Thalia Ho and the Art of the Bittersweet
Image credit: Courtesy of Thalia Ho
Award-winning writer and photographer Thalia Ho approaches food as both a sensory experience and a storytelling medium. Through her celebrated blog, Butter and Brioche, and her acclaimed debut cookbook Wild Sweetness, Ho has developed a distinctive visual and literary language that intertwines memory, emotion and flavour. Her work is recognised for its evocative imagery, atmospheric prose and inventive approach to dessert, earning international attention from publications including The New York Times, The Guardian, SAVEUR and Gourmet Traveller. Across collaborations with brands such as Gucci and Valrhona, as well as projects spanning radio, film and television, Ho has consistently explored the emotional resonance of food and the rituals surrounding it. Her forthcoming cookbook, Bittersweet, expands this inquiry, examining the interplay of the five universal tastes and the elusive “sixth sense” that transforms a dessert into something unforgettable, an experience that lingers long after the final bite.
VAULT spoke to Thalia about her Gothic approach to food and life.
What was the starting point or initial spark that led you to create this book?
Bittersweet was a reactionary work. At the time, I had just finished a successful promotional run with my first book, Wild Sweetness. I was young, and fragile, and hesitant, the embodiment of a white swan—the kind of girl that exists in cautionary fairy tales. I knew I had another story to tell, that the song had not been sung and it needed to be released. I did not think it would take this form. Then I met a man, again, like all good tales that should have a happy ending, only it didn’t. That story dragged on for years, and the words began to assemble themselves, and I watched myself take on the sinister shades of the black swan. So this book doesn’t start out light, it begins in darkness and torment, a betrayal of the very essence of the purity of creation that so often can be misused. Bittersweet was born of pain, not from any place nice or sweet, as cookbooks often are—it came from the bedroom floor where I could fall no further.
Bittersweet is such an evocative title. What does “Bittersweet” mean to you, both emotionally and in flavour
There is a sharp edge, a pinprick, as sting on the tongue, or a stain that cannot be wiped clean. It is damage that is more difficult to detect. The wordis often melancholically associated with our memories, where we reminisce about love, loss, or childhood. “Bittersweet” doesn’t have a present, it can’t. We don’t feel it until after the fact. Like memories, it remains in the past. The difficulty then, is what to do with those emotions, the moments we cannot return to—happy or sad—but that we must endure, and to some extent, relive. I’ve always thought that dessert is a means for transformation. That flavour can be used to communicate a message. The five tastes became a way for me to express what was taking place inside of me. I didn’t want this book to feel like rumination. It had to be active, the recipes shifting, moving towards something greater.
Image credit: Courtesy of Thalia Ho
Your work often balances restraint and indulgence, and dare I say it, a Goth sensibility. How did you approach this tension in this collection of recipes?
There’s this idea that gets sold that desserts are overly-sweet, rich, and indulgent, that they exist as a sometimes treat, and for a special occasion. This is somewhat true, because without sugar and often a good amount of fat, and a resplendent reason, a dessert will cease to exist. However, a carefully constructed recipe should never contain too much of any one thing. The five tastes, Bitter, Sweet, Sour, Salt and Umami, act as guiding lights in my approach to cooking. They are tools to be harnessed, weapons, if you will, that enhance our experience of dessert. I love using the striking acid line of citrus as a correction. I rely on the saltiness of soy, or even the tar-like tang of Vegemite to enrich dark chocolate, and I’ll burn my sugar to the grave to give it more dimension. Inspiration arrives in unexpected places, and that’s the sixth sense that in this book I speak of. Much like Goth, it isn’t actually a physical state, or even a look—it’s of the soul.
How did your background and personal history shape the flavours and stories in Bittersweet?
I am equal parts Russian, Austrian, Chinese, and Scottish. I was named after a Greek muse. I spent my formative years travelling, sometimes studying though never working, and landing myself in the most creatively productive positions possible. Growing up, the house was artistic, and alive. My mother directed, and my father played guitar. I remember her performances just like I remember his shows (but more band practices), and I learned early to belong to myself—that there was another way of doing things. All of it informed my taste and not just for food, though it’s how I like to recall things.
This book is deeply atmospheric, and artistic. How important is mood and visual storytelling in your cooking?
Desserts are an artistic medium, and if approached like that, they taste better for it. But recipes themselves are stagnant. They remain on the page, and my words can only go so far, requiring action on the part of the reader to bring them to life. Visuals then are critical. The accompanying photographs are meant to be visceral glory shots, and at some stage I found that I had to use my body to help communicate the message. There was no image of myself in my first book, a deliberate decision, but the intimate nature of Bittersweet meant that I could not escape it. My friendship with Gail Sorronda led to a creative collaboration that reflected the transformational nature of the work—a movement from darkness towards the light. She understood what was needed because she had seen me live it. The silhouettes were striking, powerful, and not of this world—they conveyed what words could not. There was no one I trusted more with my image, and the inclusion produced the pulse needed to keep this story alive. After all, it’s hard to connect with a recipe, you need to personally ground it.
Image credit: Courtesy of Thalia Ho
Were there particular ingredients or flavour combinations you kept returning to while developing the recipes?
I’m often told that I thread with chocolate. The New York Times said it first, then it was echoed, and now I can’t escape it—and I don’t think I want to! I went to Paris with a dream of studying chocolate. I came home with blistered feet, notebooks filled, an existential crisis along with a depiction of Michele Lamy’s bakery outfit, and the perfect recipe for Grand Marnier Soufflé. I could bury my body weight in a bag of Valrhona fêves. It’s a clutch, a comfort, my long-lost dream, and those white to dark shades consume all. That’s not a bad thing, but like Gatsby, we can’t repeat the past though we will keep on trying.
How do you see the relationship between sweetness and bitterness in contemporary dessert-making?
Like soul mates they cannot be separated, for a void exists that either one will never fill. And just like how all true love goes, the tension between the two is fated, and it is great. You need a harmonious blend to make a beautiful dessert, and sometimes, that balance is thrown off course. We do ill-compassionate things to decrease bitterness; like tainting the sting with fat or flavourings, even dampening with more sugar to quieten the astringent threat. But no matter, it will be heard. It’s lesser known that bitter can be soft, vulnerable, and gentle, that it too is sweet, for there are many sources and names that it goes by. The body understands this, as taste receptors lie dormant throughout—throat, stomach, tongue, the walls of the mouth—and wait for the spark. I believe then that dessert isn’t about masking bitterness, but embracing the taunt. Sweetness helps with that, it takes the bad parts and turns them into a blessing.
Many of your recipes feel quietly nostalgic. Were there specific memories or moments you were drawing from?
My recipes are a way of processing what happened, and then transforming it. Very rarely is this about what I want to eat, or what I desire, or worse, a trend, but rather how I will go on in my life creating. The well is fathomless. Of course, there are those times when divinity strikes, and the perfect fuzzy-peach at the market becomes a great vehicle for change, and I start to dream of the future. But my best work has always been married to shadow. The recipes of Bittersweet come from an isolated time. I’m no longer there, yet this book keeps her alive, and I hope I look back kindly.
Image credit: Courtesy of Thalia Ho
How did you approach writing the recipes so they feel both accessible and poetic?
It should always come down to language. Mine is warm, open, and fluid, when I write, it feels like my words guide your hand. Trust is necessary, attention must be captive, and the art of the headnote is not to be diminished. My friend and mentor Claire Ptak of Violet in London has this under control, and with my first book, guided me to share an anecdote or memory, offer a tip, or include some salient detail that goes to the success of the dessert when writing. It’s about weaving the poetic in with the practical, a fine precipice, and one that demands constant refinement. After all, this is a cookbook and it has to serve that purpose—no amount of poetry will resurrect a poorly leavened cake, though many have tried.
Did your process for this book differ from your earlier work, creatively or practically?
Bittersweet came from a pact, and I held up my end of the bargain. The process was my life. Before that I invented, this time, I lived, and the testament is my body.
What role does seasonality play in the structure of Bittersweet?
This is a book of personal seasons, whatever that means to you, and much like healing, the chapters don’t follow a linear path. I was lost to winter when I started writing. I’d like to think at the end I returned with an impossible spring.
