🌹Rose-colored glasses
Know anyone who’s packed snails in their luggage?
I will not raise my hand.
But, let me tell you; nothing screams "borderline insanity" like standing in a customs line, sweating bullets over a frozen Ziploc bag of gastropods (snails), wrapped in three layers of ankara, shoved between duty-free shea butter and a rogue can of malt. The agent looks at you sideways, and you’re like: “It’s just food.”
But really, it’s not just food.
It’s home.
That’s the thing they don’t tell you when you leave your homeland: your cravings don’t get the memo. You’ll be minding your business, acclimating like a responsible adult; maybe even thriving—and suddenly, boom: your whole body starts whispering,
“You know what would slap right now?”
“Proper peppered snail.”
“Extra hot. With palm oil.”
And the soup that sticks to your lips like a love letter.
So you start hunting. Market after market. Yelp review after “Sorry, we don’t carry that.” Then come the WhatsApp pleas:
“Aunty, please, if you’re coming this December, bring small snail. I’ll send you the cash.”
You try to hold on to your dignity; but at some point, you realize you’re begging your relatives to transport escargot across international borders like it’s contraband and not a protein source enjoyed by millions.
And the kicker?
You're quite ashamed of it. You open your mouth to explain snail to someone unfamiliar, and suddenly you're the face of weird. The village mascot. An exhibit in the Museum of Primitive Protein.
“Snails?” they say, with that look. Yes. Snails.
Because I’m not just hungry. I’m homesick.
And that craving? That’s cultural memory. That’s ancestral GPS rerouting you to something familiar in a land where everything else is new. . . right?
Yeah, this is where the rose-colored glasses crack.
Because the way we’re trying to get it; frozen, flown, FedExed, God-willing—it’s unsustainable.
Quality? Questionable.
Environmental impact? I don’t have to tell you this. It is extremely problematic!
What starts as a love letter to culture quietly becomes a logistical nightmare. And for a while, we try to make peace with it. We accept the rubbery version and call it a lux. We don’t ask questions like:
Why do I need a passport to bite into my own heritage?
Why is the food I grew up on seen as "exotic" here?
Why does my love for tradition have to compete with responsible sourcing?
Here’s the twist, though. What if the answer isn’t in the carry-on bag? What if sits quietly in the corner of your kitchen?
Here’s where our thought experiment becomes a blueprint.
What if we adapted; not just out of necessity, but out of love—for the land we now live on?
What if we started seeing the snails already living in our present ecosystems as lux?
What if, instead of shame, we passed down skills? Instead of frozen crates, we raised our own?
Instead of waiting for access, we built it?
I’m not talking about watering down tradition. I’m talking about rooting it—right where we stand.
Because lux isn’t about recreating your grandmother’s dish down to the last imported detail. It’s about honoring her spirit while adapting to your reality. That’s the shift. That’s the invitation.
So here’s your validation:
If you’ve ever hoarded pepper soup cubes like treasure,
If you’ve ever explained “it’s like calamari” just to avoid judgment,
If you’ve ever Googled “can I grow snails in an apartment” at 2am…
You’re not alone.
You’re not weird.
You’re not wrong.
You’re remembering.
And reimagining.
And, if you’re ready, reclaiming.
Your next escargot?
Doesn’t have to come wrapped in guilt, shame, or jet fuel.
It can come from your kitchen.
Your garden.
Your community.
Your terms.
Because at the end of the day, the goal isn’t to keep longing for home through a foggy inkling of nostalgia.
EscarGrow_Iteration 1
The goal is to bring it home.
Want to be part of the pilot?
We’re inviting curious eaters, cultural preservers, zero-waste warriors, and flavor fanatics to shape what comes next.
EscarGrow, our patent-pending, smart snail system, is made for exactly this moment.
