a sharp knife on a wooden board, the sound it makes

rancho gordo beans, especially the royal corona

farmers market tomatoes that smell like the vine

staff meal at 4pm, everyone leaning against something

kachka's herring under a fur coat

alice waters

the first asparagus of spring

my cast iron skillet, the one i've had since culinary school

a perfectly emulsified vinaigrette

forest park after rain

jiro dreams of sushi, for the ten thousandth time

brown butter at the exact moment it smells like hazelnuts

tartine bread, the country loaf

my sous chef dani, who makes everything better

gillian welch on a sunday morning

the columbia river gorge in october

maldon salt

marcella hazan's tomato sauce, the one with just butter and an onion

people who wash their cutting board between proteins

the quiet after close, wiping down the last station

samin nosrat's approach to teaching

a perfectly tempered chocolate ganache

wild chanterelles from the coast range, still damp

the willamette valley in june

feeding someone something i made and watching their face change

the conviction that a recipe is a starting point, not a contract