I’m Ana, born and raised in the colorful chaos of New Orleans, where the air is basically 50% humidity and 50% the smell of something delicious simmering on somebody’s stove. I grew up in a tiny shotgun house where the kitchen was the real living room, my grandmother used to joke that our family talked more over gumbo pots than dinner tables. I was twelve when I burned my first roux and swore the kitchen was cursed… then promptly tried again the next day, because stubbornness is a family spice in its own right.
As I got older, cooking became my favorite way to slow down the world. I never trained in a fancy culinary school; my teachers were my grandmother’s hands, my neighbors’ stories, and a whole lot of trial-and-error. Trust me, nothing humbles you like watching your cornbread come out looking like it went through an existential crisis. But every little victory, every stew that hit just right or every batch of beignets that puffed up like they were proud of themselves, kept pulling me deeper into the joy of making food people want to gather around.
These days, I cook with home cooks and beginners in mind, because that’s where my heart has always been. I love showing people that great food isn’t about perfection, it’s about curiosity, forgiving yourself when the kitchen misbehaves, and learning to trust your senses one step at a time. If a recipe feels intimidating, I’ll happily hold your hand through it, metaphorically… unless you show up at my door with coffee, in which case we can negotiate.
Cooking, to me, is storytelling. Every dish I make is a mash-up of memories, mistakes, and moments that taught me something, usually the hard way. I want people to feel the warmth of New Orleans in every bite: a little spice, a little soul, and a whole lot of heart. If you’re just starting out, don’t worry. I’ve burned, spilled, over-salted, under-seasoned, and occasionally set off the smoke alarm for dramatic effect. You’re in good company.
So pull up a chair, grab a wooden spoon, and let’s make something comforting together. After all, the kitchen is friendlier than it looks, as long as you remember to turn the stove off.