They call me Megan, and at thirty, I’ve come to realize that cooking isn’t just something I do—it’s who I am. Born and raised in the wild beauty of northern Montana, I learned early on that food in America is more than a necessity. It’s how we talk to each other when words fail. It’s how we celebrate, mourn, remember, and dream.
My story starts in a one-room kitchen where my grandmother ruled like a queen with her rolling pin. I was barely tall enough to see over the counter, but I watched her every move. She cooked with her hands, her heart, and a kind of intuition that no recipe could teach. Every meal was a story—sometimes whispered, sometimes shouted with joy. Biscuits that rose with pride, stews that simmered with secrets, pies that carried the weight of generations.
As a teenager, I fell in love with the road. I hitchhiked through the South, traded chores for meals in diners, and learned to cook by listening. Cornbread in Georgia came with lessons in humility. Fried catfish in Mississippi introduced me to resilience. Street tacos in Los Angeles showed me the fire of flavor and culture living side by side. And every time someone handed me a family recipe, they were handing me trust.
In my twenties, I came home with a suitcase full of spices, a mind buzzing with ideas, and a heart full of stories. I didn’t open a restaurant—I opened my front door. Sunday suppers turned into Tuesday taco nights, turned into Friday fire-pit feasts. It wasn’t about impressing anyone; it was about gathering people and letting the food speak for itself.
There was the time a guest cried over my smoked brisket because it reminded him of his father’s backyard in Oklahoma. Or the night we recreated a lost family recipe from just a memory and a handful of herbs. We’ve burned things. We’ve dropped pies. We’ve had to run to the neighbor’s to borrow eggs at the last second. But every mess became a memory, and every meal an adventure.
American cooking is fearless. It’s a fusion of cultures and history, a mosaic made delicious. And at the heart of it is the table—that sacred place where strangers become friends and friends become family.
So if you’re ever in Montana, follow the scent of something sizzling or sweet, and you’ll find my place. There’s a chair waiting for you, a dish with your name on it, and a story we haven’t told yet. Let’s cook it together.