Hi there! I’m Margaret “Maggie” Rowe, a 44-year-old chef from Asheville, North Carolina, where the mountains are always just a glance away and the air smells faintly of woodsmoke and sweet corn in the summer.
I didn’t go to a fancy culinary school in Paris. In fact, I started cooking because my grandma couldn’t get around the kitchen like she used to, and someone had to learn how to make her biscuits before the recipe disappeared into the folds of time. I was seventeen, clumsy, and totally overwhelmed by the idea of making gravy without lumps. But the first time I got it right—watching her eyes light up when she took a bite—I was hooked.
I’ve spent the last few decades chasing that same spark. I cooked through my twenties with one eye on the stove and one hand bouncing a baby on my hip. In my thirties, I ran a tiny weekend supper club out of my garage (health codes be damned). Now, in my fifties, I’ve finally carved out a cozy little spot where I get to share recipes and stories with home cooks like you who find joy in the everyday miracle of turning simple ingredients into something that feeds both the belly and the soul.
My cooking style is rooted in Southern comfort, but I love twisting tradition. I’ll fry up collard greens in sesame oil and ginger if the mood strikes, or toss leftover cornbread in a skillet to make a rustic panzanella with tomatoes from my garden. If there’s one thing I believe deeply, it’s that the best food comes from curiosity, not perfection.
Don’t get me wrong—I’ve burned more pies than I care to admit. I once dropped a whole roast chicken on the floor during a dinner party. But I’ve learned to laugh, wipe it off (or toss it out), and keep going. That’s what I want to share with you: not just recipes, but real kitchen life. The smudged aprons, the improvisations, the “oops” moments that somehow lead to something even better.
I cook to remember the people I love, to honor where I come from, and to celebrate the simple joy of feeding others. If you’re someone who dances around the kitchen in socks, who cooks with instinct more than measurements, who believes that burnt edges sometimes taste the best—then you’re in the right place.
Come on in. The stove’s warm, the tea’s steeping, and there’s always room at my table.