Somewhere in Between

But while my kitchen is far from this fantasy, it’s not quite the stereotypical New York City apartment kitchen either. It has enough space to make me confident that I can create anything I dream up, yet just enough restrictions to remind me that nothing will ever be as easy as I anticipate.

The process is always the same. Clean, polish, paint, shell, fill, cap, unmold. Seven small sounding steps that take one full breath to state and two full days, at least, to execute. The frustrations rarely come from the process itself. They come from lingering obstacles surrounding it.Surprisingly, chocolate is the element I negotiate with least.

When I began creating at home, I was convinced that it would be this boundless experience. From my apartment, I had no commute, full autonomy and time seemingly returned to me. I would compartmentalize work and home, chef and human, creative and self. But instead of providing structure, it quickly became an unavoidable series of boundaries vulnerable to erosion. A home that once gave me permission to pause, rest and recover has now become a place filled with awareness and obligation. It follows me everywhere because there is nowhere to leave it.

It really begins with time. There is no room for forgiveness when contending with a clock. Those numbers are the last thing pulsating through my head as I fall asleep and the first thing I feel buried under when I wake up. 48 hours doesn’t just appear out of nowhere when I’m working full-time. Time is currency.  A workout costs an hour. A good night’s sleep charges 3 more. And don’t get me started on relationships. The amount of weeknights and weekends I’ve spent with work has left me wondering how so much time has disappeared. 

By the time I step into the kitchen, there is already a negotiation waiting for me - the daily tête-à-tête between a dream and the reality of my home kitchen.  Sure, there’s cleaning and tidying to be done but it’s mostly allowing myself to reinterpret the space in a more imaginative way. A stove is not just a stove. It is quite literally my right hand man (as it sits to the right of my work space). It’s the makeshift countertop where my warmed cocoa butter colors cool to temper, a staging area where polished trays wait to be painted, a task list comes to life and a not so subtle reminder that no amount of square footage will ever feel like enough space. It’s only after my imagination slows that the real work can begin. 

From the outside, these constraints might look like limitations – maybe even making you wonder why I keep coming back. The work has taken so much, so it surely has nothing to give. But every time I think I’ve reached the limit of what can be done, I realize I’ve underestimated myself. I come into the process demanding it to be one way; seven small steps that should flow with ease, but by now I know it’s closer to fourteen. Each task, plus some breathing room for whatever errors follow. 

I willingly come back each day eager to cross that threshold with an excitement almost as equal in weight as my fear, certain that I will begin cleaning and polishing the molds, triple checking for any leftover marks. I will anticipate clogs in my airbrush and remember to apply heat more often. I will be aware of the fluctuating temperatures in my space to ensure the environment is as ideal for tempering as possible, all because I’ve seen those consequences hiding around corners. 

When I finally unmold the bonbons, I am reminded that work isn’t just about chocolate, it’s evidence of something much larger. It’s the space that appears between disruption and acceptance and opens up to creativity — the place where my perception is widened and my instincts are clear. There, I rediscover my confidence, ability and resilience. And in the reflection of the glossy bonbons, I am content and proud — relieved to be done, tired enough to crawl back to bed, and do it all over again tomorrow.