For me; I’m Australian; I currently live on the East Coast with my husband. I’m also a former architect with a proclivity for procrastination and wild imaginings. I bare many contradictions; I’m a romantic and a realist; an introvert wearing my heart on my sleeve, a perfectionist draw to the beauty of attrition; the imperfect and the uninhibited. I’m in the youthful years of my life but my soul is old. I’m restless and wayward; discontent to settle ordinarily but eager to live artfully slow. There’s a chaos to my mind. I’d like to think it the mastered kind but there’s no denying it often takes over; like water running downhill channelling the earth unpredictably; I’m ever in motion.  

I’m enthralled by the untouchable aspects of life. The ephemeral moments, thoughts and endeavours. Humankind is a mysterious beast. There are so many facets to our existence that my mind aches with the bigness of it all. I’m not a scholar or philosopher and certainly no revolutionary. I exist in the middle realm. Above all else to dwell and nest and gather is the crux of what I understand to be my raison d'être. It’s what drew me to architecture and it’s certainly what compels me creatively. I feel like there are many who hunger for such notions of simplicity too. Simplicity sought in the beauty and humanness of occasion and of daily life. In pleasure and sorrow and space. Simple doesn’t necessarily mean small either; there’s quiet richness to be found in a mindful and slow pace

The Botanical Kitchen is my tiny atlas. A place for pondering and stories and plates. It’s everything and entirely nothing; a corner that documents stolen moments and thoughts. It’s appreciation for gestures, places and food. A visual illustration. An examined life. Most of it takes place around the table. As food is my home. It stills me. A considered table is a place made of itself. A temporary shelter. We build them and adorn them and gather ourselves around them. They might be dismantled or moved or separated by time, culture and distance but we come back again and again and again. I just adore that reverence; that theatre; that familiarity.

Food is such a wonderful folly. It’s our culture; our history; our sustenance. It’s the best of us and the worst of us. From the perfection of a risen soufflé to the tragedy of a broken yolk it’s the whole human experience; a common language irrelevant of tongue or class. We might have lost touch with some of its realness but we’re coming back around - to the fields and the farmers and the seasons. Of course I would never advocate that modern revolutions in the kitchen be forsaken; even though they’ve ironically made us into time poor creatures. All I think we should seek is slowness in cookery. We should relish that good food is not always a convenient or extravagant endeavour. There is relief and beauty in simplicity. If ones care to butter bread is more diligent than anothers indifference to meal of convenience then who is the more thoughtful cook. I wager it’s the one wielding the knife.

No one is easily defined so I doubt the notion of ones reason for being is something small. It might be a common thread that weaves together your happiness or a series of work that brings contentment. It will likely transform and reveal itself in different ways, but its nurture can serve as an undercurrent. The art of gathering; it’s mundanity and daily ritual; it’s ceremony & it’s celebration is my irrational obsession. A pursuit that meanders I give you but one that compels me nonetheless. The Botanical Kitchen is where it takes root.