A good portion of this, I write over the Atlantic as I fly to England to cook in a manor home for some amazing guests on an estate owned by a famous cheesemaker. Surely, by the time I finish this post I’ll have taken a few more flights on new adventures.
Although seasoned at travel, I still can’t sleep well on a flight. More and more, I find that anything besides reading a good book feels like a waste of time. So, as the Gen X’er I am, I put pen to paper—well, a stylus to tablet—and tell another story. Reflective and contemplative, I weave personal experiences and observations into a narrative that explores the complexities of life, relationships, and self-discovery. I'll try to capture the nuances of emotions and the passage of time up to my early 40s. I’ll do my best, with a sense of gratitude and acknowledgment of life's certain, unfailing unpredictability.
Best Memories & The Power of Flavor
With an overwhelming sense of joy, I found myself gazing at the sky in the southern hemisphere. On one side of me rested my wife; on the other, my son, nestled under my arms. An oversized outdoor sofa pillow supported our heads as we reclined flat on the deck beneath the stars in the heart of South Africa.
Our journey led us off the conventional path of the usual Airbnb in Cape Town’s busiest and posh neighborhoods, guiding us to Misty Cliffs. Here, you’ll find a secluded village of a mere 40 homes perched above the Cape of Good Hope. There is only one restaurant, which also serves as the general store, and nothing else commercial within walking distance.
Sometimes, the only people you’d see all day were the surfers, who appeared every morning from our balcony like ants dancing in a washing machine from high up. The mornings there smelled of the sea, but the evenings—those were filled with spice. A slow-cooked Cape Malay curry, rich with cinnamon, turmeric, and cardamom, simmering on the stove, filling the air with warmth and history. Every region has a spice story, and South Africa's is no exception—bold flavors that blend Indonesian, Dutch, and Indian influences into something entirely unique.
Describing this corner of Earth as serene would be an understatement; this place possesses a distinct lack of tranquility. Living by the ocean is a dream for many, but one must remember that it invites the rhythmic crash of waves—an eternal chorus that defies silence, even when the world around it hushes.
That particular evening, beneath the celestial canopy and amidst the symphony of waves, a profound sense of meaning enveloped me. True happiness, I realized, resides in contentment with the present and what you already possess. All that truly mattered existed in that shared moment—my loved ones beside me, diminishing the significance of all other cares, dreams, ambitions, and regrets. Against the backdrop of the brilliant stars and the resounding crash of the waves just below our Airbnb, life felt complete.
Lessons from the Road & The Spices That Tell a Story
My existence has been a vibrant fabric woven with passion, yet those realizations of humility persistently accompany me, both in my everyday surroundings and across the diverse corners of the globe I’ve been fortunate to explore. The perspective I’ve gained from the people and cultures I’ve encountered during my travels has been invaluable.
Food has always been my way of remembering these places. The smoky depth of Aleppo pepper reminds me of the late nights in Turkey, wandering the spice markets of Istanbul. The rich, almost floral warmth of true Saigon cinnamon brings me back to mornings in Southeast Asia—sipping coffee in the quiet corners of Myanmar, Thailand, and Laos. The aroma, deep and grounding, carried the essence of the earth itself, a reminder of how something as simple as a spice can hold the soul of a place. Even now, as I cook in kitchens across the world, these spices are more than ingredients—they are my postcards, my souvenirs, my way of bringing those experiences home.
That’s why I took over and rebranded Collected Foods—to create a spice company that tells a story. I want home cooks to experience the depth of umami, the fire of Aleppo, the richness of true cinnamon—not just as seasonings but as passports to places they’ve never been.
Regrets & The Flavors of Family
Regrets are scant in my life’s journey, save for one poignant lesson: the insufficient time I dedicated to playing with my son during his formative years while he was a small boy. It’s a void I strive to fill with worldly experiences. I rarely say no to the next adventure that we, as a family, decide on.
At 17, my son has traveled with us to 38 countries and counting. When we sit down for a meal—whether it’s a simple pasta tossed with Tuscan herbs or a Moroccan lamb tagine spiced with Ras el Hanout—it’s more than food. It’s a reminder of where we’ve been and where we have yet to go.
Friendship, Time, and Cooking Without a Recipe
Raising a child is much like cooking a perfect dish without a recipe. My son, who just turned 17, flew solo days ahead of us to Ireland to travel. I’m stressed, but I’m glad that my wife and I passed our passion for exploring into his heart. I love the way he expresses himself in his posts—almost in the same style as me but with his own strong voice.
I really don’t know what we did to get him to this point, but everyone who meets him tells us how well we’ve done. I couldn’t replicate what we did, like a chef who cooked the perfect meal with no notes. We are truly fortunate.
Life is like that. Sometimes things go pear-shaped, and we just don’t know how we got there. Other times, it’s glaringly obvious.
Stories, Spice, and Life
I often find that writing serves as the best therapy—a manifestation of my goals. Over time, I’ve realized that when I share a goal with others or put it on paper, there’s no turning back. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.
All my decisions—good or bad—have brought me to this point. A place of no regrets, no returns, but with so much adventure left.
What makes me who I am, the good and bad of it all, has led me here, and I own it. Our decisions in life become the stories we share—over a good meal, a drink, or a passing moment with a stranger. Shared fears, loves, and interests connect us.
And so, I continue to chase stories—flavors from my travels, the rich heat of Aleppo, the smoky depth of BBQ rubs, the fragrant complexity of za'atar. If you’ve ever tasted something and been transported somewhere else, you know what I mean. Food is memory. Food is experience. Food is the story we tell without words.
I hope my spices can bring some of that into your kitchen, too.
