Starting at the beginning always seems like the best place to start.

I’m a small-town girl raised on the wide-open prairies of Canada, where food, family, and community weren’t just parts of life, they were the heartbeat of it. I grew up surrounded by agriculture and anchored in togetherness. Through that, I came to understand the quiet power of food, how it nourishes more than our bodies and how it draws people close.

Some of my fondest memories are wrapped in those farm dinners from childhood. Family and friends would gather, and the sound of laughter and storytelling would cascade through the house. We were always adding another leaf to the table, always finding another seat. Often the piano bench, crammed with kids, elbows tucked and knees bumped, just to make room for one more.

Our parents taught us to gather and celebrate. To make space.

Farm life meant you pitched in early. One of my first memories? Butchering day. It sounds harsh, but it was part of our rhythm. Each year, we’d prepare our chickens, cleaning and freezing them to get through the long, cold winters. I remember hours spent in the garden too, weeding, shelling peas on the back verandah, and crunching carrots straight from the dirt, washed down with a gulp from the garden hose. And every summer, there was the Saskatoon berry picking, shoulder to shoulder with cousins and aunties, sun on our backs, fingers stained purple. These weren’t just chores; they were lessons. In gratitude. In respect for where food comes from. In how to honour what we grow and how we share it.

As I look back, I’m deeply grateful for the people who taught me the gentle art of hospitality.

My maternal grandmother was a brilliant baker. Every holiday was a spread of her cakes, cookies, and puddings, each one made with tenderness and ease. I miss her warm cuddles, our late-night chats, and her custard pudding that somehow tasted like home itself.

My Nana, my paternal grandmother, made the best gravy I’ve ever had, the same recipe I still use today with every roast. Her lemon squares? Gone in minutes, usually before they were fully cut. And always dusted with exactly the right amount of coconut flakes, she just knew.

My mother, she’s always been bold in the kitchen. The table was always set. We always ate together. From her famous loaves of bread to her lovingly prepared meals made from farm-raised lamb, goat, rabbit, and beef, she fed us with intention and love, always creating food that told a story.

I think it’s the culmination of all these experiences, the memories, the traditions, the meals made and shared, that has led me to find peace in the simple act of gathering. When bellies are full and hearts are connected across a table, that’s when I feel most at home.