In the last hour before waking, we dream of a fey place where aromatic fantasies end up pressed between pastry sheets, distilled into rich, oily tinctures, or salted and stashed away for future use.

It’s a place of labor, a place of love; among these jets of steam, puddles of batter, and piles of dishes, we anticipate the arrival of those depending on us for succor and sustenance. We dream so redolently of love that a trail of fragrant crumbs is scattered across our waking life — one which, in quiet moments, can be followed back to this lively place, bluely infused with evidence of our own belonging, stocked with all the tools and ingredients necessary to bestow this feeling upon others… who should be arriving any moment now.

Welcome to this tiny corner of our dream home, the Lavender Kitchen.