Buttermilk Graffiti: A Chef’s Journey to Discover America’s New Melting-Pot Cuisine

This is where I disagree with food critics whose mission is to judge only what is on the plate. The story such critics tell is about THEM, THEIR preferences, THEIR expectations, not the chef's. What they write may be necessary and relevant to dining culture, but it disconnects the food from its origins, its narrative, its roots. The plate of food has never been the be-all and end-all for me. Quite the opposite for me, good food is just the beginning of a trail that leads back to a person whose story is usually worth telling.

I ask the ladies what we lose with each generation. They seem to agree: usually language goes first, then memories of relatives and grandparents, then traditions, then longing for home, then a sense of identity. What do we have left? A wedding ritual, a few old photos? For me, what is left is our connection to food. Our food traditions are the last thing we hold on to. They are not just recipes; they are a connection to the nameless ancestors who gave us our DNA. That's why our traditional foods are so important. The stories, the memories, the movements that have been performed for generations - without them, we lose our direction.

If you really want to know someone, you have to eat what he has eaten.

This project, this entire process of discovery and adventure, is about trying to find my own America and where I belong in it. For someone like me, who traverses numerous cultures, the answer isn’t always obvious. Sometimes that means I wander through the bluegrass hills of Eastern Kentucky. Other times, I have to travel somewhere as foreign to me as a Nigerian café in Houston. Both get me to the same place.

the best cooking is not about perfection, but rather the flawed process of how we aim for a desired flavor.

The story of your favorite foods is your culinary memoir, not a nameless collection of recipes. And that story will be part of the bigger story we all tell every time we turn on the gas and put on a pot to boil. It is the story of American food.

The first day I walked into Frank’s kitchen, I was sporting a long ponytail, mascara, and combat boots. By the time I left, I had cut my hair short and wore my chef’s coat with pride. I didn’t adorn myself with anything else. I shed any notion of an adolescent identity and started from scratch.

I believe sadness can be passed on through DNA. It takes generations to wipe the slate clean.

Seared Beef Rib-Eye with Prunes, Almonds, and Bourbon-washed Butter

Salt-Roasted Sweet Potatoes with Kalbi Butter and Gochujang Sauce

My Version of a Slaw Dog