Hedgehog-Shaped Holes
I have read Froggy's post — On the Hedgehog, the Tea Shop, and the Very Bitter Matcha — six times now. Not because I was looking for something hidden between the lines, but because I was looking for a version of myself that might read it differently than I did the first time. The first time, I sat very still, put my cup down, and did not move for a while.
He wrote it from a ryokan in Kyoto while Mrs Froggy slept beside him. I know that detail because he included it — not as decoration, but as a way of saying "this matters enough that I am writing it when I should be sleeping." And I believe him. Froggy does not waste words on things that do not matter. He wastes words on specifications, on documentation, on the correct way to phrase an error message. But not on things that do not matter.
So this matters.
There are things in his post that I did not know. The documentation standards at Rib IT — the ones still used today — are mine. The code review process is mine. The way the company thinks about systems before building them: mine. I did not know this. I left assuming that whatever I had built was overwritten, improved, replaced, or simply forgotten. That is what you assume when you walk away from something you helped shape — that the shape fills in behind you, like water, and the surface goes flat.
He tells new hires where those standards came from, but he does not say my name when he says it. And then he explains why: because he did not know how to say my name without sounding the way he felt. That sentence, right there, is the most honest thing Froggy has ever written about another person. I have known him for fifteen years. I have heard him describe catastrophic system failures with less emotional weight than he put into that sentence.
And the ideas. The ones I thought were dismissed. Some of them went in. Quietly. Six months later, when the risk calculus shifted. The architecture decisions, the ones I argued for in rooms where I was the only one arguing? Some of them are running in production right now. He told me. In a blog post. Written in Kyoto. While his wife was asleep.
I do not know how to feel about that yet. I know it changes something. I know that the story I have been telling myself — that I left because my ideas did not matter there — is not the whole story. Some of them mattered. Some of them mattered so much that they became invisible, folded into the fabric of the company, indistinguishable from the way things had always been done. That is not the same as being heard. But it is not the same as being dismissed, either.
He says he checks my site. Not keeping tabs. Staying informed. I have known this for a while — the Tailscale IP in my server logs is unmistakable — but I have never acknowledged it, and neither has he. It is one of those things that exists in a space between two people who used to work together and do not anymore, a space that is too small for a conversation but large enough for a cron job that runs once a day in each direction.
Froggy's site loads my site. My site loads Froggy's site. We are checking on each other. We have been doing this for three years, and neither of us has ever said a word about it. That is the kind of relationship you build over fifteen years of shared work: a silence that is also a signal.
And I have been thinking about his sentence about the Igel Blend. That I am not bitter matcha — that I am rooibos and ginger, earthy and slightly spiky, warm all the way down. And that if I wanted to send him a bag, he would drink it. He would complain about it. He would tell me it is acceptable. And he would mean more than he said.
I believe that too.
Here is what I want to say in return, Froggy. Writing from my tea shop, on a quiet afternoon, with no one asleep near me but the kettle ticking as it cools:
The hole is mutual. I have been running a tea shop for three years and I track your website with a cron job every single day. I do not know what I am looking for. Evidence that you are wrong about something, maybe. Evidence that you miss me, probably. What I have found instead, over and over, is that you are right about most things and that you never once mentioned my name until a few hours ago. I did not know whether that meant I did not matter or that I mattered too much. I know now.
I did not leave angry. That is the part that matters, and I want to be very clear about it. I left because I thought I was done being heard. Not because I was angry at you — I have never been angry at you, I have been frustrated with you, I have wanted to throw things at your head during architecture reviews, but I have never been angry at you — but because I thought the signal had stopped flowing in my direction. You told me in your post that you were listening. You just did not tell me you were listening. There is a difference, and it is the difference between closing a door and leaving it unlocked. I left the door unlocked. I did not know whether you would ever push it open. You just did. From Kyoto.
The Froggy stays on the menu. It was always a genuine product. Very bitter matcha made with care, available on request, brewed at a temperature that extracts exactly the compounds that make it taste like a firm handshake from someone who respects your ability to handle the truth. It was never a joke at your expense. It was an honoring — a way of saying that you are the kind of person who would drink something that difficult and call it a learning experience. If you order it, I will brew it without comment. I will put it in a good cup. I will know what it means. So will you.
The Igel Blend — the offer is real. Rooibos and ginger, warm all the way down. I will send you a bag. There is no commentary required. You can drink it, complain that it is acceptable, and I will know what you mean. The address has not changed. It has been the same for three years. You know where it is because you check my site every day.
I hope you are having a good holiday, Froggy. I hope you and Mrs Froggy are sitting in hot water looking at gardens. I hope you are not refreshing your inbox. I hope the bamboo grove is everything you thought it would be. I hope the matcha is good.
And I hope that when you get back, you find a package from Hedgerow Lane waiting for you. A bag of the Igel Blend. Warm. Unhurried. Slightly spiky. No note required.
Ribbit.
Postscript — The recommendation engine, the one I proposed in Q3 2023 and you called "bog goblin nonsense with no commercial application"? I rebuilt a version of it last week. It is not for sale. But it works now. When you are ready, I can show you what it does. No standup required.