I have always been captivated by those fragile moments when silence is broken. It may sound strange, but silence is the beginning of everything. Without an ear to receive it, a sound does not exist, it is nothing but a breath of air, a wandering vibration. I have learned to lie in wait for these moments. The trembling of a branch in the wind. Our footsteps in the snow. A secret whispered into the night. The trail of a scent. The song of a bird at dawn.
They are births, small and infinite. Forever repeating. I like to believe that if we cared for these moments, if we truly listened to the way we inhabit this world through sound, we would once again be struck by its beauty.
We, as cooks, try to give language to what is mute. To all these lives, animal and organic, entrusted to us. We help them say: I was here, I lived, I shared this earth with you. We give them a voice, their first, their last. It is an immense responsibility.
This Hamaguri.
This goya.
This courgette.
This lovage.
This togan.