April 23

The snow is nearly gone, and with it, the hush of winter. The forest is waking up — trembling aspen buds, the damp musk of thawed earth, and those first shy nettles poking their heads through last year’s leaf litter. I picked my way along a slope near Policeman’s Creek this morning, boots still squelching in the muck, fingers tingling from the cold, and heart full of that strange blend of anticipation and reverence that always comes with spring.

Found the first wild onion shoots today. Sharp. Humble. Perfect. I plucked only what I needed — enough for a pickled garnish I’ve been imagining to cut through the richness of smoked elk marrow.

Back at Sauvage, the team is buzzing with that restless creativity that only comes from watching the world turn green again. Ideas are flying, dishes are in their conception — and thank god, because I’ve never been good at sitting still. I want every plate to feel like it was foraged from a moment in time. Not just seasonal. Momentary. Fleeting. Like a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Some days, I feel like the forest speaks louder than I do. But maybe that’s okay. I’m just the translator.