Mi Casa es su Casa
Growing up in Patagonia gifted me the language of nature. Cooking by fire, knife in hand, sipping mate. Most of my food memories live outdoors amongst the mountains, the native voices, the Huasos y Gauchos. Collectively, this has left a strong cellular imprint, which I interpret as a form of muscle memory, or a residue from my ancestors that has remained despite a new environment. Home is a tribute to my cultural heritage and my longer term hope to grow food and store seeds. Home (my museum of ego) is everything. I’m seeking, at the deepest level, to inwardly resemble, the places and objects that have touched meMy background is intrinsically bound to my creativity, and so I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t draw this reference. For me nature and art cannot be unfastened since good ingredients are universal — storytelling, democracy of thought, respect for product, simplicity, seasonality … and the beat goes on. The craft of cooking or designing always comes with repetition for me; with practice; and it’s the same gestures repeated throughout that give me a sense of home.
The fire crackles softly, its warmth cutting through the chill of the Patagonian wind. I sip mate from a hollowed gourd, its bitterness grounding me, as the sky swirls above—a canvas of storms and whispers. This is where thoughts drift, untethered, between the weight of mountains and the pull of the horizon.
Underneath my fingertips, the knife carves effortlessly through wood, its grain still carrying the scent of earth and rain. There’s a silence here, one that hums with life—a quiet conversation between the tangible and the unseen, between what we make and what we inherit.
Morning comes slow, delicate as frost on the trees. I stand among them, the cold air biting, and feel the echoes of those who came before me. Their footsteps are faint now, but they linger in the crunch of snow beneath my boots and the stories whispered in the wind.
A vast stillness stretches before me—water meeting sky in a soft embrace. The light shifts, and with it, so do my memories. Each ripple reminds me of the balance between holding on and letting go, the ebb and flow of creation.
The woods are quiet, except for the rhythm of my breath and the sound of snow falling from branches. These moments are meditations—repetitions of the same steps, the same gestures, that carry me closer to something eternal. Here, the world is pared down to its essentials.