Some chefs travel the world to find their voice in the kitchen. I stayed close to home.

Carson City isn’t the culinary capital of anything, but it’s where I grew up with the smell of garlic and sage drifting from my grandmother’s stovetop. She came from Italy in the 1960s, suitcase full of recipes and no patience for shortcuts. Everything from scratch. Everything with purpose.

Fast forward a few decades, and I’m standing over a stovetop of my own, folding roasted Hatch green chiles into a butter emulsion meant for handmade pappardelle. She wouldn’t have approved—at least not at first.

But here’s the thing: I’m not trying to be traditional. I’m trying to be honest.

The ingredients I grew up with—rosemary, crushed San Marzano tomatoes, fennel, pancetta—taught me about restraint and balance. But the place I call home now—Northern Nevada and the Sierra corridor—is a land of smoke and spice. It’s pine needles and juniper, desert heat and river chill. And that flavor profile deserves a seat at the table.

I didn’t learn to cook in culinary school. I didn’t intern under a Michelin-starred chef in Florence. My education came in the form of long hours on the line, bartering wine for pine nuts, and screwing up a dozen sauces before I got it right. And along the way, I realized that food doesn’t have to fit neatly into categories.

So I stopped trying.

Now I serve orecchiette with smoked poblano cream. I cure pancetta with a rub of sage and mesquite. I shave Parmigiano over roasted squash finished with a chili-lime glaze.

Is it Italian? Sort of. Is it Southwest? Not really. It’s something in between—something I can only call mine.

I’ve learned that diners don’t care about pedigree. They care about connection. About food that surprises without confusing. About flavor that tells a story.

So that’s what I cook now. Stories. Memory mixed with fire and smoke. Dishes that start with a whisper of the Old World and finish with a desert kick.

If my grandmother were still around, I like to think she’d be proud—if not a little bewildered by the green chile gnocchi.

But she’d take a bite. And maybe—just maybe—she’d ask for seconds.