Preludes & Interludes was held at Long Lane Farm (owned by Emily Linn) on September 23rd, 2024; all photography featured is by Emily Kane

In the foggy twilight of an universal evening, I find myself reaching for practices of a slower pace. Dog-eared and worn soft by the turning of many hands, my heart is searching for familiar. I crave nostalgia,  safety, and dependability. I have no energy or desire for a fast pace, for the new, innovative, or optimized. I want things – chores, work, gatherings – that are sepia tinged, that help me feel a sense of direction through these turbulent times.  I find myself needing the experience of tactile more than anything else; whatever will make me feel in my body. Calloused fingers, tired muscles,  whatever is impossible in the digital, give it to me tenfold and cancel out the blue light strain behind my eyes, reflecting a constant scroll of terror.  

In these autumn airs, I’m tossing my head back, and breathing in deep the colder and crisper air; a grounding practice. 4-7-8, I tell myself (or is it 3-4-5?), over and over again. It feels akin to what I imagine the flocks overhead are experiencing; a tuning of a piano chord inside the chest, softly ringing out a tempo that calls to come home. Where even is that home?

Much like my feathered kin, I am trying to be instinctual; to close my eyes and ears to the misdirections being shouted at me. Something about shutting up and putting my head down, tradwife this, evangelical that (I was raised on Mary, none of you are  feminist enough for me). Bellows carried on the wind, exclaiming easier paths that would surely get me somewhere faster, with less winged ache, but not to the place I aim to be. With hands clapped over sore ears, I search through the din for the metronome ache in between my now chilled ribs. It pings a steady melody I’ve heard in utero, carried by mother and grandmother, with echoes of their mothers and grandmothers. There are gentle reverberations of fathers and grandfathers whispering just outside the walls, telling me where to go.

An entire flock is still guiding me, us, to safety for this collective winter we are all experiencing. 

They all say the same ancestral hum, which is simply – take care of eachother. Feed one another. Talk to eachother. Argue, fight, and clothe one another. There is no one else to do it, and so your neighbor is your enemy, and your enemy is your neighbor; be honest, be cruel, and be real.

This is what, and where, I chose to place my focus for the most recent dinner, Preludes & Interludes. How do we gather together, this new migration, and find our way through? How do we listen to eachothers different tunes, trusting that your ancestors and mine will lead us all to a safer landing spot? Maybe the first step is as mundane, and intentional, as the gathering.

menu design by Christina Moliterno

The title of the dinner was meant to point towards the vague inbetweens we are finding ourselves stuck within. The grey and hazy turning over of seasons (literally, and metaphorically), that bookend and interlace stories. By no means the entire novel, but the bridges that carry us through. I also, admittedly and immaturely, tend to hate preludes and prologues. They drone on, and I want to get on with the story – which also fits my sentiments about this insane time period we are all living through. Annoying as they may be, without them we have no context for the weight of the ending chapters.

Like many, I find myself dismayed, but not entirely unfamiliar with the world, and the story we are currently trudging through. As is usually the case of a good versus evil story, there are no easy footholds for the protagonists (that’s us! I didn’t ask for this, make me a background extra) to grasp upon. Startled and wounded by the sheer amount of evil that is circling us, we’re left swan diving into an icy gorge, a hero’s plunge. Purposefully overwhelmed, intentionally disoriented, it is an orchestrated onslaught. How am I meant to hear my neighbors cries, if I am also deep in the pit? Sound cannot travel that far. 

Thus, we are left roaming about for familiar landmarks to set us along a path to safety, guiding points through the fog of a new, darker, twilight. 

Only to realize that those landmarks are quickly being decimated. Cast down into dust, like a country, an East wing, or a simple town. What are landmarks to us, are but pesky hindrances to the larger goal of those in power, who handle both the battleax and the pen. 

So yet again, I ask – how do we begin?

There is no comfort to be found in camaraderie and debate, when we are all living in distorted and virtual realities. My feed isn’t yours, so how can I trust you? There is no warmth around a shared meal when you cannot afford the bread, nor the time to sit down and dine. There is no solace in a passing season that is withering under the smog, left thirsting next to a data center. “Are the leaves turning, or is it just the drought?” I find myself asking, in laughable sincerity. 

There is only the dark mirages left to sustain ourselves on; 30 second clips that are a poor substitute for the awkwardness of human interaction. The chafing discomfort that is the offering before intimacy, swiftly eradicated for the parasocial, and artificial. Why carry the burden of learning anything at all, when you could simply outsource? 

Lay down the misery that is trial and error, failure and repetition, honing of the human blade, for a nonfeeling, nonthinking, soulless substitute. It’s easy and only costs us our existence, dignity, and beauty. How are you even supposed to hunger, if you never toil?

I am an abysmally romantic thing, much to the chagrin of the Machine(s). I am in the clouds, piercing my skin with feathers, trying to follow that invisible path home. The blood flicking out from sutured skin will be the trail for others.

On the ground, I am armed with a fevered sort of focus; I find myself returning to tables I set years ago, frantically trying to do some small part towards preservation, and rebuilding. I am baking bread, making butter, and butchering whole cuts. I am holding knives like my mommom, thumb against the blade, and digging in the dirt for secrets to survival amongst the bones and the spores.

This deep yawning hunger, that sits heavy in the pit of my stomach, for the old and the primal, manifests itself as a duality – where there is hunger there is often thirst, where there is a table with food, so must there be people and conversation. So, of course, a dinner must be held. 

Preludes & Interludes was a first of its kind for In Whites, in a way that made it difficult for me to even begin planning, and subsequently sit here and write about. I struggled to find the starting point, where my plans for it began; usually I can reference my now very battered food journal (finally full after 9 years), but this dinner and menu had so few notes. Instead,  it was a perfect representation of its goal; community formed, and molded. Organically growing from the tender care of many hands, and hearts. 

Ingrid Callenberger of Tria Prima, Colleen Masteller of IN WHITES, Emily Kane of Emily Kane Photography, and Emily Linn of Long Lane Farm Flowers

For the first time, I felt a kind of magic that had been so overtly lacking in my previous projects; a lack that I could feel, but not name. It was communal, in the kind of ancient way that has so quietly slipped from us.  An excited call to arms, starting with an initial table full of some of my most trusted female friends (/guides, mentors, inspirations), saying “host it at the farm!” “Can I shoot it?” “Well obviously I need to be a part of this”. 

Further expanded by walking down verdant park paths with my dear friend Skye, excitedly grasping onto the film reels spilling from her mind in real time (“here’s the story, we found it!”), crafting a visual backbone for people to see, and more importantly feel. Extending the creativity towards new connections and friends, asking Christina to weave magic by way of Pen, bold outlines that reference folk, history, and lore. Would Ari consider practicing alchemy once more, and what about Taylor, casting his own melodic tune to remind us of the call back home, to a table, to a meal? 

John, of course, in his steady tone “I’ll make it happen”. He does, every time. 

All of it culminating into an evening spent on a piece of land that felt like an excerpt from an older novel; fields of dahlias pushing to bloom through a hellish season, vistas of wide open plains and pond, the loud and beating notes of a working farm, sounding more like the clanging of a church bell calling us to service. It was worship in the way that practicing the art of being human innately is, with or without the strappings of religion.

There were so many guests at Preludes & Interludes who had never met before, suddenly pouring wine for eachother, passing bread, and tucking into cobbler, shoulder to shoulder. There were poetry cards passed, music shared, and thick tapestries of fog wrapping around us, like an insulation from the propaganda trying to sneak towards us all. A snake of deception, slithering through the grasses.

Mistruths of separateness and otherness, rage, and violence. Lies that try to say we are all too different and too foregone to ever sit across a table together, and vulnerably say “I am hungry, too”. Just like that, we are the same. Just like that, I sharpen your blade, and you sharpen mine. A weapon forged from caring.

There is still so much beauty in this world, a world that seems to be self immolating, but beauty – as often said – is part pain. A kind of Shakespearean romance, or act of faith, that requires an offering to bring fruition. 

A dahlia field is planted with tender care, and sunburnt back. A table bending under the weight of a feast is laid by burnt hands. A novel bound, poured from a weary mind. 

A society of reciprocity is not gifted, it’s built. By the tired, weary, and meek. By the people who refuse to hand over their humanity to something as trite as an artificial generator, in the guise of more time (to what – buy?), or a false reality that says we owe no one nothing forever. We owe eachother everything, always.

 It isn’t a fair, or balanced, deal, but it is honest. No one is coming to save us, we can only save, and serve, eachother. It is a matter of cosmic injustice and irony, all coexisting in the messy and organic way that is unique to us little ants of the universe. We have to take care of each other  – there is simply no one else to do it.

This is the only answer I have found, the starting line, how to begin – gather. It needs to be real, in person, awkward and sincere. It needs to be human, glorious in its confusion and earnestness to be good. 

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)

In Whites began in 2017, shortly after I had graduated culinary school the year prior. I had a wonderful job at the time, in a now very well-known local café. I was curating my own ethos in relation to food, thanks to tutelage from my two accomplished bosses. I was being quickly pushed into an even more efficient and skilled cook, thanks to the café gathering steam and needing hands that could work quickly and tightly – to call the kitchen small would be generous, but it’s part of it’s magic.

Regardless of all of that, there was an inner struggle to feel heard and seen in an industry that was suddenly shooting off across social media (i.e. Instagram), especially when there was a personal feeling of “being stuck in Williamsport”, though that last sentiment doesn’t ring true anymore. Food wasn’t actually my first plan for a career; as an avid reader since I was young, I have found more comfort and eloquence with written word for many years. I had planned to pursue writing at many points in my life, and decided to try and meld the two loves in an effort to cure some of my stagnant and mute feelings. Thus, In Whites, the blog, was born.

The blog was meant to serve as a conduit; a way to make sense of all the post-college confusion, intimidation, and comparison I was experiencing, all of it filtered through the lens of food. The difficult part of being in this industry as a professional, for me, has always been the fact that I do not consider myself a chef. I still don’t. Food has never been something that first and foremost felt like a career – it has always felt like a life raft, a paint brush, a pen, and a beating heart. It made sense to weave it into my daily life, in the form of a career, to keep it close. To keep me sane.

Shortly after the blog started, and into my time at the café, I was offered the chance to curate my own pop-up dinner. In all honesty, I can’t remember many details from that time, but I do remember the emotions. I was teeming with them. A burdening sense of imposter syndrome, frothing desperation to prove I was just as worthy as my peers who had moved to Philly, Chicago, Manhattan, and Napa, and sheer euphoria over the idea of making ‘my own food’. I never really had a clear definition for what that was, but I knew that I needed to share it, in order to feel myself, and to feel valid.

The second dinner followed, then the third, the fourth, eventually the seventh. Soon it was time to leave the safety and security of the nest that helped nurture me. I had stayed there just a little too long, and grown a little too confident. This was 2019, and I had developed a teeny tiny reputation. Miniscule. It was there though, and it felt very, very good. I carried it to the next job, where I used it to market myself, and very quickly had it pulverized along with my ego.

I recommend a good kick in the ego – bonus points if it comes at, or near, the age of 25. A proper one, that makes you retreat for a bit. Find a quiet space (kitchen) that allows for reflection (self-pitying).

In less than a year, I felt as though everything I had built for myself in regards to my own name had been washed down a drain. An overflowing cup that had been in someone else’s hand this entire time, none of it truly my own. I had just been fortunate to be in a space that served me, with resources someone else had developed and I was lucky enough to be adjacent to. I hadn’t been able to cut it as an actual chef in a dinner establishment, feeling overwhelmed by the stereotypical, excessive demand on my personal and professional time clock. Now I was in a space that felt like the end of the line for me – corporate, or as close as I was going to let myself get to it.

Towards the end of 2019, I was feeling very Eeyore like. Woe is me was the mantra day in and day out of punching an actual time clock, because of course, I was better than that. I had my own pop-ups, had you heard? I was young, and creative. I touted local, seasonal menus. The fact that I could not confidently handle banquet events, caterings over 40, or navigate an excel sheet meant nothing. I didn’t need that, just my passion. Please direct your vomiting to the most convenient vessel.  

I will give myself the grace of having willpower, a constant vein running through it all. Whether it be motivated by the fuel of comparison, competition, or a deep seeded need to find my voice. 2020 was going to be the year I pulled myself together. I purchased an LLC, I planned menus, booked venues. I began the year strong, with a sold-out tasting menu and more. It was going to be the building year.

Well, you know what happened next.

Not only was I laid off from that silly little job that I didn’t even really want anyway, I had to cancel everything. The only upside to it was the fact that it was the longest time John and I have had together, consecutively, since we became a couple in 2013.

There were hints of light though, gleaming towards the summer of 2020. Take-out pop-ups, a chance to find the delicate line between “my food” and food that actually captured the attention of the masses. It had to stand out, which meant it had to be bold. Toasted spices, pungent flavors, cuisines that weren’t sold here. Colorful marketing, and constant. We welcomed vegans and gluten free patrons in ways that didn’t feel like an afterthought. It was wildly, intimidatingly, successful.

Somehow, 2020 had become a building year regardless of global shutdown. It was the first time I felt real pride, and a tiny bit of that nagging imposter syndrome fell away. Humbleness for my day job came in tidal waves; suddenly, I needed to understand how to plan, prep, and execute mass amounts, all while communicating succinctly.

2021 rolled in with constant requests for private caterings, more offerings, and extended menus. My chest was perpetually tight with either excitement, or anxiety. They started to fold into one, pulling in and pushing out of my lungs in rapid succession. I found my palm to chest, pressing down as if to physically restrain the breaths, many time a day.

We found a kitchen to rent, and took off. 10-hour days, 12 hours, 15+. I didn’t want sleep if it meant I was missing a chance to push out content, to capture another set of eyes, or pour myself into another menu. I was devouring the time and mashing it between my teeth like it could replace the sustenance I was quickly ignoring more and more. My day job provided for my personal life, so anything concerning the business went back into itself. There was no room to mix the two, too soon, too iffy, too dangerous considering the climate of the world. Anxiety, excitement, breathe in, breathe out.

Amongst all of this, was crippling depression. 2020 was the year I found my own voice within food, but also my own throat. A valuable, if sometimes sacrificing, expression of self. Though a building year for a burgeoning business, it was also the year I felt most abandoned in ways never expected. Every day felt like a distant experience, tethered only by work. If my body was moving, my hands creating, I was still here. I could drag the empty carcass of a house behind me, pretending it wasn’t haunting me every night I went without sleep. I didn’t see that John was lifting half the house behind me, carrying weight I didn’t know existed. That’s who he is though. He cares, but doesn’t want it seen. He carries, and never complains.

Not when I add more late nights, and more events. Not when I forget to be his life companion and love, instead of a business partner. Not when I’m spiraling into a vapid, resentful, angry, shell of a girl who never let her shadows see the light before. Screaming into the cool night air, lit by blinking traffic lights at midnight when we finally head home. Home, that is a mess by the way. A pitstop between day job and small business. A cavern of forgotten laundry, and spoiled produce bought in the hopes of a never made home cooked meal.

2021 brought in the most money In Whites has ever seen, and held the most anguish I have ever felt. The voice I had found felt like a betrayer. Long sought to be spoken truths cost me family, slashing ties like butcher’s twine, leaving me adrift with a beautifully built business and a lost heart. It was time to pull back.

Eventually, when you are so angry and sad in equal measure, you give up. You let it go, fading into the wind, taken away to another beating chest. You are left with a type of exhaustion that cannot be fixed with a good night’s sleep, but perhaps with the decision to at least try sleeping again. So you lay your head down, and stop pressing your palm to your chest. You let your heart push through your ribs, cracking and bleeding until it all leaks out. It’s cleansing in a way.

2022 slipped in, meek and still. We were going to rest. Pull back, do less, focus on us. Still work though! Why wouldn’t we keep going? I mean, we weren’t dead. Maybe it was time to bring the dinners back, doing less, but more intentionally. It would be difficult though, to find the story. Every other time I had created from a place of love, and comfort. Sentimentality cushioned in the petal soft emotions of childhood and nostalgia. Now all I had was bitterness, exhaustion, and confusion.

Do you know how difficult it is to craft an intimate multi-course tasting menu detailing the highs and lows of your almost three decades of life when your half-double neighbors constantly have the cops called on them? Very. Walls thrumming until 4 in the morning with pounding music and screaming arguments in equal share, conveniently ceasing just at the time you have to wake up for the day job that you are now very grateful for because somehow it has become the most stable thing in your life. The most stable, after sleepless nights that is.

With the last little vestiges of energy left, there comes a time where you have to throw your hands in the air and tell the universe that you give it back. All the energy, all the hours, all the turmoil and joy in equidistance. Anxiety and excitement, breathe in, breathe out.

Which brings us to now. We are in the middle of 2022, and things are coming back together, because that is what they do after falling apart. After having the most successful year we could ever hope for with the business, our account is still empty. There are many factors, global and otherwise, to blame for it. In honesty though, I look at it as a blank slate (literally). If there is no money, then we simply cant spend any, which means we have no choice but to rest. In resting, you find opportunities…like a new house.

In a new house, you can find peace. With peace, gentle little currents of tenderness, and romance. The things that had been pushed aside in an effort to “make the dream happen”. My current dream though, is morning coffee in one hand, and his in the other. Sweet perspective glides in on a breeze. None of it was for naught, there are lessons in every movement, whether it be up or down. Still, sometimes the best thing you can do after an adventure, is to simply be. Which is what John and I have decided to do.

There is still so much going on in the background of our personal lives, between family, reconnecting with dear friends we simply haven’t had the time to reach out to, and most importantly recovering our health; mental and physical. We finally have a quiet and calm space to do it all in, and are realizing how little of those two things we’ve experienced over the past two years.

We love all of our customers dearly. It’s what makes the decision to put the business on hiatus so difficult. We are just two people who have learned so many faces and names in these two years, people who have sincerely and without exaggeration made my deepest dreams a reality. I am not a chef, but I love food with all my heart for what it does for people. It brings people together to “share stories, and create conversation”. Food lets me navigate myself, the beautiful and the ugly parts. It allows me to feel not quite as alone.

This is by no means forever. If anything, it is a beginning. From the start, my ultimate goal has been a brick-and-mortar site. Not a bustling restaurant, but a warm space of amber hued comfort, and connection. Small, intimate, intensely congenial. A space that fosters tinkling – and tipsy – laughs, scenes of human-to-human connection over a table overflowing with consumable joy. I’m hoping, willing, that this is the time to create it all. Time, after all, has been the most elusive of resources needed to make it reality.

In the meantime, I would like to share this space more often. It used to be a safe space for my vulnerability, but as things became blurred with the sense of propriety and professionalism, I could no longer find where the line of acceptable to share and not began nor ended. Constantly shuffling my words and emotions into a buffed out neutral tone, digestible for the mass public. That kind of goes against the grain of what I’m going for with all of this though, doesn’t it?

To everyone who has supported me and John, and In Whites as a whole – thank you. Thank you will never be enough, and I plan to repay you all properly, but thank you. I am a nobody from small town Pennsylvania who just happened to find food, instead of a pen or a potter’s wheel, but you have made me feel valid in ways you’ll never understand.

Until we meet again,

Share stories

Create conversations

Always add another chair to the table

And for the love of fuck do not substitute the butter.

All our love,

Colleen & John (and IW mascot, Tippy Keefer-Masteller)

It’s been a long time since I’ve written a piece for this space. It’s one thing to be vulnerable when your project is viewed by the eyes of those you already know; when there is some sense of safety, security, and acceptance built in. It is a wholly other thing to open yourself up once the gaze widens, taken in by strange faces and strange names you don’t actually know, and who know nothing of you. Humbly offering the one thing you have in pocket, the one thing that gives as much as it takes. Often times we are told what does and does not fit within the coveted box of Professionalism. Professionalism does not curate spaces for tenderness, does not allow you the experience of cracking into the reserves that fuel the very passion you are sharing; shown off in the raw, unfinished, grime filled way that most often spurs someone into forward motion.

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Curating a business has been one of the strangest games to play as an individual yet. The push and pull of what is too much, not enough, and just right, for pulling people in. Every day finding yourself in a mental head space of a cutting room, looking at all the parts of yourself that make up your art, and deciding what are the most appealing for mass consumption, then slicing through the rest. Finding the blandest parts that will suit any palate. At the end of the day, it’s about the money.

Right?

Isn’t it about the money?

Sure, of course it is. Money is how we make it happen, but it isn’t what it’s about. If it were, this whole thing would have been in the trash literally years ago. In Whites has always lived in a limbo land of one-part personal catharsis, one part trendy food business. The past year has proven that we can make it as the business part, in ways never imagined before. We’ve adapted and changed, the story-telling dinners have had to take a rest for the time being, but we’ve opened ourselves to such a wider audience through our new offerings. Building a base of people who are truly excited by the food we make, who want more, and support us in ways I’ve only ever hoped for.

 There-in lies a deep splintering point for me: how does one coincide what used to be, the deeply personal, and if we’re honest, selfish, motives of intensely creative, imaginative, story-telling food verse, with something that’s just downright approachable damn it?

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Because I want us to be approachable. I want people to recognize that food is so much more than just sustenance for the body. It ties all of your senses together in a way that I struggle to relate to anything else in life. It is memories, moments, culture, aspirations, comfort, and more, all of it consumable. Isn’t that in and of itself incredible? All of these overwhelmingly connective ties that you can physically consume and pull into yourself. It’s more than magic, because it’s visceral, and real.

So many times this past year we have been told that people are grateful for the food we put out because they miss it from here, there, and elsewhere. It takes them back to cities they miss and love, moments they’re missing, people they can’t sit at a table with right now but they CAN eat the same food and remember. That’s what it is about. It’s about that damn table, with never ending chairs to add. There are always more to seats to add, more conversations to have, more ties to bind, and more hands to pass the food between. That is what this whole project is about, and the never-ending search to do it better.

Recently, we had the opportunity to try and convey even a portion of what we are about through a branding photoshoot with local photographer Emily Kane. To be frank, when first approached about the idea, I had little to no idea what a branding shoot should involve. How do I show what I desperately want people to associate with us in just a few photos? Then the answer slid into place instantly – show the people who have made it happen. Friends, now family, who have been there since the beginning, or joined along the way, who have spurred this whole thing forward simply by saying “yeah, I’ll be there, I’ll do whatever you need”. Cooking, serving, washing dishes, working insane hours for scraps of food and pizza, entertaining insane dinner production ideas, photographing, hyping up, sharing, pushing, and motivating. They are the energy and the spirit behind In Whites – family, connection, creation, and support.

That’s the goal behind everything we do, create, and push out into our community. To create a sense of inclusiveness, love, and comfort. If nothing else, when you eat the food, I hope you feel the heart behind it; the hours spent desperately trying to get it right, trying to do something new and different for the area not just for the sake of that excitement, but because for someone out there, that’s the food they grew up with. That’s the food they are craving, that will make them feel satiated in more ways than one for even just a moment.

I hope you’ll enjoy this peak into the heart of what we are, as much as we did creating it all. Never ending thanks and gratitude to Emily Kane for not only capturing it all, but understanding the story and purpose behind it all. For being able to translate things that I can’t say into beautiful images. Special thanks to Clearstory Space for letting us take over for a day and basically just play with friends.

Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you to every last one of you that support us. I promise that every day we are searching for ways to do more, and give more.

//Colleen Masteller [Owner/Founder of IN WHITES]

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meadows of flora and fern

tell me in whispers,

dew covered anecdotes

of what could and should be

a beauty not meant to survive away from the stems support

or roots strong sustenance

In Roman mythology Flora, the twin of Fauna, was the goddess of all blooming and flowering plants. Though a minor goddess, she was held in high esteem, with an entire festival dedicated to her. Floralia was held on April 27th during the Republican era, and was one of the few festivals that was open to the general public, instead of exclusively to the ruling classes.

Floralia lasted for six days, full of food, games, and celebration of new springtime growth. It was dedicated to a goddess that ruled all the things that slowly unfurl their petals to the sun, and stretch their leaves wide to the warm, gentle rains of Spring. The delicate beings that take root into the Earth, and embrace their gentleness, while retaining just enough of a bitter bite to remain protected.

No matter howling winds, or pelting rain, scorching sun or belligerent pests, the petite beings find a way to stay upright. To bloom again, and to rejoice in the pleasant days that follow grueling winters.

I think that as I have grown and developed into my food style as an individual, I’ve gravitated towards feminine and floral inspired plates for this reason. For so long I have attempted to harden my edges and sharpen into angles, in order to keep up with what are perceived industry standards. To become someone that is bold and unrelenting, an imposing figure, a character itself.

This past year has taught me that there is no value in that, for me. If anything, it gives me anxiety to imagine upholding that image. Food has always, always, been a way for me to find center again. To find the gravity that so often escapes me, and leaves me floating without direction or focus, desperately reaching for a hold. I am a nervous person, a worrier, a brain with too big ideas and even bigger anxiety that holds me back from going after what I want. Why would the pressure of building up a persona that is not truth make anything better?

With the many upheavals that happened from the middle to end of 2019, I have learned to lean into what I am. Emotional, soft, sentimental, and indulgent of histrionics at worst. There is a comfort in metaphors, and the balance of reality and whimsy. Rose colored glasses are not the worst thing in the world, sometimes they just allow you to look at the glare of life with a bit of protection. An allowance of time to process, observe, and grow.

Flora and Feast, the dinner, is about embracing all these things. The beauty and aid of flowers, both aesthetically and internally, along with the sometimes acerbic taste of those velvety petals. For many dinners I would literally rip the delicate petals from their stalks and unceremoniously throw them onto plates; wanting to blanket things in a beauty that I did not fully appreciate.

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The stalks that uphold those blossoms are not always the sweetest, but they are strong. The bulbs and roots are far from beautiful, but they are the foundation of what is. This menu is about realizing that beauty is inherently rooted in that which is not – the humble beginnings, and the raggedness of being vulnerable. The acceptance of all sides to life and it’s beings.

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The most valuable parts of me are the ones that have stemmed from those before me – Carol, Lilah, Nancy, Kyle, Gloria, Florence…the list goes. The tender parts that grew strong from remaining loving, even in pain. The parts that were bruised and cut, but healed with forgiveness, and strong hearts. These are things that I have inherited, and have found peace in.

I aim to make food that is delicate. With tender and soft flavors, and a backbone of strength and intensity. One that does not sit forward, and is not braggadocios. Food that is comforting, and playful. Maybe not the wildest, but is kind in nature. A plate of sustenance for mind, eye, and stomach.

It is a great privilege to have the opportunities to share this kind of personal journey and growth with my little corner of the world. Thank you all for letting me create something tangible to share, and then for telling me to keep going.

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If you are interested in joining the table for dinner at Flora and Feast, please purchase tickets below:

A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits;

The greatest gift that the past year has given me, was the knowledge that impressing was more of a happy compliment to things, and not an ultimate goal. What a comforting embrace that thought is; to know that at the end of the day, the most pleasant thing I can conjure up is a warmly lit table. Wrinkled linen and patinaed silverware included. One covered in what is nourishing for more than just eyes and palate alone.

The goal now, beyond garnishment and theatrics, is to make sure what I love most about this job grows. The warmth, the connection, fostered and cared for in ways that allow it to tendril itself lightly around the area I call home. To create a crackling record of that beautiful, tinkling track made of glasses and laughter in harmony. In finding recent inspiration through female chefs who are focused on a more homely and snug perspective of food, I have found myself searching for more ways to practice the same kind of cookery. There is a true heart beat behind the act of creating in order to give back.

An encompassing goal of mine for this year has been to find avenues for IN WHITES to give back to it’s immediate community. Williamsport has endless seeds of potential hibernating within it. Through collective imagination and support, I believe it can surpass any and all constraints in front of it. Slowly, deep roots are forming of rejuvenation; music, art, food, and more. All of the vital ingredients are already here, sprouting up and out from the surface.

In an effort to try and do what little part is mine, I decided to utilize a skill I have been blessed to have plenty of training in. That humble, non-braggadocios meal of waking up, and giving thanks. Breakfast. Not quite buttoned up enough for the dining room, but so very cheery, and plenty reason to gather around a table set with care.

ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refreshed by sleep,
When its festival we keep.

Since the beginning of IN WHITES, I have dreamed of doing an event in the Pajama Factory. Wide open spaces, tall breezy windows, echoes of conversation and laughter, and the chance to bring so many people together. When I was approached by the Williamsport Community Kitchen, I could by no means turn down the opportunity.

Table to Community is a sweet and soft love note, from me to the area and people that have already given me so much support and aid. This journey of food I have taken so far has been a true adventure, with so much personal reward. It is a real treat, and honor, to have an event come about that allows me to bring it back around. Truly fitting for the month of February.

Sunday the 16th will be overflowing with little treasures I hold dear; vintage serving ware, still warm baked goods, local foods and ingredients, communal tables. A dream.

When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, or kettle on the fire.

If you find yourself wishing for sugared scone crusts, creamy and fluffy rounds of frittatas, the scent of griddle cakes freshly brought to a table, and the chance to say hello to neighbors, old and new friends, please join us for brunch.

Poem excerpts from Breakfast, by Mary Lamb

Menu and pertinent information is at the events facebook page, here:

Community to Table WCK Fundraiser Brunch

All of the proceeds will be given directly to the Williamsport Community Kitchen, to aid them in better equipping the space for future food entrepreneurs.

I Worried, the poem, by beautiful Mary Oliver, is a heart-achingly reminiscent depiction of the past year for me.

I worried a lot. will the garden grow, will the rivers flow in the right direction, will the Earth run as it was taught, and if not how shall I correct it?

It began so light, delicate, ethereal. Mounds of whipped meringue, dustings of sugar; I began the year by filling my mouth with flowers. Greedily hugging all the beautiful, velvety things close to me.

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I have realized that what I’d been searching for through all these menus, put together with equal parts gravitas and whimsical naivety, all the daydreams poorly scribbled in cursive wallpapering my mind, was self assurance. It is such an elusive thing for all of us, but there seems to be a certain ache for it when you are young and trying so very hard not to be anymore. There was a craving for all things silken, feathery, and tender. A craving to indulge the vastness of sentimentality, that dusty-rose hued perspective. There are not many things I find comfort or solace in, but food has always been delightfully willing to fill the quota. It makes sense that whatever is happening confidentially inside, finds its way into smudged plate sketches, wisps of smoke, and the scattering of petals.

Somewhere along the way of 2019, a dam broke. Ravenously, I began devouring texts of femme like they were holy word. Alice Waters, Dominique Crenn, M.F. K., Julia, Ruth Rogers and Reichl. I wanted to eat at my mothers table again, feel nourished in the ways I did as a little girl, being fed with warmth and care in mind. Unknowingly, I was searching for what it meant to make beautiful food, not just pretty food.

I wanted to know what it would be like to embrace the parts of myself that until now, had seemed like a hindrance and an obstacle to success in my career. How would my perception, and therefore execution, of these tender ingredients evolve if I let the same happen to myself? If I allowed myself to search and reach into those uniquely feminine, wholly unhardened parts of my mind, creativity, and heart…what could come out of it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven, can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows can do it and I am, well,

hopeless.

I began to search for more and more tactile forms of delving into this self-discovery, hoping to discover “my food” along the way. Feeling like an imposter and fraud is so tiring. You become desperate for legitimacy, for validation that you are real, and worthy, in what you do and how you do it. Sometimes so much so that the waters become a bit murky, and the tides of insecurity rise higher and higher. Am I only as good as my surroundings? Can I survive out there on my own? She asked anxiously, very much on the younger side of being 20-something.

As the year carried on, the road became bumpier, unknown, and darker. Though not perfect, 2018 had been mostly up, up, up, reaching effervescent clouds. Life has to be about balance, and 2019 served it as a gloriously mocking buffet. To find myself in an unfamiliar place, without dear faces by my side day in and day out, or the comfort of routine, the shifts during those 52 weeks had me stumbling and falling. Who could care to waste time worrying about food during times like these?

Is my eyesight fading, or am I just imagining it,

am I going to get rheumatism, lockjaw, dementia?

After months of pushing, pulling, stomping and stamping, it was time to rest. Time to throw my hands up to the sky and admit that I had no idea where my next footsteps should lead me, or what was expected of me. It was time to stop running up a hill, when I could just take the path around it.

No longer could I stomach the idea of stuffing blossoms between my lips, or carefully sketching out plates of food based on fairy tale and daydream. My hands craved to ache from kneading bread, and my mind to take rest in stirring stews.

Simple things. Real things. Nothing to snap into permanent memory for all to see, only the things that could be shared between hearts and hands over the table in my home.

Slowly, slowly, the eyelids flutter open, and the hands reach for a pen again. That golden, amber lit space between what is raw and what is beautiful is peeking out again. I am taking my time, and enjoying the gentle footfalls it takes to get there.

Now we are here, at this new place in a new year. It may not be where I was hoping, or expecting to be, but it is solid. Firm beneath foot, and bright overhead. In losing parts of what I held most dearly in 2018, I have learned how to craft them by my own hands, from the bottom of my heart, up. There is much being carefully built, behind the scenes and in hushed tones for now, that I look forward to sharing soon.

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing. And I gave it up.

And took my old body and went out into the morning

and sang.

In Whites, and Colleen the woman (hello!), have grown quite a bit in the last year. It is with a fresh, and deep, breath that we wake up to this next part of the journey.

Happy new year to you all!

Do you know how difficult it is to start one of these things? It’s a perfect representation of how I feel about anything I do; if it doesn’t begin perfectly, it won’t end perfectly, and if that’s the case, what’s the point? Why begin at all, why stress about it? Just trash it before it hits the starting line and stay put. It’s safer that way, far less of a chance of humiliation, and discovery of utter idiocy.

That’s how it’s gotten to be about five months since I’ve put any effort into this blog period, and much longer than I originally intended to start work on another pop up dinner. Here’s the thing, my dinners started out as a form of desperate, much needed expression. I love my job whole heartedly, but I’m not ashamed to say that my heart lies in traditional dinner service, with pretentiously plated tiny courses, and lots of unnecessary tweezer work. So when I began these dinners, they sort of…poured out of me, an unstoppable spigot of creativity, passion, exuberance, and imagination. The technique was definitely flawed, and left a lot to be desired, but at least I had that little thing called heart, right?

As they went on, the technique and performance aspect definitely became the focus, and rightly so. They went from being an exercise in creative liberty, to an intensive HIIT workout of trial and error technique. I’m unimaginably grateful for this; I was gifted an entire handful of dream job opportunities all bundled into one – a day job doing what I love, with people I love, learning more than you would ever expect to from flipping omelets; a “side-hustle” (if you will), to sprint across the field of flashy and invigorating fine cuisine, all based in my home town, surrounded by family and friends, with the chance to enrich the community I grew up in.

Don’t worry, I pinch myself a lot.

Somehow, the dinners gained some traction. I’m not entirely sure how, but I don’t think there has been a year past where I’ve squealed quite so much in excitement and happiness. Unfortunately, I’m a fully fledged perfectionist, so once something becomes more than just a fantasy inside my little food obsessed brain, I become hyper critical of everything, but most intensely of myself. Every action that I put out now, in regards to In Whites, has to be curated. Pruned, polished, and covered in a professionally photographed veneer. What started out as a blog in which I wanted to connect, and share experiences of a “20-something cook figuring out what it means to be a chef” became a marketing tool for me to bring in the 26-45 year old market.

Even when the concepts behind each dinner are acutely personal, and stem from a place of deep emotion, there was no longer any real sharing happening. As a creature that thrives off of human to human connection, sentimentality, and empathy, that became draining. But I kept going, doing more dinners, finding more enthusiasm for food than I’ve ever experienced, and becoming intoxicated by the idea of putting more and more of myself out there on a plate and giving it to the people who wanted it. By the end of it, it sometimes felt like I was literally cutting a part of myself out little by little and throwing it out for consumption and observation.

Fast forward a little bit, and here we are. All of the above, settled into the atmosphere of a mid-20’s girl, with no idea where she’s supposed to go next, feeling behind the curve career wise, and a sprinkling of every bill you can think of, and we have me. A girl tearing her hair out, driving her beloved long term boyfriend probably insane, and just in general going a little bit crazy.

Or a lot. A lot crazy. There’s lots of very dramatic, emotional scream-singing in my car in the middle of target parking lots (not proud of it, but also highly recommend as a cathartic practice).

Slowly, as I regain hearing after said car sessions, I am becoming aware of where I really am. A mid-20’s girl, with no idea where she’s supposed to go next, but surrounded by support for wherever that next is. I’m also becoming aware of the fact that even if I never get a sterling, shiny job in a big city, with a fancy restaurant that cares about stars, as long as I have connection, and food, I will be ok. I will be more than ok, I’ll be happy.

So, as the new year approaches (how very appropriately cliche for this self-describing basic b) I want to return to the OG motive behind all of the chaotic …stuff, I’ve put out as In Whites. Less perfect, less pressure, more pursuing. People and places and experiences and chances to give what I have.

If you’re reading this, I have no idea why, but thank you. I really do hope you’ll stay with me for a while, share some good food and better wine, and maybe we’ll all come out ok in the end.

 

See you on the Line

-Colleen

Sometimes, in order to move forward and find progress within ourselves, we have to resist jumping into the deep end. Instead, there needs to be some wading back towards home, towards stability and equilibrium. For Her was my humble attempt to do so.

My dinner before hand, VERT-IGO, was not what I would personally deem a success. I pray that every diner had an enjoyable time, and found happiness in their food, but compared to what I had hoped to pull off, it fell short. Riding the cresting wave of a dinner that went off without a hitch before VERT-IGO, I found myself becoming a little too high above the sea, and ultimately crashing. That night revealed that there was a bit of an omen behind the title of the dinner, as somewhere among the courses I could feel the pulsing, deafening rhythm of too much. Too many expectations, too many variables, and too much unfocused energy.

Slowly waking up the week after, mouth full of bitter, briney aftertaste, I reconciled with myself. There was clearly a need to refocus, and zero in on what the point of doing these exhausting, debilitating, sometimes financially irresponsible, nights were for. Sure, part of it is a selfish endeavor; I feed off the energy of a working kitchen. A cavern of hectic, chaotic, delectable adrenaline, ready to boil over at any point and put out the fire, it’s pure fuel. More so though, it’s the bigger, overly romanticized picture of “community”. It’s cringey and overly used, but the idea of building a community aware of the valuables surrounding them, in tune with the seasons, and fields above and beneath their feet, is undeniably enticing.

If that’s what I am really after though, how do I share it? The same way it was given to me: simply, and out of necessity and care. Growing up in a valley between the mountains of Central Pennsylvania, where going to elementary school meant meeting the sons and daughters of farmers, tradesmen, foragers, and hunters, I wasn’t taught about seasonality, locavore lifestyles, or sustainability, it was just life. You ate what was outside because it was there, it was cheap, and it was good in all the ways that food is meant to be.

The women of my life are salt of the earth people; caretakers and homemakers, the perpetuaters of common sense and warmth. My mother, mommom, aunts, and great aunts, didn’t look for thanks or recognition, but in my exercise of looking back to move forward, I saw that they were owed a debt of gratitudem more than anyone else in my life.

This is how For Her began, I just wanted to say thank you.

The menu was the easiest thing I’ve ever had the privilege of curating. The dishes were things that I grew up eating, in one form or another. I just made them tinier, and perhaps a bit fancier. The point wasn’t to create a multi-dimensional tasting menu, full of whimsy and flash. The point was to teach myself about skillful simplicity; the type of skills often overlooked nowadays, when it is easy to get caught up in molecular this, and concentrated that (all of which I fully embrace and love).

Instead, there were mother sauces, 18-hour brodos made of marrow bones, crespelle made of slowly sieved ricotta, and paves made from 4 pounds of paper thin potato shavings. I’ve never felt so personally satisfied.

Amid the weeks, of testing and tasting, there seemed to be this soft, amber lit bubble forming around the menu. A telling that something special was happening, whether it would be recognized by the guests or not, it was there, and it was mine. A tiny little light going off, saying “This is it. This is what you’re supposed to be doing. Keep going.”

So I did, I kept going. I found home in those plates of food, and every single one that went out to the table was overflowing with nostalgia, sentiment, and heart from me. It was probably the most open and honest I’ve ever been with my food.

There have been plenty of times where I’ve wanted to just all out ball after a dinner, release the pent up adrenaline, emotional load of weeks on end, but somehow didn’t need to, once all was said and done. I had to at the end of this one.

The ugliest, snottiest, chest-heaving of sobs was had and it was glorious. I doubt there will be another like it for a very long time.

I don’t particularly know what path I’m on, or what it has in store. Every time I try to figure it out, find peace with it, or change it, it’s quickly shown to me that I have zero control over it all. What I do know, is that moving forward for me means an endless pursuit of familial warmth through food. Chasing that amber light, and catching just enough glimmers of it to share with others. I hope you’ll all continue to join me.

 

P.S. – Every pop-up dinner I create a packet of info and backstory for my amazing troupe of friends; For Her definitely had the most intense one yet. If you’re curious about what some of the story is behind the plates, take a look at a few of the pages from said packet, below. See you at the table next time,

-Colleen.

FOR HER – A Plan