I live only for what my heart beats
for. To feel the rush of love and chill of pain. To devour life and be torn by
it. To love, deeply. My memories are solely focused around moments of
flowering. Stolen roses, infused into sugar dusted cakes. Sour cherries,
foraged from our neighbor’s orchard. First frost on golden wheat. Wildberries
from the base of mountains, taken and turned into tartlets. Each memory, centered
around both food and moment.


I call it Heartdew. The tears and salt of the earth. Nostalgia for the
moments that have happened and longing for the ones yet to come. Melancholia existing
within pleasure. The Sadness that comes with drunken happiness. Knowing that memories
fade and stomaching the hungered desire to keep them. All these fragmentations embodied
in a solitary word that breathes life into a moment, Heartdew.


Time guides everything we do, and
food is no exception. There’s something about meeting death, that made me
appreciate the sacredness of life’s moments. Seated at the table, we relive memories
and moments belonging to our past, present, and future. Within every meal, a
hundred echoed moments. Those great loves, childhood tears, and teenage
misgivings. My hate of marzipan, the dulcet tones of crème caramel, and the
ashen notes of burnt sugar. Where we dream in flavor combinations, chart the
next sweet thing, and create plans for meals to come. Food that forms an
eternal narrative.

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This cookbook is an honest account of moments, reflected through the universal ways
we all seek sweetness. Chapters that reflect how we choose to eat, celebrate,
and share. In the morning, during the golden hour, those times of loneliness,
in exuberant celebration, to end the evening, and under the wildness of
midnight. Just like how we all crave sweetness, we all crave moments that
reflect it. Food that forms part of the story, food that becomes the story. And
within everything, a brief portion of time we can only hope to relive. Heartdew.


Food tastes better within a moment.
Whom it’s consumed with, where it’s consumed, the intention behind it. Food
tastes better in Paris, where I’d bake orange blossom sugared apricot galettes
and burnt buttered tarte tatin. Food tastes better in Austria, after
sun-drenched work in my family’s vineyard. Where we’d feast and drink the wine
cultivated from our ancestors, taken from the ancient cellar bellow. Food
tastes better foraged. Wild strawberries, picked, cleaned, and gathered. Eaten
from the handful, beneath the blistering sun. Memories I still long for and


It’s about bringing these moments
home. Sweet, indulgent, food that forms part of our narrative. To the opulently
curated dinner table, to the impromptu afternoon picnic, to the thick slice of
chocolate cake consumed half-naked over the sink at midnight, the three-am cookie
dough smashed into a blistering buttered skillet after a wild night out, and
the spoons only crème brulee moment with a table full of friends – a moment is
always revealed, no matter how carefully intended. No great relationship can
begin until you’ve eaten from the same bowl. And as all good things do, the
moment ends. So too is true about food. Napkins are strewn, plates are removed,
crumbs are swept. Coffee stains, burnt tongues, and memories remain.  


It’s universal. As we continue to become busier, there’s something to be
said for slowing down and stirring batter. Using food as connection. The
stillness that sweetness brings. It’s about finding moments that exist within
every meal. Eating and creating for your own moment. And making sure to devour
every second. We can never have the same moment twice.



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