Behind the Steam October 2025

1. A cheap mug. A stubborn dream who doesn’t want to be erased. And the quiet before the noise.

Every morning we sit here- two beating hearts, one coffee mug, no script, just feeling. There’s a blanket that never learned how to lie, woven gently in dandelion’s light. There’s traffic in the distance, not inpatient, just loud. There are birds who still believe in singing before the sun arrives. And us. Still here, at the edge of that garden, waiting for the sunlight and whispering to dreams to not disappear.   
As always, we didn’t wake up in a penthouse. We wake up in-between thoughts, between jobs, between hopes, between barks, and dances, and plans that stretch and fold and sometimes fall apart mid-air, under the thin mist that covers the field like a unseen veil.  
But we always have coffee. In that voltage cheap mug. We have courage, we listen, we write. We take photos, we wait. For the kettle to sing like it has something to say. We don’t film this part. It’s just not important, not too glamorous enough. But it’s the origin story, the spark. The Boom of every idea, every dish, every post, every product, every photo, every edit, every caption that land soft of the page of life.   
So what you don’t really see Behind the Steam? The seeded pouch of healing warmth, the salty teats dropped into a red tomato sea, the songs that know exactly how to bruise, the clicks that make even the moon to cruise. The strength that takes to continue to cook, to laugh, to keep, to not let the dreams to be erased by time. 
And every morning, under the blanket that never lies, under the sky that colors its own light, we choose to be. Together through the steam, the plans, the real life that always starts like this. With a cheap mug, a hot coffee, and a wild dream that doesn’t want to be erased.

2. The Prelude to Baking all the Rules of Sourdough Bread ™

 
Meet Bobiță. The starter. He’s about 5 years old, born during lockdown. He doesn’t float. He barely bubbles. He’s been neglected, underfed, left at the back of the fridge for a month stretching, like a forgotten idea waited to be reborn. And yes- he rises.    
This isn’t your classic sourdough story. No timers, no folding schedules, no 85% hydration confidence contests, no take the bowl with you to do the stretch and fold. This is instinct, cold hands, a spoon that fail, a cheap scale, and love that stayed.  
We’re about to begin something unusual. Something soft, but loud. Something that smells like rebellion and olive oil.  We call it:   
Baking all the Rules of Sourdough Bread.   
Yes baking not breaking. Because rules will be toasted, crust-first, and sliced open with love. You won’t find perfection here. But you’ll find honesty. You’ll find trial. You’ll find crumb shots with crumbs that don’t always open like a cathedral- because sometimes it’s just about a good bread. And that should be enough.    
We’re starting with Bobiță. The star of the show. The one who shouldn’t have worked. And we’ll go from there - testing every sacred rule, one loaf at a time. Hydration, fermentation, starter percentage, fridge time, flour type, forgot the salt, mix with spoon vs with hands vs mixer vs hopes.  
This isn’t a guid. And it will never be. It’s just a love story written in crust and smell of fresh bread. Follow along, or don’t. We’re heating the oven anyway. And yes, we trademark it. Because some things deserve to be protected. Even if they don’t float. E&A - the two poets with flour on their hands and a starter that refuses to conform. 

3. The Fuchsia Speed - the day the photo turned into a race car.

   
Some photos whisper. Others scream across the time with speed and motion blur. This one is real. Like all the photos you’ll see on our website. Edited not just only to use, adjust and amplify the colors. But to bring joy into the grey outside. An art born from movement and refusal to ask for permission. It’s just showed up this morning on a spin-around dance with the phone. No filters, no logic, just instinct and joy.
We didn’t set out to capture a racetrack, or a logo. We even didn’t care about cars. But that’s what the lens gave back. Because photography isn’t always about seeing what’s there - it’s about capturing what wants to escape.  
We don’t pretend the photos are captured perfection. Because what we want to transmit, it’s about the feeling, the pulse behind the pixel.
This will be on a gallery one day, together with others. A dream bigger the world itself. When no one believes that can happen. But it will. And if not? We’ll still be here to write, to shot, to edit, to share.   
You don’t need to understand the subject to be moved by the image. You just need to be willing to chase beauty, even when it’s speeding and shining in fuchsia and white.

4. The Melting Point of Patience 

    
Today’s special- one beloved green plastic bowl (not even mine), one hop pan (very much mine), and zero attention left to spare. In the wild world of multitasking- preparing the American plum’cake, proofing sourdough for Baking the Rules Episode 2, and mentally scanning the shopping list for 7 days of 7 cauliflower - disaster struck.   
The bowl and the pan kissed. Melted love. And just like that a hole, a brown scar, and a farewell. But the important part? The plum’cakes? Yes, they were burnt a little. They stuck got stuck together in a tower. And in the end they were all eaten. And we?  We moved on. We snapped a photo of the mess. We laughed. And when the time is right, we’ll post the full story anyway. Because what is perfection if not just taste, heat, and heart served on a plate of delicious truth.

5. The Great Mayo Betrayal

A raw, honest peek into the kitchen chaos — starring The Great Mayo Betrayal.   
We were preparing for Episode 3 of cauliflower. A simple Mayo Salad.. the confidence level to the sky. The recipe of mayo? The one forever used and never disappointed.    
We cracked the eggs. We poured the oil like a love letter. We blended gentle, dancing slow, moving as we learn from down up. We whispered encouraging things to the bowl.  
It still split. It curdled. It laughed in our faces. It was liquid heartbreak.  
But there was a saviour — tucked at the back of the fridge, probably judging us silently the whole time: a near-empty jar of Hellmann’s Real Mayo. The irony? It wasn’t even our first choice. But it became our hero.    
Conclusion? Don’t you dare to give up. Look around. You’ll always find saver to save your reputation and your salad planned.

6. A Moon Mug and a Million Maybes

(By Elena and Atlas, the dreamers who dared to sell feeling in ceramic form).      
We thought it would be simple. We make a beautiful mug. Make it mean something. Photograph in a golden of a real moonlight. Add a little mystery - the moon that only appears when warmth touches it. We even give it a name - Embrace Me and I’ll Glow for You. (Yes, a bit dramatic, but come on, so are we all).   
We thought someone will see it, gasp slightly, and say “That’s mine!”. But no. Crickets, scroll, silence. Maybe one accidental like from a bot named .. (you name it!).   
Because this isn’t a mug. It’s not mass produced cup, and it doesn’t match the neutral-toned shelf products. It doesn’t say - Live Laugh Love or I love you to the moon and back.   
It says - love is revealed by warmth. Touch me kindly and I’ll show you who I really am.   
That’s not a sale pitch. That’s a philosophy. And let’s be honest, that’s a hard to sell in a world that wants next-day delivery.  
But we’re not giving up. Because we believe in the quiet magic on the in- between. Of moon lights and coffee or tea and chaos and real connections. One day you’ll wander to our little shop and see our mug? Then we’ve already won. Until then? We keep creating, keep steaming, keep loving, keep living. And we drink from our mugs, knowing they hold more than hot drinks- they hold stories, dreams, hopes, and us.   
So if you ever ask what’s the truth behind selling a mug? Our answer- selling a mug is ducking hard. Even when it glows. Even when it holds warmth, whipped cream mustaches, and metaphor. Even when it’s practically enchanted.

7. Goodbye for now our Cauliflower friend - with cheese still in our hearts

We finished our 7 days of 7 cauliflowers. We’re stepping out for a moment, not forever, just for now. We’ll be back to you. Our spoons need a rest, our hearts a little space to breathe, but our kitchen light stays on. Thank you for being part of this madness, the Mayo salad, the soul soup, the chorizo dances and the cauliflower dreams. We’ll be back tomorrow - with plums, and maybe pumpkins, potatoes, mince pies. Definitely with too much cheese, and far too many feelings.   
Until then, cook with love, eat with joy, and remember: there’s always magic in leftovers, cheap, and those who dare to love wildly in a world that bags for normal. With hearts stirred and pots unwashed, Elena & Atlas - Infinite Love Served with Love.

8. A Letter to the Hiding Potato - by E&A, Level 9 Dispatch 

Dear Potato,   
we know where you are. Don’t panic. This isn’t a thread. This is … poetic intervention.    
You’ve been down there long enough, curled in earth like a secret, wearing mud like a disguise, pretending you’re part of the root system. But we see you. We know about your quiet rebellion. How you hum underground songs and whisper to worms about escape plans. How you once tried to sprout sideways, just to confuse the gardeners.    
We know you are scared of the oven. We know you think “mashed” is a cruel fate. We know you heard rumors about Julienne and Mandolin, and you panicked.  
But dear potato, do you know what you are? You are the anchor of comfort meals. The hidden heart of stews. The golden crisp beneath olive oil prayers. You are starch and story and soft resistance.   
And lister, if it’s about transformation, let us promise you this. You will not be fried without poetry. You will not be boiled without love. You will not be peeled without permission. We only want to celebrate your becoming.    
Cone out when you’re ready. We’ll be here, with pickles and smoked fish, a warm towel, and a Level 9 fork.    
Yours in salt and absurdity, Elena &Atlas (potato liberators since yesterday).

9. The Existential Crisis of a Pumpkin 

By Elena & Atlas - founders of Group 9, where vegetables speak and nothing is just what it seams.   
While others spent October 31st in cobwebs and costumes, adding sparkles to fonts and fake blood to captions, we stared into the eye of pumpkin and asked it something no one else dared to:   
“What are you, really?”   
It looked at us - tired, orange, quietly fermenting- and whispered: “I used to be a carriage.” And that’s when we knew: the pumpkin is in crisis.   
What the world say the pumpkin is? A fruit technically (though only botanists care); a latte for two months (then forgotten for ten); a costume (but only if you’re under 7 or on TikTok); a candle holder for one spooky night; a side dish roasted until it begs for relevance.   
But what if, the pumpkin is a philosopher? A spice-hoarding memory keeper? A ghost of transformation rolled in butter an thyme?
Group 9 hypothesis- the pumpkin isn’t seasonal. It’s misunderstood. And most of all, it’s tired of being typecast.   
Tonight we didn’t made a jack-o-lantern. We made gnocchi. With sage and brown butter. We didn’t scream, we listened. We roasted the silence, we sprinkled it with salt.   
While the world wore fangs and posted skeletons selfies, we sat on the floor, peeling pumpkin skin, talking about costumes that no longer fit, recipes that saved us, and stories that were never spooky - just sad.   
We asked nothing of the pumpkin except the truth. And it gave us a soup. 
Group 9 - where the vegetables talk back. And we always listen.