Cast Iron Misfits

Food was one of the only constants in my life. I learned early that those who feed are the ones who genuinely care. I don’t have many clear childhood memories, but the ones I do all revolve around food: making dumplings with GuiShu, eating Doris’ cookies, and flipping pancakes with Addison. Food connected us, and I’ve been obsessed with that connection ever since.

Before becoming a chef, I was a professional golfer. I taught kids and worked as an assistant pro in San Antonio. Then one night, mid-service, the entire kitchen staff walked out. I jumped in to help. What started as chaos turned into revelation. The focus, discipline, and creativity I put into golf all translated, but in a way that felt more alive, more communal. That night, I found where I belonged.

I never went to culinary school. Instead, I was peer-taught. Every chef, every coworker, every late-night conversation over prep, those were my classrooms. Every mistake was a lesson. My education came piece by piece, stitched together by curiosity and respect. I learned to listen, to ask questions, to let food itself do the teaching.

I have worked in small kitchens and food trucks where creativity often meant making something out of scraps. It taught me resilience and resourcefulness. Now, in my own kitchen, I have access to the tools and ingredients that let me dream bigger. Both perspectives shaped me: the crappy side makes me resourceful, and the freedom keeps me ambitious.

The biggest challenge was proving myself without a résumé, no fancy degree, no long list of fine-dining kitchens. I had to let my food speak for me. Over time, I stopped apologizing for that unconventional path and started leaning into it. It gave me confidence and a belief that passion and persistence are their own credentials.

One moment that will always stay with me was watching Thomas Keller serve one of my desserts. Another was Nancy Silverton serving a gluten-free bread I had made. Seeing chefs of that caliber, people I had admired for years, take my work seriously was both humbling and electrifying. It confirmed that I belonged in this craft. On the other end of the spectrum, I have also carried the weight of running seasonal pastry programs as a one-man show. That experience tested every ounce of stamina and creativity I had, but it taught me resilience and sharpened my ability to adapt. 

My philosophy is simple: cook with curiosity, intention, and care. Food should be playful and personal, something that sparks joy and connection. In my kitchen, collaboration matters more than ego. Respect is non-negotiable. Excellence doesn’t come from fear; it comes from joy, generosity, and a team that feels like they belong.

I’m proud of the recognition moments. Keller, Silverton, those quiet nods from people I grew up admiring. But the work that means the most to me is Cast Iron Misfits, the program I started teaching cooking classes in halfway houses and adult group homes. Using food as a mirror, a tool for reflection, a way to help people see themselves differently, that mattered more than any award.

When I moved across the country alone, I didn’t know a soul. The kitchen gave me an instant family. Service bonded us faster than anything else could. That camaraderie carried me through loneliness and reminded me that food isn’t just about feeding but also about belonging.

I love the camaraderie of restaurants, the chaos that somehow clicks into rhythm, the way food brings strangers together. However, I dislike how much of the industry still operates on burnout, ego, and fear. Too many talented cooks walk away because they don’t see a path where they can thrive without losing themselves. I want to change that. With @Loverboy_provisions, I’m trying to build spaces where joy and care matter as much as the food, where hospitality extends inward to the staff as much as outward to the guests.

At the end of the day, pastry is my way of sparking conversations. It’s joy and intimacy on a plate, sometimes playful, sometimes deeply personal. My hope is that the industry moves away from fear and exhaustion and toward connection and generosity because food should remind us not just how to eat, but how to be human.