I didn’t learn much this year by adding things.
I learned by removing them.
Noise left first. Then hurry. Then the need to explain myself—why I cook the way I do, why some dishes are repeated, why others disappear after a single attempt. The table doesn’t ask for justification. It only responds to what is placed upon it.
This year, I cooked fewer dishes—but I cooked them better. I returned to ingredients that behave honestly when treated gently. Polenta that waits. Greens that soften without resistance. Oil that needs nothing more than warmth and time.
The table taught me that mastery is not accumulation. It is recognition.
Some recipes stayed. They earned their place by feeding more than hunger. Others quietly left. No drama. No failure. Just a sense that they no longer belonged to this season of my hands.
I stopped chasing novelty. Flavor deepened when I allowed repetition. The same dish, cooked months apart, reveals different truths—about mood, weather, and patience. Cooking became a conversation instead of a performance.
This year also taught me restraint. Not every thought needs a garnish. Not every plate needs contrast. Sometimes harmony is enough. Sometimes silence completes the meal.
I learned that a table can be a boundary. When I sit down to eat, the world waits. News waits. Opinions wait. Even ambition waits. There is dignity in a meal that asks for full presence and nothing else.
What stayed with me most is this:
A good table doesn’t impress.
It receives.
As the year closes, I clear the surface. Not to prepare for something bigger—but to make space for what is honest, warm, and necessary.
Next year will arrive when it’s ready.
The table already is.
— Marco
