I grew up in Las Vegas, and let me tell you—access to fresh produce was limited. I remember school lunches being pizza almost every day. That was normal. It wasn’t until college that I started to realize how different food could be. I stayed in-state for school, got some scholarships, and for the first time, it felt like we weren’t literally paying to just survive. I had more food options, more choice.

​

When I think about food and where I come from, I have to talk about soul food. That story goes way back—back to the time of the enslaved, when we were given scraps and still made magic out of what little we had. We brought seeds from Africa, recipes passed down, and turned it into something that was ours. Food became part of our story of survival. Sharecropping, feeding families, serving others—it was all bound up in that.

​

I grew up in a multicultural neighborhood. I had Greek food, Ethiopian food, and our block was right next to Chinatown. I was surrounded by so many food experiences from a young age. My mom grew up in Koreatown in L.A., so I was raised to be open and curious about other cultures. I even studied abroad in China during undergrad—lived in a Tibetan neighborhood—and had the spiciest, most delicious meals of my life. That curiosity around food has always been there, beyond the Black community too.

​

That said, I’m not eating soul food every day. These days I eat like everyone else or make healthier versions of soul food because, honestly, it’s generational. A lot of folks in my family have health issues—Type 2 diabetes, glaucoma, amputations. Women in my life have passed away young, and it scares me. The food we ate was “nourishing,” but it wasn’t always nutritious. Especially in Kansas City, the food was comforting but heavy. So now, I save those rich dishes for Thanksgiving, Easter, and Christmas.

​

But here’s the thing—I’m a baker. For real, for real. During COVID, I started baking pies for my family and friends. It was a way to stay connected when we couldn’t gather. One day, my dad said, "You know your grandmother used to sell all kinds of baked goods?" And that floored me. I didn’t see much baking in my family growing up, but it suddenly felt so natural, like it was already in me.

​

Now, I collect recipes. I hold onto them like they’re precious. Black baking recipes—the ones people don’t make anymore. Women tell me, "You’re saving me so much time in the kitchen." And that means everything. Because these recipes? They’re more than food. They’re memory. They’re culture. They’re legacy.

​

I don't want them to be lost.