I didn’t mean to be quiet for this long.
The kitchen, on the other hand, had other plans.
There’s a particular stage of making where nothing looks impressive and everything feels unfinished. Bowls covered and set aside. Notes written in pencil because ink would be too confident. Flavours that insist on time — not because they’re dramatic, but because they know rushing would spoil the point.
That’s where things have been living lately.
On one corner of the worktop, something quietly traditional is taking its time. It smells like winter evenings and familiar stories, like something you might recognise without quite being able to name it. There’s a little crunch involved. A little warmth. A sense that this one deserves respect — and patience — rather than a grand introduction too soon.
It isn’t ready yet.
It knows it isn’t ready.
And I’ve learned that when flavours make that clear, it’s best to listen.
Nearby, in a completely different mood, there’s another idea that refuses to sit still. This one keeps changing its mind, doodling hearts in the margins of its own plans, then crossing them out again. Romantic flavours are surprisingly opinionated. They want to feel intentional, but not obvious. Thoughtful, but not try-hard. And apparently they don’t enjoy being rushed either.
So they’re both staying put for now.
Resting. Arguing quietly among themselves. Becoming what they’re meant to be.
I used to think the job was to decide things — flavours, timings, combinations — and then simply make them happen. But the longer I do this, the more I realise the job is mostly about noticing when an idea is still stretching. Letting it arrive when it’s ready, rather than dragging it out into the light too early.
Some ideas need proving.
Some need refining.
Some just need to be left alone with a cup of tea and a bit of space.
This time of year seems to understand that instinctively. Everything slows down just enough to notice what’s unfinished without panicking about it. The pressure to conclude things neatly loosens. Loose ends are allowed. Half-formed thoughts can stay that way a little longer.
I like that.
The kitchen reflects it too — less frantic testing, more listening. Less trying to impress, more asking whether something feels right. Not every flavour needs to shout. Some are happier when they whisper.
And maybe that’s the note I want to leave this year on.
Not a recap. Not resolutions. Just a quiet acknowledgement that good things don’t always announce themselves loudly, and that waiting can be part of the craft rather than a failure of momentum.
There will be introductions soon enough.
For now, there’s comfort in knowing they’re on their way.
If you’re turning the page on the year, do it gently.
Carry the ideas that aren’t finished yet — they might just be the ones worth keeping.
Here’s to unfinished ideas and patient flavours,
Arty