The Culinary Influence on My Life

If you ever have the chance to tell someone how deeply they have impacted your life, take it. Say it out loud. Write it down. Let them know while they are still here to hear it.

So much of my path, my direction, and the life I’ve built was shaped by a few incredibly influential people. I was fortunate to grow up with a supportive family, and even more fortunate that some of them chose the greater good over personal differences, setting things aside so we could remain connected.

For much of my early life, my aunt wasn’t around. She lived in New Jersey while we were growing up in Florida, and there was a complicated history between her and my father that was never really spoken about. Eventually, they made the quiet and difficult decision to put their differences aside for the sake of the family. Because of that choice, I was given the gift of having her in my life — and I will always be grateful for it.

I remember visiting her one winter in New Jersey with my sister. They took us into the city, and while so many details of that trip blur together now, one thing remains vivid: my aunt in the kitchen. Always in the kitchen. Moving with purpose, ease, and care. She reminded me so much of her mother — another memory of the women in our family gathered around food, feeding people as an act of love.

Years later, after she and my uncle retired to Georgia, I visited again. I was older then, standing at that quiet crossroads where you begin asking yourself who you are and what you’re meant to do. At the time, I was working in a deli and loved cooking, but it had never truly occurred to me that it could be a career. It was my aunt who planted that seed. Not dramatically. Not forcefully. Just in conversation, the way matriarchs do — casually, but with certainty.

That conversation shifted something in me.
For the first time, I felt excited about my future.

During that same visit, she pulled out binders from her kitchen filled with recipes she had collected, written, and perfected over the years. She was an entertainer at heart. Luncheons, dinners, proper settings, homemade food — all crafted with intention and pride. She made it look effortless, but it was anything but accidental. It was devotion.

She was, without question, one of the best cooks in our family. To me, she felt a little magical.

She had clever, practical kitchen wisdom that stayed with me — like prepping egg toast and freezing it for easy breakfasts. I still do that today. She’s the reason I add bourbon to my cranberry sauce. She’s the reason I finally got my hands on my grandmother’s elusive meatball recipe. These weren’t just recipes. They were inheritances.

For over fifty years, her life revolved around feeding people and hosting with care. She would roll her eyes at Martha Stewart, convinced she had mastered the art of entertaining long before it was ever branded or televised. And honestly, she had.

She didn’t just cook.
She created experiences.
She created belonging.

I am endlessly grateful that she became part of my life, even if it happened later than it should have. Her influence changed my direction in ways I am still uncovering. She, along with my uncle, supported me in going to culinary school and beginning my career. Their generosity made my education possible. Without them, that door may have never opened.

I still remember her telling me — not asking, but telling me — that when I wrote my first cookbook, I would dedicate it to her.

She passed just a few days ago.

The first thing I did was search for this unfinished piece of writing. I had started it a year ago, almost as if some quiet part of me knew time was not guaranteed. Life got busy. I didn’t finish it. I didn’t share it. And that realization hurts more than I expected.

It pains me deeply that she never got to read these words.

But the promise still stands.

That cookbook will be dedicated to her, without question.
Her recipes will live inside it.
Her care, her creativity, her quiet influence — preserved in every page.

As The Food Stories Project continues to grow, I hope to uncover even more stories, more connections, and more pieces of the woman who believed in me before I fully believed in myself.

And maybe, in the way she always fed people with intention and love,
this will be my way of feeding her memory in return.