French kissing, I mean cooking

Why Kinda French Kitchen? The name Kinda French Kitchen started, unsurprisingly, with my deep and unwavering love of French food. The butter. The cream. The sauces that take entirely too long to make and are worth every second. The very French belief that if something is going to be delicious, you might as well commit to it. I love food that is rich and velvety and meant to be savored. But I think what I love most about French food is the time it asks of you—not only to make it, but to enjoy it. I’ve been lucky enough to travel to France a few times, always with people I deeply love, and those trips shaped the way I think about food and entertaining far more than I realized at the time. My first trip to the South of France was with my Aunt Kitty, who I lovingly refer to as my enabler in the absolute best sense of the word. She has always encouraged the part of me that believes life deserves a little fanfare. For a long time, I worried my “sense of occasion” meant I was making too much of things. Kitty helped me realize it was never really about making something about me. I just genuinely love making people feel celebrated. Because why shouldn’t Tuesday dinner have candles? Why shouldn’t we use the good glasses? Why shouldn’t something ordinary become an occasion simply because we decided it was one? Together, we ate, drank and—obviously—shopped our way through the South of France. Somewhere between long lunches and bottles of wine, I started to understand the art of leisure. Meals weren’t something to rush through before getting to the next thing. The meal was the thing. You sat. You ordered another glass. You tasted every bite. You talked until the plates were cleared and then somehow kept talking. And then there was Le Plongeoir. Perched over the Mediterranean, it was the kind of place that already felt slightly unreal. And there, of all places, I was introduced to a Pornstar Martini. A cocktail that, without exaggeration, changed the trajectory of my life. If you’ve spent approximately thirty seconds on this website, you already know she stuck around. My second French adventure was Paris with my college friends—a core group of people I’ve essentially grown up alongside, considering we were basically babies when we graduated. Paris gave me another lesson in what it means to gather around a table. We celebrated constantly, sometimes for an actual reason and sometimes simply because we were together in Paris and that seemed reason enough. But that trip also deepened something that has become incredibly important to me as a chef: understanding dietary restrictions and how easily they can make someone feel like the difficult person at the table. Food should make people feel included. I never want someone sitting at one of my tables feeling apologetic because of something they cannot eat. A restriction may change the dish, but it shouldn’t change the experience. Everyone deserves the beautiful plate. Everyone deserves the sauce. Everyone deserves to feel like the meal was made with them in mind. So that explains the French. The Kinda is much simpler. I’m self-taught. I learned by cooking, traveling, eating, experimenting, screwing things up, trying again, asking questions and constantly wondering, Okay, but what if I put a little of this in there? I borrow techniques from everywhere. I fall down recipe rabbit holes. I become temporarily obsessed with an ingredient and find twelve different ways to use it. I learn something in one kitchen, taste something in another country and bring both ideas home to see what happens when they meet. Because that’s the beautiful thing about cooking: You never finish learning how to cook. There will always be another technique, another ingredient, another culture, another flavor combination and another person who can teach you something you didn’t know yesterday. So am I a classically trained French chef? Absolutely not. Am I going to lovingly braise something for several hours, finish it with an irresponsible amount of cream, set the table like we’re celebrating something, pour you a Pornstar Martini and insist we sit around talking long after dinner is technically over? Absolutely. That’s the Kinda. And finally, Kinda French Kitchen sounds a little bit like “kinda French kissing.” Which, frankly, sealed the deal