What It’s Like Being an American Starting a Business in Finland

Flavor, identity, and building something steady in an unpredictable world.

Technology is moving so quickly right now that it’s hard for me to imagine what the end of this year will look like, let alone five or ten years from now. Entire industries are shifting. Communication changes by the month. The way people buy, sell, and connect evolves constantly. In the middle of all that acceleration, starting a small food company might seem almost out of step with the times.

But in some ways, that’s exactly the point.

When I think about what I’m building with these seasoning blends, I don’t just see products. I see preservation. I see a small, practical archive of regional American flavor — the kind that lives in ratios, techniques, and quiet decisions made in a kitchen. The differences between Finnish food and American food aren’t always loud. Often they’re subtle. They show up in how meat is seasoned, when spice is added, how long something is allowed to simmer.

And subtle things are often the first to disappear when the world speeds up.

Moving to Finland added another layer to that awareness. Being American here is a bit of a double-edged sword. There’s curiosity. People want to know where I’m from, what I think, how I ended up here. When I first moved to Ikaalinen in 2018, word traveled fast. While shopping for wedding rings, the shop owner shook my hand and said, “You must be the American who just moved here.” In a town that size, that’s how it works.

There’s fascination. But there’s also hesitation.

America is loud on the global stage. The headlines aren’t always flattering. The politics aren’t always easy to explain. Sometimes I can feel that undercurrent when I meet someone for the first time. It isn’t hostility. It’s more like caution. A quiet evaluation.

Over time, I realized something simple. I can’t control how America appears in the news. But I can control what I put on the table.

Food travels differently than politics. It lowers defenses. It invites conversation instead of debate. When someone tastes a proper chili or a balanced Cajun seasoning for the first time, the reaction isn’t ideological. It’s human. It’s curiosity. It’s surprise. It’s the recognition that a place far away has depth and nuance that doesn’t fit neatly into headlines.

In that sense, what I’m doing with these blends feels almost like soft diplomacy — not in a grand or dramatic way, but in a quiet and practical one. I’m offering another version of America. Regional food shaped by geography and history. Something slow. Something deliberate. Something built around tradition instead of spectacle.

It isn’t flag-waving. It’s flavor-sharing.

Starting a business in Finland as an American has meant learning new systems, new regulations, new rhythms. It has meant blending cultures as much as spices. I respect the country I now call home, and I honor the one I came from. There’s something grounding about building a bridge between those two places, especially in a time when so much feels temporary and unstable.

The world may look very different in five or ten years. Technology will evolve. Markets will shift. Trends will come and go. But a well-seasoned pot of chili, a properly spiced pork patty, a balanced blend that tastes like a specific place — those things anchor people. They remind us where we’ve been.

That’s what I’m building.

— William S.