The Taste of Silence

There are seasons when the sound of the world grows too loud — when even creation itself must fall quiet to rediscover its truth. This silence, at first, may seem like an absence: no gestures, no movement, no voice. Yet, it slowly begins to acquire a taste of its own — subtle, almost invisible — like that instant before fermentation, when everything seems still, yet life stirs beneath the surface. It's in this transformative power of silence that we find inspiration and intrigue.

Time is never idle. It is a slow breath that transforms whatever it touches — a grape, a grain of rice, a human being. In silence, what appears motionless begins to ripen. The same is true for the creator, the chef, and the winemaker: sometimes he must remain still, not because he has nothing to say, but because he is already speaking — quietly, inwardly. This emphasis on patience and timing in the creative process invites us to be thoughtful and contemplative.

To endure silence is an art. It is not inactivity; it is the pause between intention and action. Like fruit that needs to rest before its sweetness deepens, ideas too must lose their noise before they gain meaning. Waiting has its own density, its own hidden colour — a weight you can't see, only taste. This stress on the importance of silence in fostering meaning and depth invites us to be introspective and reflective.

Some days silence smells like damp earth; others, like the salt on skin under the Aegean sun in the kitchen's heat. Those are the days when the chef and the winemaker learn to listen to the most minor things — the sound of a spoon turning in a bowl, the meticulous knife work, the faint breath of fermentation when you lean close. These moments define the rhythm of every return — not announcements, but foundational steps.

When silence becomes flavour, it has matured. This is not because it is complete, but because it speaks without words — through the subtleties of a dish, the nuances of a painting, or the depth of a wine. Creation is never haste; it's trust. Trust that something is evolving slowly, quietly, with its own wisdom. Time, after all, knows how to cook. It is the creator's role to set the precise temperature.

In the end, silence becomes substance. It becomes taste. A dish can express it better than a sentence — especially when it carries within it patience, transformation, and time.

⸻

Notes from the notebook

Fermented rice — mushrooms, ginger, miso

Note 1: Soak the rice in a mixture of water and yoghurt for 4 days. Nothing seems to happen, but silence works. The grain softens, comes alive, and gains a quiet acidity.

Note 2: Cook it like a risotto — slowly. Let the grain decide the rhythm.

Note 3: Shape into small rounds, dry them, and fry until they take on a soft golden tone — the colour of patience.

Note 4: Sauté mushrooms with fresh ginger, finish with miso and a spoonful of the same fermented liquid. A flavour of earth and silence, like the memory of rain.

Note 5: Serve without decoration. Simplicity has already spoken.

⸻

Silence is not absence. It is the place where meaning ferments — in the glass, in the kitchen, the foundation for the next chapter of the self.