2024 is presenting itself to me as an empty, endless void. Not dark, but foggy, with indiscernible shapes, and vague outlines. Light streaming through the filter of sheer obtrusions and half opened doorways. It echoes with whispers that I can almost grasp, but that float by too quickly for my ears to hear. Overcast skies and misty moors have always been idyllic views for this romantic soul, but truth be told, stepping into them proves more fearful than I’d like to admit.

For years now, I have been focusing on rest, and recuperation. An effort made to meet myself, rather than avoid her, in the chaos of everyday life. There were so many facets of the young girl who used to roam a forgotten apple orchard with storybooks in hand, and daydreams in pocket, that I had forced into a dark box. She was too soft for what we wanted to accomplish, too quiet and idealistic. Rational was needed, brisk and assertive, masculine in nature. It felt like armor, to don those visages. A chainmail boundary that protected an indulgent and soft heart. 

Sometimes she would creep out, like fingers teasing at a curtain. Found in-between the pages of planning a dinner, words pouring from a pen desperate for the chance to be heard again. I would promise to show them off, acknowledge that these ideas didn’t come from the ether. Each time “it got away from me”, a tactical and taciturn disappointment. Too much to do to pass out some silly words from the heart. 

As most silenced creatures do, she got angry. Every soft, tender, gentle emotion that had been pushed to the dirt came roaring out with fury. A banshee scream that shattered windows, sending shards through pelts and ripping them to shreds. Instead of running, I finally decided to approach. Light footed and quiet, like reaching out to an abandoned animal.

 The last few years, particularly 2023, have been an exercise in acknowledgement. I’ve rested, I’ve focused on the self in a tangible, physical way. I’ve recovered from years of feared momentum; if I don’t keep up, I’ll be left behind. If I don’t stand out, I don’t matter. If I’m not loud, I’ll never be heard. It was an exhausting cycle of comparison, degradation, and ego. 

If I’m not important, I don’t matter. 

Well, I’ve learned that I’m not all that important, in the grand scheme of things, but I definitely matter. To my small circle, I matter. I’m wanted, and valued. Not because I am special, or different, or particularly …anything at all. Simply because I am me, and I care. I care about them, and if they are happy. Taken care of. Safe. I care about myself, and if I’m well enough to not only help myself, but others. 

Which brings me to a diversion in the road, career wise. Previously, I have been so fixatedly focused on indivualism. Standing out amongst a sea of not only veterans, but incredibly skilled new talent. It’s fed my fear, and my ego, in a negative way. My pursuit of impressiveness has left a certain hollowness, one that’s frustrated and infuriated me in equal measure. Frankly, nothing has ever been good enough. I haven’t traveled much at all, I am not well connected in a traditional sense, and my resume is solid, if not lacking in flash. Combined, this creates a malestorm of insecure narcissism. Left behind is a bitter tasting question mark, coating my tongue after every new creation and dish. 

Through introspection and fearful confrontation, growing and evolving, I’ve realized that the seed of what has always been most valuable to me has been present all along. “Sharing stories, and building conversations” , “adding seats to the table”, “creating experiences”

People are my passion. Not in a front of house, genteel and amicable way. I’ll never be quite socially adept enough to charm a crowd. More so in a sanctity and safety way. I want to offer warmth and comfort, peace hidden in a tempest. Food is the way I feel most capable of doing so. 

The scary thing of it all is that this requires sacrifice. It requires clambering out of the safety and security of my own little den, to build sanctiurary for others. It requires exposing oneself to the physical and mental elements; coldness, loneliness, mockery, and dismissiveness. It isn’t easy to maintain ideals in those conditions, and while embarrassing to admit, I am a creature of comfort. A battle of will is invigorating to read about, but disarming to enter.

2024 is a hazy vista, one that I’m fairly terrified to step into. For the first time in many years, I’m relying on the hand of the small girl that used to pry open fairytales like a pack of sustenance to guide me forward. There’s much I’ve learned from the rigidity of what I’ve been practicing to reinforce her, but still, there’s a wariness. What if she trips? What if she doesn’t understand the words she has to use? Hope and clarity cloaked in contumacy and bullheadedness. 

The reassurance that I know how to stand up, that I know how to carry on, and can try again if the proper words elude me, is soothing. There is no reward without risk, and a risk taken in hopes of communal reward tastes sweet even if unaccomplished. Here is to a year of trying the unknown in a real sense of the word; this is not an unfamiliar dish, or an intimidating position, but a venture of Life. One that I am doing my best to fill with curated and intentional efforts to leave behind a name and reputation of doing the right thing, regardless of its success. The point is in it’s pursuit. 

Wishing you all a happy, fulfilling, kind New Year. Cheers to 2024, and all the surprises and joy it may hold!

Your cook evermore,

Colleen.

photography by Skye Young Photography, 2023
Captured during Imago Innovations x IN WHITES dinner, "Creativity in Bloom" (May 2023)