The Onion Story: Lesson on Letting Go

Cutting onions is my favorite task in the kitchen. The rhythm is meditative and I often volunteer to do it. One such evening, oblivious to my surroundings, I was enjoying dicing onions. Alex, along with his lovely wife Nikole and their sweet girl Marie, who was dining at the restaurant, happened to catch a glimpse of me lost in my thoughts. “I haven’t seen anyone smile like you were while cutting onions, you looked so content,” he said to me when I stopped by their table. This falls in my top three favorite compliments of all times! I was thinking of an afternoon, nearly a decade ago, which had brought that smile to me.

This was around 2016. Back then we participated in many farmers markets as a food vendor. Our menu was limited but the prep was intense. That particular afternoon, Andy, my prep chef, and I were prepping to make gallons of chicken curry. I was cleaning the chicken while he peeled and diced pounds and pounds of onions. As I glanced over his station, I noticed him observing a cut onion with much admiration. It reminded me of something my mother had once said to me. “An onion is such a perfect creation of nature. The dry outer skin that we discard without much thought, shields the edible inner core. Nature has its own system of preservation.” While this is true for most fruits, somehow her onion story stayed with me and I shared it with Andy.

Andy, a junior at the Maryland Institute College of Arts, was a reticent young man with a keen artistic disposition. He was a kind and generous person; everyone’s favorite co-worker. He heard me intently, took a long pause and said, “This is one of the most poetic things I’ve heard. It is so beautiful.” I was somewhat perplexed by his reaction, but it got me thinking nonetheless. We continued with our prep through the rest of the afternoon. 

Eventually Andy graduated from college and from The Verandah Kitchen.

Years later, we are in 2026. That seemingly ordinary afternoon of prepping with Andy still plays on my mind. His philosophical pondering made me see my Mom’s story in a new light. 

I find the onion layers to be similar to the facades we adorn. We work so fervently to hold on to these veneers believing that they offer us a protection. They are often rooted in societal expectations. But I suspect, we hold on to them so dearly due to our own scrutiny and judgment of ourselves. 

While discarding the unusable tunic of an onion comes to us so naturally, why do we struggle to shed parts of our story that no longer serve us? I look back at my own life thus far and all those pretenses stare at me. While I am grateful to them for offering a sense of protection in my past, do I really need to hold on to them forever? With every onion peel that I discard I see the wisdom in my mom’s story and the poetry Andy found in it more clearly.

Over the past fifteen years I have worked closely with so many wonderful people. While The Verandah Kitchen has been only one short stop in their journey, we remain connected through our shared stories, sometimes over a task as simple as chopping onions.

As we enter the summer, and as I drop the layers, I look forward to lowering some of my shields and letting my core shine through. These monthly newsletters have been a big step toward getting closer to my truest self and I am so happy to share this with you. Sometimes dropping our guard can be daunting, but leaning on our village can make it easier. Thank you all for being my village.

PS: On a lighter note, while many layers need to be shed, there are some that add a punch to life. Like those found in Chaats. Chaats are popular streetside foods, known for their explosive and contrasting flavors and textures. Here, the layering is intentional. Piled on top of one another, they complement each other, adding complexity and depth to the dish.

Not all layers need to go. There are some that make life delicious!