My Sanctuary of Noise: How the Chaos of the Kitchen Led Me to Cocktails

I often get asked why I decided to write a cocktail book. If I’m being brutally honest, the initial spark came from a potent mix of sheer boredom, the chaotic energy of my ADHD, and a deep appreciation for a well-made drink. But the real reason cuts much deeper. As a neurodivergent chef, I felt I had a truly unique perspective on the world of mixology—a fresh lens to explore not just drinks, but the entire experience surrounding them.

My goal was to create something that wasn’t just another recipe guide. I wanted to build a bridge for people who, like me, often feel excluded. I imagined a book that celebrates neurodiversity, redefines what a “good” drink can be, and shows the world that there’s beauty and complexity waiting for every palate.

To understand that mission, you have to understand my relationship with the kitchen. For as long as I can remember, it has been my sanctuary. It’s more than just the gleaming steel of appliances or the weight of a cast-iron skillet. For me, it’s a complete sensory universe. It’s the one place where the often-confusing static and overwhelming noise of the external world fade into a manageable hum. In the kitchen, I am granted the rare freedom to simply exist, to be myself without the performance that other environments so often demand.

This connection wasn't an accident. Food was the constant backdrop of my childhood, but not in the way you might think. My parents weren’t in the high-octane, glamorous world of fine dining; they were deeply immersed in the demanding field of healthcare and senior dining. Their professional lives revolved around adapting culinary principles to specific dietary needs and managing large-scale operations under incredible pressure. They were focused on providing nourishment and care. This unique setting, with its distinct rhythms and rigorous standards, became a strangely familiar landscape to me from a young age.

Navigating the broader social world, however, was a different story. It often felt like trying to decipher an intricate, unwritten code, or reading an emotional map in a foreign language I’d never been taught. My mind processed inputs and forged connections in ways that seemed out of sync with everyone around me. This frequently cast me as the quiet observer, the outsider peering in, trying to logically understand interactions that didn't instinctively resonate. And when I tried to force it, I usually messed up royally.

But then there was always the kitchen. Crossing its threshold felt like stepping through a portal. Here, unspoken social rules gave way to clear, tangible processes with predictable outcomes. The rhythm felt logical. My parents recognized my fascination with ingredients and transformations, and crucially, they always made space—physically and emotionally—for my passion to flourish.

There's an undeniable pull for me in the methodical cadence of cooking. This quality speaks directly to my innate need for structure in a life that can feel overwhelmingly chaotic. The precision it demands is deeply satisfying: the careful act of weighing flour for perfect consistency; the rhythmic repetition of achieving a uniform dice; the vigilant attention required to coax sugar into gleaming amber caramel. Following the explicit steps of a recipe feels like tracing a known path through a forest.

Yet, paradoxically, this sanctuary of structure is also the launching pad for my most liberated and surprising moments of creativity. Foundational techniques provide the grammar of cuisine, but my neurodivergent spirit constantly seeks to test the boundaries. A recipe becomes less a rigid decree and more a fascinating starting point—an invitation to improvise. My mind buzzes with questions: What if I introduced smoky chipotle here? What contrasting texture would toasted pumpkin seeds bring? How would the bright floral notes of Meyer lemon shift the balance? This constant dance between meticulous focus and spontaneous innovation has become the signature of my journey.

This all came to a head when I realized my drive to create something unique had to extend beyond the plate. The idea for the cocktail book began to solidify, but it was a specific moment that truly set me on the path. I think one of the most amazing experiences that got me so deep into mixology was during a trip to Richmond, VA. I made my way to The Verdant Lady, a bar that had long been on my “bucket-list.” I was initially in awe of the décor, but it was the welcoming feel when I sat at the bar that made everything click. It all felt natural.

I got to talking with the bartender that night (Mel) and even lent my culinary palate to some cocktails that may or may not have made it to their fall menu. I shared stories of my travels and my passion for Fernet Branca, happily showing off the Fernet Coin I’d gotten a few years prior. As the night wound down, I found myself more inspired, driven, and hopeful than I had been in a long time. It was a powerful reminder of the magic that happens when you connect with people over shared passions. I knew then that I might just find myself back behind a bar once again, and I absolutely had to capture that feeling in my writing.

Let’s be honest, though: this industry is tough, especially for neurodivergent individuals. The unspoken social codes, relentless speed, and potential for sensory overload can be formidable barriers. But I hold an unwavering conviction that our unique cognitive landscapes are not deficits. They are powerful, underutilized assets. The capacity for intense hyperfocus allows for unparalleled attention to detail. A non-linear way of processing information can lead to innovative solutions and novel flavor pairings. These aren't quirks; they are potential superpowers.

Embracing this path doesn’t mean it’s always sunshine and perfectly plated rainbows. The passion that fuels me has also obscured immense sacrifices. There have been brutal stretches—working punishing 18-hour days for 15 days straight, pushing through illness because the line doesn’t stop for anyone. There have been deep personal costs, moments where prioritizing the kitchen meant neglecting my own happiness, my health, or my relationships. But through all that difficulty, through that shared "hell," something genuinely awesome has emerged: the forging of incredibly strong, lifelong bonds with friends and colleagues. These are the people who know what it’s like because they’ve been right there in the trenches, too. That shared understanding is invaluable.

Sharing this ongoing, imperfect journey—the messy bits, the breakthroughs, the sensory explorations, the genuine sacrifices, and the incredible bonds—feels like an essential responsibility. The kitchen, in its various forms, has been my sanctuary, my laboratory, and my stage. It is here that I have unearthed deep reservoirs of strength, resilience, and creativity. I am truly eager to continue sharing its evolving song, with the earnest hope that my experiences might offer a flicker of recognition, a spark of encouragement, and a toast to finding your own beautiful, chaotic, and wonderful place in this world.