Essay #2 - Quiet in the Kitchen

The absence of noise as creative space - How silence shapes focus.

Every kitchen I’ve worked in has been different. Some were intense — I’d arrive at nine in the morning and leave past three at night, feet aching, head quiet. Others moved more slowly: fewer guests, more breath, more time to look at what you were making. But for all their differences in pace, pressure, or philosophy, the kitchens that stayed with me shared one thing in common: silence. Or rather — a kind of focused, respectful quiet.

During service there were moments of tension, yes. But there was never truly chaos. Every movement felt considered. Every gesture precise. The only raised voices were the ones that kept the rhythm: a chef passing would call “Behind!”; a team responding in chorus to a called ticket.

It wasn’t the absence of communication — it was the presence of trust. You knew where the others were. You knew they had your back. And so, there was no need for anything extra. Everyone was focused. Everyone was listening — not to noise, but to each other.

During mise en place, the quiet deepened. There was no music. No conversation unless it mattered. Just the repetitive sound of peeling mushrooms, chopping vegetables, wiping stainless steel. I remember being on the vegetable station, cleaning tomatoes for hours — and somehow loving it. Or baking macarons, lining them up with care, thinking about nothing except the space between the halves.

These weren’t dull moments. They were freeing. I found peace there. And ideas. In the silence, I could think — about new dishes, new flavors, r simply about how grateful I was to serve a guest something we had shaped with care.

Now, at home, I try to carry that same presence with me. I don’t rush the question of what to cook. I go to the market. I speak with vendors. I listen to the seasons. I prep slowly. I clean as I go. And when I begin to cook, I leave space — for silence, for rhythm, for that same kind of quiet focus that once filled those professional kitchens.

I don’t always succeed. Sometimes I want music. Sometimes the world outside comes in. But when I do manage to hold the quiet — when I let the absence of noise become a space to move, breathe, and create — the kitchen transforms. It becomes more than a room. It becomes a state of mind.

The absence of noise is not emptiness — it's a frame.
A stillness in which something begins to take shape.

At home, the kitchen has become that for me. A quiet space of intention, care, and play. Not a place to perform, but a place to return — to the senses, to rhythm, and to self.

Because sometimes, silence is the most generous ingredient we have.