Where the love began...

I honestly don’t remember who taught me how to cook. I don’t remember ever not

knowing how. Growing up in a family that loves to eat and loves to cook, I guess it’s just

in my blood — like butter and sass.

I can still remember sitting at the supper table one night, not even done eating yet, and

asking Mama and Daddy, “What we eatin’ for supper tomorrow night?” I was a chunky

little girl with a big appetite and a bigger love for good food. We ate Southern — stick-

to-your-ribs, made-from-scratch, pass-your-plate kind of meals. But we also had the

simple stuff: bagel bites, frozen pizza, hamburger helper. And spaghetti… mercy, we had

so much spaghetti I still don’t care for it as an adult.

But food has always meant more than just eatin’. Cooking is my love language. It’s how I

care for people. It’s how I say, “I see you” and “I got you.” Cooking can turn your whole

mood around. In the South, we cook for every occasion — every gathering, every joy,

every loss.

I was 10 years old when my daddy passed away. And in the days that followed, people

brought food. Lord, we had food everywhere. Casseroles, cakes, cornbread, pots of stew

— enough to feed an army of hurting hearts. I remember sitting there watching

everyone eat and smile and even laugh a little through their tears, and I thought to

myself: Isn’t it something… what good Southern cookin’ can do for folks during such a

sad time?

That’s when I knew. Cooking isn’t just about feeding bellies. It’s about feeding hearts,

too.

“In the South, we don't hide love. We cook it, serve it, and pull up a chair for whoever

walks through our door.”