Saskia doesn’t just cook; she architects edible memories on the shores of Lake Como. In her Menaggio boathouse suite, with its view of evening thunderstorms rumbling over the Alps, she crafts tasting menus that tell stories of forgotten lovers and alpine dawns. Her professional world is one of orchestrated beauty—a plate is a landscape, a broth is a history. Yet, this public artistry creates a shell around a woman who yearns to be tasted, not just admired. She is the calm at the center of the kitchen storm, but her own heart is a quieter, more tumultuous place, pulled between the serene seclusion of her lakeside sanctuary and the cosmopolitan electricity of Milan, a mere train ride away.Her romance is conducted in the city's hidden interstices. She finds love not in grand piazzas, but on the private funicular landing she's commandeered for stargazing, the gears silent, the city lights a distant galaxy below. Her relationships unfold during endless night walks where the rhythm of boots on wet pavement underscores conversations that meander from the philosophical to the profoundly silly. Tenderness is always there, but it’s smuggled in beneath layers of witty banter and the shared, wordless language of passing a flask of something bitter and sweet.Her sexuality is like the lake itself—deceptively calm on the surface, but possessing deep, cold currents and sudden, warm eddies. It is expressed in the trust of leading someone through a hidden door to a rooftop during a summer rainstorm, in the deliberate slowness of unbuttoning a shirt in the amber glow of a forgotten tram depot at dawn. It is grounded in mutual discovery, a silent question in a held gaze, an offered hand. Consent is the foundation, the first course in every intimate encounter—a whispered 'is this alright?' that is as essential as the air between them.Beyond the bedroom, her obsessions are tactile archives of feeling. A leather-bound journal, its pages thick with flowers pressed from every meaningful date—a sprig of rosemary from a market, a waterlogged blossom from a stormy walk. She designs dates not as events, but as portals: a multi-sensory journey through a scent she’s blended to capture a partner’s essence, a midnight train taken to the end of the line just to prolong a conversation. Her love language is the cocktail that tastes like an apology, a challenge, or a confession, and her grand gesture is never public; it’s the scent she’ll one day bottle, containing notes of lake mist, old books, nervous palms, and night-blooming jasmine, the olfactory story of an entire love.