Through conversations with my friend Ryoko Sekiguchi,
a woman of letters and imagination,
I’ve come to see how questioning the meaning of words,
and applying them to other realms,
can open unexpected spaces for reflection.
I’ve long been intrigued by the notion of density
so paradoxical, holding both stillness and movement.
Density is an invisible architecture.
A tension between presence and retreat.
It allows us to inhabit space, to feel its volume.
It offers a structure that is stable, yet alive,
a place where energy can rest and circulate.
Density doesn’t weigh down. It supports.
It allows for breath,
for light to pass through.
It is an inner framework,
like a wall of raw earth,
or a bone beneath the skin.
In the kitchen, we build with the four elements of life.
We let air circulate,
try to master fire,
accompany water,
honor the earth.
In our desire to sculpt flavor,
we often chase density blindly,
mistaking it for intensity or force,
Both too loud to let the light through.
True density reveals itself
in the balance between emptiness and matter,
between silence and momentum.
It is the harmony between what nourishes
and what lets you breathe.
Perhaps it is there,
in that inhabited space,
between what we choose to express
and what we hold back
that the culinary gesture takes on meaning.
⸻
Inspired by this reflection,
if you’ve read this far,
here is our pan-seared abalone on zucchini flower,
beneath it: a blend of iodine-rich seaweed,
fermented corn purée,
and a saffron-scented “seawater”.