Where the Knife Still Cuts

April 18, 2025

Dear reader,

I was somewhere between Prague and Berlin, living a little dream of mine: interning with the incredible Chef Eva, an absolute powerhouse in Chinese cuisine. I became her little right hand—at the market, in the kitchen, and deep in the planning of the Che Hub experience. I was expanding my skills, soaking up knowledge, and learning from the best. Even though it had been everything I had dreamed of for quite a while, it was a mix of loneliness, a lot of discomfort, and this low hum of being completely out of my depth. But it was paired with wild excitement—the kind that stretches you and makes you grow in ways you didn’t know you needed.

A Kitchen That Felt Like Prayer

Our kitchen was tiny, but it was real. A little old-school, which I adored. We fried crackers in a pan of screaming hot oil instead of some shiny, boujee air fryer. There was room for play—we had time to laugh at our failed tabi cracker experiments. The kitchen lived in a perfect kind of mess, always soundtracked by good music. Those small Vietnamese steamed eggplants? The real stars of the show. I found my knife a bit broken, but still—everything felt weirdly right. It was an atmosphere I hadn’t known before. An open kind of freedom, simple and unforced. I came to experience a different kind of prayer there—a silent one, requiring more listening than speaking.

Call Time

The night before, I had packed my bags for an Adidas event in Berlin. I even took a photo—ready to share it with you here in this very newsletter. But the trip I packed for wasn’t the one I took. That morning, I got the call from my dad. My brother—my best friend, my hero—had passed. And just like that, everything stopped. I felt like my heart had been pulled from my body. An overwhelming sense of mission eclipsed my fear when I realised I had to get home. Fast. I was at the airport within hours, barely functioning, but strangely steady. Somewhere between shock and surrender, a calm set in. He passed in our father’s arms, after five long years of fighting cancer. His last words were, “I am better now.” And he was. Finally at peace. In a better place. The eternal vineyards.

In the Quiet, Garlic Speaks

When I travel solo, I tend to roast everything—ideas, feelings, vegetables. One veggie usually steps into the spotlight. Today, it’s garlic. It’s humble and loud at the same time. I spread it on toast, throw it next to my eggs—and honestly, that’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It’s giving main character energy without even trying. I just watched Garlic Is As Good As Ten Mothers (1980)—a wild little film that captures garlic not just as a flavor, but as identity. Loud kitchens. Old souls. No pretenses. Just realness. A scent, a symbol, maybe even a quiet rebellion. It reminded me of how my brother lived those 28 years—bold, unfiltered, all in from day one. Now I’m dreaming up strange pairings that somehow make sense. Just like grief and gratitude. Just like joy and loss. Just like now and next. Garlic in dark chocolate? Fermented, preferably. Sweeter. Funkier. Unexpected. Possibly genius.

Also—garlic as jewelry? Don’t underestimate the power of wearing a clove around your neck. Protective, potent, a little absurd. I’m into it.