Welcome to my kitchen!

Hi there! I’m Sara Smith, a 46-year-old home cook from Asheville, North Carolina, where the mountains are as soulful as the food we share around our tables. I never trained in a culinary school, and I don’t have a TV show (yet!), but I’ve spent the better part of my life elbow-deep in dough, stirring pots with one hand and wiping flour off my kids’ faces with the other. Cooking isn’t just what I do it’s how I breathe life into my day.

I grew up in a loud, loving household where food was how we celebrated, mourned, connected, and sometimes just made it through a tough Tuesday. My grandmother Evelyn was the heart of our kitchen. She had this cast-iron skillet that seemed to have a soul of its own. From peach cobbler to skillet cornbread, that thing knew all our secrets. When she passed it down to me, I cried harder than I did at graduation. It felt like she trusted me to keep the family stories simmering.

I started taking cooking seriously in my late twenties. I had two toddlers, a tight budget, and a stubborn streak. Eating out wasn’t an option, so I taught myself to cook with what we had: pantry staples, seasonal produce, and a lot of trial and error. Pinterest fails, undercooked chicken, burned garlic—you name it, I messed it up. But I always kept going, because nothing felt more satisfying than nailing a recipe after five tries and watching my family devour it.

Now, cooking is my therapy. I work part-time at a local bookstore, and every spare minute I’m testing new recipes, swapping tips with neighbors, or scouring farmers markets for something weird and wonderful to throw into a stew. I love Southern comfort food, but I’m not afraid to throw in a splash of miso or a handful of za’atar if the spirit moves me. I believe good food doesn’t need to be fancy just honest.

What I hope to share with other home cooks is that your kitchen doesn’t need granite countertops or a knife that costs more than your rent. All you need is curiosity, patience, and the willingness to make a glorious mess. I’ve had dinners that flopped, cakes that sank, and one disastrous gumbo that my dog refused to eat but I’ve also had those magical nights where the meal hits every note and everyone lingers at the table a little longer.

So that’s me just a woman with a wooden spoon, a spice rack that’s slightly out of control, and a heart that beats a little faster when the oven dings. Welcome to my kitchen. You’re always invited.