I grew up on what you might call a small farm, among the chickens and sheep, a rabbit and a guinea pig, with dogs and cats, a horse and one cow. My dad wasn't a farmer but a hobby butcher. From a young age I saw how animals were raised and slaughtered. Sometimes with tears. Always with respect.

That's where I learned where food comes from. That it isn't something to take for granted, and that there's care, time and dedication behind it. Our freezer was always full of fresh, responsibly raised meat.

I never asked Saint Nicholas for toys. Pots and pans instead, later chocolate moulds, and one day a child-sized bain-marie so I could make my own Easter eggs. Every Sunday I watched 1000 seconden with my dad. That was the highlight of the week: enjoying it together, learning, tasting with our eyes.

When friends came over to play, I would ask whether they felt like baking. There wasn't much room for any other suggestion. During the lunch break at school I even cycled home to make a quick stack of sugar waffles — dough and baking, all in one hour. It was no effort for me at all; it was simply pure pleasure!

My signature bake was the chocolate cake from Roald Dahl's Het grote griezelkookboek. I borrowed that book dozens of times from the library in Zedelgem, and my mum had to renew it just as often. At thirty-five I finally bought it myself.

From Tiny in de keuken I made my first chocolate mousse, and its sugared apples are etched in my memory — even though three of my mum's pans didn't survive, because the caramel burned every single time.

So opening a restaurant of my own doesn't feel like a leap into the unknown. It's a dream that has been gently simmering since I was little. It's coming home.