When I think about what first pulled me into the kitchen, it goes all the way back to my grandmother. When she wasn’t cooking for family, she cooked for her church and community. There was something very powerful about the way her food brought everyone together. Then, when I was a teenager, my mom spent time in India training staff for United Airlines, and my dad worked long hours. There wasn’t always a meal waiting for us. After a while, I got tired of ramen noodles and fried bologna sandwiches  (though they’re a guilty pleasure now), so I paid attention when I visited my grandparents. My grandmother’s food wasn’t just something you ate. It was an experience. And without even realizing it, I started building the foundation that would shape my life.

Officially, I studied Culinary Arts at Joliet Junior College under Certified Master Chef Tim Bucci. He’s one of the quiet legends who shaped so many of Chicago’s top chefs. That program gave me structure. It taught me the science, technique, and precision. But my second education came inside the walls of Vie, Paul Virant’s old flagship. Vie was all about Midwestern farm-to-table cooking, fermentation, pickling, and preserving flavors from the land—everything from scratch. 

I first stepped into a real kitchen about a decade ago. No orientation, no warm-up. During a Saturday night rush, they threw me on sauté at a high-volume restaurant. And somehow, I killed it. Didn’t miss a beat. Maybe it’s because I’d hang out at my dad’s McDonald’s on Roosevelt and Kedzie as a kid. He managed it for my uncle, who owned five on the West Side, so I grew up seeing what a dinner rush looked like. I didn’t know it then, but I was already learning the rhythm of a kitchen long before it became my career.

What keeps me inspired today is my current concept, @diaspora_chicago. The cooking style primarily consists of progressive takes on Southern, Caribbean, and West African food, which is represented by the interconnected faces in Diaspora’s logo, a nod toward those cultures interconnected by the motherland. This work is not just about me. It’s about the journey of our ancestors—people who had their language, culture, and family trees stripped from them through colonization, yet still carried seeds, roots, and memories in their hands. Ingredients became the thread that connected them to each other and to the motherland. Through these native ingredients—often the only tangible links to where we come from—we honor their resilience. Adding gastronomic value to these often-underestimated cuisines gives meaning to the long hours, because Diaspora’s journey is not only theirs—it’s ours. And in their spirit, I remain resilient, knowing that every flavor, every dish, carries both our history and our future.

A moment in the kitchen that marked me forever was when my former culinary instructor, Chef Tim Bucci, asked our class if anyone was interested in a cooking competition. I didn’t raise my hand because I already had a lot on my plate between school, work, and staging, but he pulled me aside and insisted that I sign up for it, so I did. 

So yeah, it hasn’t been all smooth. Some of the earliest challenges were just the reality of the grind. Balancing school, work, staging, and life outside the kitchen wasn’t easy. Sacrifices had to be made. Relationships strained under the weight of it all. But you either commit fully, or you don’t make it.