A Love Letter to Italy, Identity & What My Belly’s Built For

I’ve been sitting with this one for a little while. I wasn’t sure how to write it at first, because sometimes the most important experiences take a bit of time to land in your body. You go through the moments—living, laughing, tasting—and it’s only when you’ve slowed down again, when the bags are unpacked and the snow’s melted from your boots, that it all kind of… hits.

I’m recently back from a trip in Italy.

It was one full of texture. Full of contrast. Like a dish that surprises you with sweetness right when you expect sour. One moment I was snowboarding down mountains with my best mate and my brother—people who’ve known me through thick and thin, through versions of myself I don’t even recognise anymore. The next, I was sitting completely alone in a three Michelin-starred restaurant, giggling shyly into my wine glass, heart full, cheeks a bit flushed, realising how far I’ve come.

A whole snowboarding trip in the Dolomites with people I love followed by a solo fine dining meal—if that isn’t the most me thing I’ve ever done. The seamless pairing of two lives: the one that raised me and the one I fought like hell to create. It made me feel proud. A little fragile. A little dizzy. But proud.

Only last year, in 2024, I staged (work experience) at my first ever three star restaurant. I still hadn’t received the MasterChef prize money, and everything felt so surreal and unattainable back then. That kitchen was cold—not just physically, but in spirit. I remember trying so hard to prove I belonged, all the while realising maybe I didn’t want to belong there. This year, though? I had the honour of dining at one. As a guest. On my own terms.

It was a beautiful experience—don’t get me wrong. But by the end, I started to feel a little bit ill. Not because of the food itself. It was elegant, restrained, methodical. But my stomach? My body? It was built for Thai food. For fermented funk. For coconut cream, pickled crab, fresh herbs. For spice that makes your nose run and sweetness that lingers just long enough to surprise you.

Still, I appreciated every moment. The service at this place? Unlike any other ‘high end’ experience I’ve had. I was greeted with care. Warmth. None of that stiff posture and forced small talk I’ve grown used to. There was no energy of: “Will this person be able to afford the wine pairing?” No scanning me up and down, no judgment in the eyes. Just welcome. And I don’t take that for granted.

Because there are places like that—especially in Europe—where the weight of proving your worth hangs heavy the moment you step in. Where they decide your belonging based on your clothes, your tattoos, the melanin in your skin, the way you hold yourself. It’s exhausting. And when it’s paired with prices that already require people to save up for months just for one special night… that kind of exclusion feels extra cruel.

If someone’s saved up all they have just to experience one of those meals, they should be welcomed like royalty. Because food is for everyone. It always has been.

That dinner brought me back to memories I hadn’t touched in years. Like when I used to work front of house in this wild, remote high-end spot down south in Aotearoa. Guests used to arrive by helicopter, dressed in fur coats and gelled-back hair like they’d stepped out of a Bond film—even though we were basically in the middle of a desert.

One couple I served left a lasting imprint on me. They told me to stop bowing, to stop apologising for things that weren’t my fault, to stop crouching down to speak to them like I was subservient. But that’s what I was taught to do. What I was raised to do.

I was raised in a restaurant. My mum was pregnant with me while still mopping the floors. She finished deep cleaning at 11 pm, and I was born just after midnight. My life has always started and ended in kitchens.

My dad was proud of how he looked after customers. Hospitality runs in our blood—but so did that deeply ingrained sense of hierarchy. Of service. Of never taking up too much space. As a kid, I watched, I absorbed, I thought: this is what ‘proper’ service looks like. I mirrored it.

Then came boarding school at 11. I didn’t understand the decision at the time. I was hurt. I was homesick. And I didn’t even realise that what I missed wasn’t just home or family or my mum’s cooking—it was the feeling of being seen.

Cooking brought me back to that. To them. To myself.

At school, I started sneaking into the canteen to cook. I needed it. Food became my way of grieving, of remembering, of surviving. But that survival turned into something darker—sleepless nights, obsessively cooking for housemates, pouring every part of me into the food, even when my body was wearing thin.

When I entered the ‘real’ chef world, I felt like I had to prove myself. That Thai food had to be redefined to be accepted. That I had to learn velouté and anglaise and crème pât to be taken seriously. And maybe to some extent, that’s true. I’m still learning those things.

But I’ve also learned that my food—our food—holds a depth that’s just as worthy. Thai cuisine has history, technique, restraint, balance, poetry. And I’m still learning to be proud of that. Still learning to accept that I don’t need to dilute it to make it digestible for other people.

It’s a long journey, learning to love the parts of yourself you once tried to run from. But I’m getting there.

So Italy wasn’t just a holiday. It was a gentle unraveling. A return to self. A little reminder that I can hold joy and exhaustion at the same time. That I can laugh on a snowboard and cry over petit fours and be grateful for both.

I guess this is just a long-winded way of saying thank you. For being here. For following this journey—wherever it takes me next.

💗 Natty