lost and what I’m learning to hold. Learning, gently, that I don’t need to rush toward meaning. That some seasons aren’t for clarity, but for being with what is. Maybe the answers come later. Or maybe they don’t.
 Maybe the ritual of peeling, roasting, writing—maybe that is the answer.

For now, I’m letting the rushing city speak.
 Letting the table stay a little empty. 
Letting life be less about the doing, and more about the being. Grief hasn’t gone anywhere, but it doesn’t shout now. It slips between things—like steam rising from the oven, or the way olive oil pools just right on a plate.

Talk soon,

Ve