Episode 3

Our interview with Tavel, a recent James Beard award finalist for best pastry chef in America, took a memorable turn. Caleb said, “Picture this scene. Everyone from your life, those who have passed on, people you drifted apart from, close family members, and friends are all in one place. You can make one dessert for them. What do you make and what would it say?” Tavel was quiet. His wife, Brittany, who was in the room with us, began to cry. Then he said, “What dessert would encapsulate me? Something simple. Something direct. It would probably be something that started with cheesecake.” We learned it was the first thing he made that signaled he was special. As he talked, Brittany continued to cry. We learned his was a family who has experienced loss. Perhaps more than the usual.

He finished a beautiful description of a cheesecake featuring ingredients symbolizing every chapter of his life. That dessert became a deliciously strange branchlike creation using blended cheesecake frozen instantly in liquid nitrogen and we knew we were going to film it. Brittany wiped her cheeks and said she knew Tavel would say cheesecake. 

The interview began to wrap up with the usual “this was a great conversation, thanks for your time.” But Tavel wasn’t finished. Thankfully we were still recording. “My father used to sell cheese in Guayana,” he said and we all fell silent. “He passed away when I was seven years old.” Tavel continued to describe night time conversations with his father at the dinner table. Talking about, “How did your day go?” Blurred memories. 

It’s a strange feeling seeing how life continues on even after we lose someone foundational. We keep doing stuff. Making friends. Working. (missing them.) Having children. Creating things. There’s a question which sneaks up in the back of our mind. A pleasant mystery we turn over in our mind’s eye. What would they think if they could see me now?

Our short-form Sanctuary Sessions are portraits of artists and their craft. 

Sanctuaries are places of sublimity where hearts are impassioned and hands are raised. Like a legendary classic car creator in his garage. Or a one of a kind neon artist in his workshop. There are no stained-glass windows, but there is glowing glass bent by fire. No soaring spires, but there is chrome glistening in the sun. No preachers, but they might be priests.