I was born in Oakland, California to two modern hippies with fantastic style. My parents’ style, in everything they do, has been passed down to me, blossoming over the years. Instead of woodwork and wardrobe styling, I chose food. I was raised around an abundance of cultures in the Bay Area, where I was lucky enough to have Ethiopian and Vietnamese food in the same week and not bat an eye. The flavors, textures, and colors that so greatly added to every meal stuck with me. I became entranced by the way food can look and make us feel. There was never a time I would miss my chance in the kitchen. Aiding my grandmother with her challah before the sun rose; making pesto with my mother, a bit high from the melodic scent of basil, parmesan, and garlic; baking cookies, taking away and adding ingredients in the name of science. When I think back on my youth, food is ever-present. Farmers markets on Sunday mornings, getting buckwheat crepes, eating watermelon in the shallow end of my best friend’s pool, and then chucking the rinds over the fence with pure and utter bliss.

Those memories sculpted the food I cook now. I cook to make people feel. To make them take a moment, and think about how that meal will stain their memory. How, in six years, when they have a warm pita dipped in smoky babaganoush, they think back to the happiness of being surrounded by friends and family, eating.