Mise En Place: Creating Space for What Really Matters

Chefs have a system—simple, disciplined, and essential to surviving the turbocharged pace of a busy service. It’s called mise en place: everything in its place.

It’s a practice born in the kitchen, but its wisdom reaches far beyond it.

In a busy service, we can’t control what comes at us—how many orders, in what order, or how fast. But we can control how prepared we are to respond.

That’s where mise en place comes in.

Everything prepped. Everything within reach. Not to control the chaos—but to move through it with steadiness and confidence.

And it makes all the difference.

I began to wonder how this simple practice might apply elsewhere.

We can apply it to our inner world—our thoughts, our beliefs, the quiet narratives we carry with us. That’s a deeper conversation, and one worth having.

But for now, I want to begin somewhere more tangible.

Our homes.

The drawers, the cabinets, the closets we open and close each day without much thought. These are small spaces, but they are ours—places where we still have a measure of control.

And there is something quietly powerful about that.

When these spaces are in order—when they’re not crowded with what we no longer need—it does something subtle to the nervous system. It steadies us. Grounds us. Reminds us that not everything is unraveling.

Because while we may not be able to control the world outside, we can choose how we shape the space we live in.

Beyond the drawers and closets, there is something more.

Over time, our spaces begin to reflect not just order, but something deeper—a sense of beauty, harmony, and light. Not in a curated or performative way, but in a way that feels lived-in and authentic.

Because the spaces we create are not separate from us. They are an extension of what’s happening within.

The objects we choose to keep, the ones we let go of, the things we place where we can see them—they shift as we do. What once felt important fades. What once went unnoticed becomes meaningful.

And slowly, almost without realizing it, that inner evolution begins to take shape around us.

In a living room. A kitchen. A quiet corner where we sit with a cup of coffee.

Our spaces change because we do.

I have a special love for interior design. I’m drawn to the way color, texture, and placement can transform a space—how a room, much like a plate of food, can be composed with intention.

I love how a space can invite me to soften, to settle, to drift into a quieter stream of thought—where ideas that once sat on the back burner rise to the surface.

But more than anything, I love the process of creating that space.

Because it is a process.

Things rarely end up where they started. The sofa once pushed against the wall finds its way to the center of the room. The bed is turned to face a new direction. A chair from the spare room is moved beside a window, where morning light pours in and birds gather along the edge of the roof.

At first, these changes feel like small adjustments.

But they do something more.

They shift the experience of being in that space.

Or maybe, more truthfully, they reflect a shift that has already taken place within us.

I began to notice that I wasn’t just rearranging a room—I was responding to something quieter. Something internal. What once felt right suddenly felt off. What I had overlooked began to call for attention.

And so I moved things.

Again and again.

Not out of restlessness, but out of alignment.

Some may think I have an obsession with things—collecting them, placing them just so—but that’s not it at all.

I discovered something I had long suspected when I moved into my new apartment in a former silk mill built in the 1800s. It had twenty-five-foot ceilings, brick walls, and massive, multi-paned windows.

For the first time, I was designing a space just for me. No husband. No kids. Just me.

The process felt almost magical.

No sooner would I envision something I needed than it would appear. Sometimes it was simple—a quick search online. Other times, it felt like something more. I’d walk through an antique or thrift store and there it would be: the perfect screen to tuck my coats behind, the right frame for an oversized piece of art—small, unexpected treasures that made the space feel entirely my own.

A reflection of who I was—and who I was becoming.

Over time, I began to notice something.

A quiet pattern.

When I was in that space of creating—open, clear, and intentional—what I needed seemed to find its way to me, often in ways I couldn’t have planned.

I’ve come to see this as a kind of flow—a subtle but unmistakable feeling of being supported.

As if something larger is gently saying,
You’re on the right track. Keep going.

And it leaves me with a question.

If the small things can arrive so effortlessly…
why do I believe the big things can’t?

Maybe there is no difference.

Maybe what we’re really learning—slowly, through practice—is how to make space for things to arrive.

To clear.
To place.
To trust.

The same way we set up a kitchen before service.

Everything in its place.

Ready to receive what comes next.

Start small.

One drawer. One shelf. One corner of your home.

Clear it. Place things with intention.

And notice what begins to shift.

Because when we learn to create space—not just in our homes, but in ourselves—
life has a way of meeting us there.

I keep coming back to these small shifts—the ordinary, seen a little differently—and how they can make even uncertain, chaotic times feel steadier and more joyful.

If you’d like more reflections like this, I invite you to subscribe.

Baci,
Silvia

---

And now, a recipe.

A simple way to practice having everything prepped and in its place—so that when it’s time to cook, you’re ready to move with ease.

And at the end of it, something good to enjoy.

Stuffed Baby Eggplant

Recently I found the cutest baby eggplant at the supermarket. I couldn’t bear to simply cut them up and sauté them like I usually do…so I decided to stuff them. Now if you google recipes for stuffed eggplant you’ll notice that many have you carve up the pulp of the eggplant, cook it. Mix it with other ingredients. Stuff it back into the eggplant then bake it.

I find this far more difficult than it needs to be. I instead cut the eggplant in half. Bake, scoop, stuff, and bake again. Scooping the pulp is easy once they’re baked and of course you can mix the eggplant with any number of ingredients, but since I had some chopped beef on hand, I used it along with some onions, tomatoes, garlic and cheese. It was so good I ate them cold right out of the fridge.

A step by step recipe can be found here:

https://chefsilvia.com/stuffed-baby-eggplant/

.