Quiet Bites

I don’t remember the first time I watched MasterChef, but it’s a show I’ve always loved. I started with the UK version and followed every new series as it came out. Then came MasterChef: The Professionals, then MasterChef Australia, then the US and even the Canadian version. Each country has its own spin, but all of them share one thing: a glamorisation of the role of the chef. On screen, contestants compete for glory — the dream of running their own restaurant, becoming the

if you dropped dead on the line today you’d be replaced by midday you are not a name or a face you are chef a body to fill the space hands burn, cuts bleed all for the sake of speed but you’re getting slow, getting tired time for youth, fresh and wired experience, progression? willing to work for pride let them exploit your obsession with plated perfection the more skill you bring, the more you cost there’s always someone younger, hungrier, and lost the kitchen never stops —

My earliest memory of a snow day is pure, uncomplicated joy. Snow meant building a snowman, no school, and maybe a snowball fight. It meant cosy socks and jumpers by the radiator, pressing my cold, sopping feet against its warmth, getting chilblains and not caring. The day was easy, small, joyous. No anxiety. No obligations. Just snow. Then I got a little older, and snow started to get complicated. My house sits right by the mountains and catches snow first, making the roads