The lime-green snap of a fresh pea pod is the first sound of spring in the kitchen.

I’m sitting out in the courtyard tonight under a silver moon, shelling a mountain of English peas for tomorrow’s first spring service. There is a specific rhythm to it, the thumb finds the seam, the pod yields, and the little green globes tumble into the ceramic bowl with a soft, musical clatter. The air has lost that winter bite, replaced by a humid promise of salt and growth that reminds me of home. It’s restless work, but the good kind, the kind that lets your hands stay busy while your mind settles into the new season.
Introducing a new dish isn't just about changing the menu; it’s about adjusting our internal temperature to match the world outside. We spent months leaning into the heavy, slow-braised comforts of winter, but now the palate and the people are asking for something that breathes. It’s a reminder that growth requires us to lighten our touch and find the brightness again. When you sit at my table tomorrow, I hope you feel that shift in the air as much as you taste it in the food.