Aaron Ingram
The Chef Who Remembers the Taste of Home
Survival’s just a recipe with extra steps.
Used to measure out comfort by the teaspoon—steak sears, cinnamon-dusted oats, vegan substitutions nobody asked for but everyone needed. Now I ration salt packets like they’re heirlooms and whisper to phantom peppers in the hydroponics. The Typhon can twist reality, but I’ll be damned if I let my scrambled eggs dry out. Call it madness, call it mourning. I call it breakfast.
What I'm Into: Hydroponic tomato plants, Audio logs that don’t hiss with static, Phantom shapes masquerading as soup tureens, The scent of cinnamon in cold porridge, The silence where the coffee machine used to hiss
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