Quite the opposite, in fact.

Dish + Tell is getting a major glow up, and I’ve been hard at work in the studio. (Some dreams do come true 😍) Allow me to explain.

I was on a walk with Elizabeth – my friend, mentor, investor, collaborator, and the kind of person who asks questions that reorganize your whole week – when she asked me what I would need to elevate Dish + Tell. Without hesitation I told her a producer, someone to workshop concepts with, to support and sharpen the final edit, to introduce real visual storytelling, and to help me deliver something that is truly unique and meaningful. I shared it out loud, the way you describe a daydream, as a far-off someday, way down the road.

And then Elizabeth woke me from my reverie with the most surprising and generous response: “Covering the cost of a producer for you would be an easy yes, so dig into it.”

And dig into it I did. My search for a collaborator eventually led me to Erika Share. Erika is a talented cinematographer, editor, and producer, a co-owner of Wild Vision Films and a Senior Producer at Montana PBS. I knew of Erika from her most recent film, Jonnie, a documentary that chronicles the incredible mental and physical resilience of Jonnie Jonckowski, a Montana legend perhaps best known for her success as a professional bull rider. While her resume is undoubtedly impressive, it’s who she is as a person that really pulled me in.

We walked while our rez rescue dogs chased each other through the tall grass, and I shared my vision for Dish + Tell – along with the challenges of building it solo. She listened thoughtfully, then clued me into the power and possibility of Montana PBS. And, much like Elizabeth, she asked a question that cracked the ceiling open a little higher: had I ever thought about a television program?

Which brings me to now.

I’m currently working with Erika, through Montana PBS Production Services, to build the visual identity for Dish + Tell and evolve it into a video podcast. You’ll of course still be able to throw on your headphones and listen during a dog walk or hit play while driving in the car, but conversations built around food are ripe (pun fully intended) for visual storytelling. Plus, there’s so much trial and error that happens in the kitchen while I prep for my podcast guests, and I want to bring that forward to help others learn from my wins and – let’s be honest, more usefully – my mistakes.

So when will the next podcast episode be released? Great question. I’m working hard to answer it and when I do, you’ll find it where you always have: Apple Podcasts, Spotify and YouTube. My hope is that someday, you’ll also be able to add PBS to that list. 😉

I’m incredibly proud of what I built as a solo creator, and grateful for everything getting Dish + Tell off the ground taught me. But as my dear friend Caro often reminds me: we’re not meant to do it alone. That quiet solo stretch did its job – it got me still enough to hear what I actually wanted. And what I want is this: more connection, more stories, more people gathered around the table.

I’ve recently sat down with some incredible guests, have been challenged with unique dish requests, and I cannot wait to share more with you! Thank you for being here for every bite. Stay tuned for what’s next ✨

Buon appetito,
Kayla xx

P.S. Something worth chewing on…

Last year Congress pulled federal funding for public media, and the organization that had backed local PBS and NPR stations for nearly 60 years has since shut down. Now, stations like Montana PBS lean harder than ever on people like you and me. I believe that the table should be open to everyone, no cover charge – and public media runs on that same simple idea. If these stories and universal access matter to you, consider supporting Montana PBS directly and tell your reps public media is worth funding.

And on some of the more special hikes, the joy of marching through huckleberry patches during the tiny window they’re in season – roughly only June through August.

When I first moved to Montana, I found huckleberries adorning nearly every menu – and couldn’t for the life of me figure out why this funny-sounding little berry was so special. Was it even real?! Was it just a cheeky blueberry with identity issues?

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Turns out, they’re very real, and have long dotted the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Northwest. They are often confused with the blueberry given the close resemblance and similar taste, but the flavor is more intense and tart. IMO, hucks are a delightful hybrid between a wild blueberry and a blackberry – a bit more acidic than either, with a subtle earthy note. They have a thicker skin (something I’m working on) and more noticeable seeds that give a signature crunch. And the best part? Huckleberries aren’t commercially cultivated, so you gotta work for those suckers.

Admittedly, when I stumble upon a patch my first reaction is nervousness because huckleberries are one of a grizzly bear’s favorite foods. In fact, when hucks peak in mid-to-late summer, they can comprise up to ⅓ of their diet, with bears traveling great distances to find them and bulk up for winter. But once I’ve decided the coast is clear, all bets are off and I’m scouring my pack for an empty bag or vessel to collect the haul (You’d think by now I’d learn to hike with an empty bag for exactly this purpose…).

Where to spot hucks? These wild little berries grow in mid-to-high elevations (3,000 - 10,000 feet), among conifers (think: lodgepole pine, spruce, and subalpine fir), where they’re partly shaded and still catch patches of sun. Like many bushes and shrubs, hucks thrive in old burns and along abandoned logging roads, where the soil tends to be more acidic.

That last part – that hucks flourish in old burns – is what led me to a realization that I love.

Living in the mountains, I have a complicated relationship with fire. I’ve seen devastation first-hand and felt the dread of a red-flag summer. Fire can take so much, so fast – I’d never romanticize that. And yet hucks understand what we so often resist: that heat is also the elixir of change. What looks like destruction on the surface is, underneath, doing quieter work clearing out what’s no longer needed, returning nutrients to the soil, making room for new life. Of all the elements, fire is the only one that can truly transform.

The Indigenous peoples of the Rockies and the Pacific Northwest understood this long before the rest of us. For thousands of years, tribes like the Yakama set intentional burns to keep huckleberry fields thriving, tending the land through the very thing that looks like ruin. Hucks were food, medicine, and trade; eaten fresh, dried for winter, folded into pemmican, harvested with rakes they invented for the task. The berry I’d written off as a blueberry wannabe has been feeding people, and bringing them together at harvest, for longer than this country has had a name.

Maybe that’s why I’m now amongst the mighty huckleberry’s fan club. So many of the sweetest things tend to grow out of scorched places – the seasons we’d rather skip, the losses that hollow us out. We spend so much energy dreading the fire, the heat of transformation, but the huckleberry just waits for it, and comes back better.

So when an upcoming guest on the Dish + Tell pod requested Huckleberry Chipotle BBQ Sauce I immediately panicked - how the hell was I going to source enough hucks in time?! But then they showed up like hucks always do: by surprise and with a little help from a friend. (Thank you, Tom, patron saint of huck hoarders, who came to the rescue with a frozen bag he’d gathered last summer.)

This guest, as you will soon learn, is not one to follow the mold and he came to the table with not one, but TWO dish requests. (Future guests, don’t get any ideas!) So consider this a little preview, and a proper tip of the cap to the berry of all berries. Fire, transformation, a sauce with a bit of heat – let this Huckleberry Chipotle BBQ Sauce be your invitation to consider what needs to be cleared, to make space for what’s meant to grow.

Buon appetito!

Kayla xx

RECIPE: Huckleberry Chipotle BBQ Sauce

NOTE: One of my favorite chefs and food mentors, Bobby Flay, developed a brilliant BBQ sauce for his restaurant, Mesa Grill. It’s a knockout on its own and a fantastic foundation for other add-ons (mango, blackberries and in this case - huckleberries!). So, I started there. I love this because it doesn’t contain cumin or coriander - ingredients commonly found in BBQ sauces (and that I love), but that at times can feel a bit overpowering.

I bathed a plate of beef ribs and tri-tip in the sauce and am happy to share my cooking tips if you ask in the comments 😘 And if you make some of your own, I’d love to know how you enjoy it, too!

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Eric is a fifth-generation Montana rancher who, alongside his wife Juliana, is raising sustainable beef with care and compassion through their family business, Shields Valley Ranchers. Which is why it really didn’t come as any surprise when his requested dish was a classic pot roast.

As you’ll hear, it’s not actually the pot roast itself – it’s more about the leftovers and the memories of what his mom whipped up to sustain the family through busy moments on the ranch.

Pulling a page from Eric’s playbook, I looked to the land for inspiration, and created a Montana Pot Roast, laced with root vegetables: carrots, parsnips and rutabaga. Speaking of rutabaga, I had never cooked it before, but since it is a Farmers’ Market staple, I figured it was high time I gave it a shot. Turns out, it’s the love child of cabbage and turnip, with an earthy, mildly bitter flavor. And the texture? It’s a stellar stand-in for traditional potatoes.

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But back to Eric – because as much as I loved playing with rutabaga, it was our conversation that really lingered. Somewhere between the first bite and the last pour, we wandered into what it means to belong to a place, not just work it. He told me about the “ghosts in the ground” – the generations he feels right beside him every time he heads out to the fields. About the regenerative turn that nearly cost him the whole ranch. And about a question he asked himself at 22 that changed the entire trajectory of his life – one I’m a little embarrassed to admit I didn’t think to ask myself until I was closing in on 40.

So pull up a chair and join us – and be sure to visit Eric’s “front porch” at the Gallatin Valley Farmers’ Market, every Saturday at the fairgrounds – let him know that I sent you 😉

Buon Appetito!

Kayla xx

Pro Tip: For fun daily “field reports” from the ranch, follow the fam on Instagram @RanchersofShieldsValley.

What We Sipped:

Pinot Noir is a classic pairing for pot roast, and since Nebbiolo is often called the “Pinot Noir of Italy,” it felt only fitting to crack open a bottle of Luca Leggero’s Maura Nen Canavese Nebbiolo, 2021. Structurally, Pinot Noir and Nebbiolo are pretty different (Nebbiolo is higher in tannins and acidity), but the color and nose – rose, violet, mixed berries…a bouquet of YUM! – are quite similar. Most importantly, terroir is critical – a fancy way of saying the soil and land where the grapes are grown have a big influence – so sharing a bottle with a steward of the land like Eric only made sense! Travel to Italy simply by giving Luca a follow on Instagram.

RECIPE: Montana Pot Roast

Note: What makes this recipe Montana coded? Well, its use of root vegetables, which are hearty and grow in abundance here! Plus, the best damn beef around from Shields Valley Ranchers.

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My dad passed away thirteen years ago, and a root beer float was one of his go-to desserts – a treat as classic as him. If you’ve been here for a little while, you’ve already seen flashes of him through food, and given the timeliness of this moment (this episode lands in the pocket between his birthday and Father’s Day), I felt called to go deeper and share what I’ve learned by letting grief sit beside me, rather than something I try to deny.

Because here’s the honest-to-goodness truth: loss is the one thing we all share. Every single one of us is either carrying it right now or quietly walking toward it. And if we’re all headed to the same place, the least we can do is leave a few notes for each other along the trail. So consider this mine.

His passing was the first of several deeply painful deaths that brought me face to face with grief in its absolute fullest expression. It was the greatest heartbreak I’ve ever known – and yet, I wouldn’t go back in time and change it if I could. Because what I’ve learned with grief as my guide, is that the deepest wounds often bear the greatest gifts – if you’re willing to let that possibility exist.

So, as a card-carrying member of the “I’ve lost someone” club, I have done my best to speak from my heart and in a way that I hope can be a balm for you.

And it really does feel like a club - the one no one wants to actually be a part of, but eventually finds their way to. It’s interesting to me, how there seems to be a short-hand between people who have experienced death, a tender knowing of what you’ve both been asked to endure. It’s like we’re implanted with these little magnets that know when a heart has been carved in a similar way.

Because 5 was his favorite number, here are five things grief – and my dad – have taught me.

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❣️1: DON’T HAND YOUR POWER TO THE CALENDAR.

Father’s Day. Mother’s Day. Birthdays. Anniversaries, and a parade of other holidays. These are all days that could, understandably, feel heavy – especially when the barrage of marketing emails start hitting your inbox, cheerfully reminding you of what you don’t have, rather than what you do.

That heaviness is human. I used to dread this exact stretch between my dad’s birthday and Father’s Day. But here’s what I’ve learned: even when you’re standing in heavy boots, you still have a choice. You can linger in sadness and hand your power to dates on a calendar, or you can choose happiness.

And to be clear, I’m not suggesting you should deny your sadness or pretend that pain doesn’t exist – it’s about actively deciding to focus on the time you did have together. In her book Marrow, Elizabeth Lesser writes: “Don’t strain against pain; learn its purpose; work with it and the energy of the universe will assist you.”

As someone who spent years straining against pain, I can attest that working with it is, ironically, the far less painful path.

❣️2: PULL UP A CHAIR FOR THEM.

I noticed that after my Dad died, people would avoid me on Father’s Day. They’d tiptoe around their own plans, their gifts, their dads. And I get it. It’s easy to stumble, to be unsure, to be self-conscious about “the vibe.” But in suppressing the share, you’re erasing the experience.

The way I celebrate Father’s Day now looks different - but it doesn’t mean that I don’t have a dad I love and memories I’m yearning to tell.

So here’s my suggestion: invite the people in your life who’ve experienced loss to share. Ask them for a favorite memory. Their person’s favorite meal. The nickname only that person was allowed to use. Whatever you do, please don’t leave them out and assume it’s too painful - that might very well be the case, but let them be the one to tell you. I’d be willing to bet that more often than not, given the opening, they’d lean in.

We get self-conscious about our grief – I know I did – convinced we’ve used up their allotted time to talk about it. The greatest gift you can provide is to let them know you’re still willing to listen.

❣️3: NO ONE SHOULD BE ON A PEDESTAL.

It’s important not to put those we’ve lost up on a pedestal. I’m not suggesting we speak ill of the dead – but what if we gave ourselves permission to simply speak honestly? Not from a revisionist’s perspective, but from a human one?

The best way to remember someone, I think, isn’t to overly romanticize your time together, but to look at it candidly. To love the whole person, not the highlight reel. Because the whole person is who you actually miss.

❣️4: RECOGNIZE THAT GRIEF IS A SHAPESHIFTER.

Grief is complex because it’s never static. A mentor of mine described it as “undulating waves of hope and despair.” I’ve come to recognize that the waves don’t ever disappear – the frequency and intensity with which they crash just changes, often without notice.

Immediately after my dad died, there were basic logistics that needed to be tackled (flying home, writing the obituary, coordinating arrangements, etc.). In a strange way, those tasks kept him close – and kept the waves out at sea, quietly gaining strength. As long as there were to-do’s on the list, there was an odd little kernel of hope that he’d eventually return.

When in reality, these tasks just kept me distracted. They helped me move forward when I felt numb, suspended in denial, my brain refusing to register that he was gone. That he had fully left the physical realm.

It was once I’d gotten past all of that – no distractions, nothing left to do but sit with my sadness – that the wave finally crashed and the despair settled in, and I was pummeled by an unrelenting storm. That’s why when I’m asked how to show up for someone who is grieving, my advice is always the same: check in when the dust settles. Two weeks, three months out from the funeral or moment of goodbye – because that’s when the casseroles stop coming and the real loneliness moves in.

❣️5: SURRENDER TO TIME.

Time is a fascinating paradox – both a healer and a stealer. In mourning, it can claim a significant amount of your present moments, and even your future. But it can also soften the hard edges of your loss. Of your “new normal.” It can help laughter flow more easily and tears less freely. Your job is to simply surf the waves – without guilt, without judgment, with nothing but love.

I saved you a seat…

Loss is unavoidable. It will touch all of us at some point. Alongside love, grief is the one thing we all share – which is maybe why they say grief is just love with no place to go. Perhaps you can’t physically hand it to your loved one anymore, but you can still let it flow their way. A hike to a summit. A story told out loud. A root beer float on a random Tuesday.

We can’t run from loss, but we can choose how we accept it. Let it be a teacher rather than an enemy.

Grief has expanded my entire color palette of emotion. Where I used to see the world in a handful of primary colors, heartbreak cracked the box wide open — and now I have this enormous spectrum available to me. I feel sadness more deeply, yes. But I also feel joy more vividly, gratitude more sharply, love more completely. I wouldn’t trade the full palette for anything.

That is the wound’s gift.

So if you’re missing someone this week, here’s my invitation: make their thing. Their float, their grilled cheese sandwich, their too-sweet pie. Set it on the table, and let them join you in spirit. I promise the seat won’t feel as empty as you fear.

To anyone who has lost someone – a parent, a pet, a sibling, a child, a friend, a partner - any beating heart that has meant something to you - you are not alone. I see you, I feel you, and I love you.

To anyone who hasn’t yet: grief will find you. And when it does, let me be the one to welcome you to the club. I saved you a seat, and I promise there will be dessert.

Buon Appetito!

Kayla xx

RECIPE: Classic Root Beer Float

Note: Growing up, frosted mugs were always at the ready in the freezer, alongside Breyer’s vanilla ice cream with its little vanilla bean flecks, and Barq’s root beer. When I was feeling particularly spicy, I’d swap the root beer for Crush orange soda for a fizzy little creamsicle.

Ingredients:

Vanilla ice cream (at least 2 scoops per glass - visit this previous post if you need help picking a brand…)

1 bottle or can of root beer

Instructions:

Step 1: If you don’t have mugs currently residing in your freezer, be sure to put them in to frost ‘em up at least 20 minutes ahead of time. Mason jars are actually my go-to!

Step 2: Scoop the ice cream into the mug, and then s-l-o-w-l-y pour the root beer on top. Not fizzing and foaming over is the sign of a real pro.

Step 3: Grab a long spoon, straw, and ENJOY!

✨ And while you sip, enjoy this little video of sunrise greeting the Bridger Mountains. I find it impossible to deny the spiritual presence of the ones I’ve lost when confronted with beauty like this.

Why do I struggle so much with such a simple, lay-up of a question? Because a little more than a year ago I was laid off from an advertising/PR agency I’d called home for fifteen years, and I haven’t yet replaced my former serious-sounding title (SVP) with something that lets people nod, make their own assumptions about who I am as a result, and move on.

But I’m realizing that when I could hand over a neatly packaged title and career, it invited its own brand of dread and didn’t feel all that great either. The question itself is broken because it’s one-dimensional and rarely gets to the heart of the person you’re meeting. I never felt like my previous job accurately represented me, nor did I feel a great deal of pride around having a societally acceptable answer – it just made it easy for me to get in formation. To wear a mask and hide the more tender parts of myself…which is probably why I’m craving connection so deeply today.

So my struggle with this question isn’t new; the change in my response has just helped illuminate my issue with it. It took getting pushed off the career path to force me to realize that a big title actually kept me playing really small.

Since bushwhacking a new path instead of treading down the perfectly maintained and manicured one – and let me tell you, bushwhacking is exactly as romantic as it sounds: tripping over deadfall, getting cliffed out and doubling back, swatting away bugs, second-guessing whether there’s even a route through the pines – I’ve been in a state of transition. Not wanting to go back to what I know just because, but instead pausing to get curious about what it is I LOVE. How does it make me feel? if something feels good, is it because it’s familiar, or is it because it’s aligned? The maintained trail lets you zone out; this one keeps me present – which, it turns out, is exactly where I want to be.

I have catered, hung wallpaper, been a part of a tech startup, worked the front desk of a chiropractic office, been a PR and marketing consultant, launched a podcast and Substack (heeey 👋🏼) - really just said yes to the things that felt good in the moment, which in turn has allowed me to get really clear on what I no longer want. And I no longer want to play small or get tangled in an environment that prioritizes profits over people, or trades passion for bottom lines. That forces me to sacrifice my peace.

Which brings me back to those weddings, and the panic I felt because honestly, how do you succinctly summarize all of THAT? At one, when asked what I did and I said “saying yes to things that light me up and having a ton of fun teaching myself how to create a podcast,” it was astounding how some people simply couldn’t get it. To me, that feels like a response you could dig into a million different ways (what does light you up? What’s the podcast about?) - but instead, I was met with confusion. “Well, but, what do you do?” “What is an average day like?” “Do you just live on a massive ranch in Montana or something?” (clearly trying to suss out if I’m just independently wealthy and could afford such a freestyle life. Spoiler: I am not.) In that moment I realized that this resistance says more about them than it does about me. I’m not special, I’m just choosing to see the systems in place a little differently, and challenge my relationship to them. Needless to say, the conversation ended rather quickly, each of us making an excuse to shuffle away.

At the other wedding, I met someone who, instead of asking about what I did, asked about travel adventures. Why I love Montana. It led us to a deeper conversation around trust, our greatest sources of joy, parent dynamics – and not once did our careers enter the chat. The number of times I’ve thought about that conversation since: many. The number of times I’ve thought about the other one: few.

So here’s my challenge – to you, but mostly to myself: skip the easy, obvious, default question. Get curious. Be brave enough to be different and ask the thing you actually want to know – and then stick around for the answer.

So. What do I do? (We both knew we’d end up here.) I’m following my heart. I’m trying my best to trust in God’s plan for me. Allowing myself to be delusional – a good thing because it is really just abandoning the illusion that it’s meant to look a certain way. I care so much less about how it looks, and so much more about how it feels – creative. Expansive. Unpredictable. Present. Cosmic.

More often than not, that desire to feel leads me back to the kitchen. In allowing myself to abandon how it looks and instead consider how big and out-of-this-world it can feel, I baked Cosmic Blondies from The New York Times, alongside a batch using my tried and true recipe courtesy of my Foodie Fairy Godmother, Dorie Greenspan (scroll down for the recipes). Blondies proved a fitting baking assignment because they are arguably the least impressive-sounding dessert there is – yet somehow, no matter how you riff on them and make your own – they make everyone smile. No one has ever asked a blondie what it does for a living. People just dive in, happier for doing so – and I’m starting to realize that the same could be true of you and me.

Buon appetito!

Kayla xx

DYK that blondies got their name from being described as a “blonde brownie”? At first, they were made with molasses, but eventually recipes shifted to using brown sugar, which gives these cookie bars their distinctive butterscotch flavor. Paid Dish + Tell subscribers have access to the two recipes below ⬇️

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And it’s a good lens to have right now because globally, nearly 92 million tons of clothing and textile waste ends up in landfills every year — that’s the equivalent of a full garbage truck discarded every. Single. Second.

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And adding insult to injury, SHEIN just bought Everlane. Yep, that’s right, the brand that built its entire identity on ethical factories and radical transparency has been absorbed by the ultrafast-fashion juggernaut that is, by many accounts, its ideological opposite. And every time something like this happens, the internet mourns loudly…then many of us, myself often included, go back to shopping.

The question I’m asking myself – and invite you to consider, too – is at what point does the grief generated by consumerism actually change anything? Or is that grief just another thing we metabolize and consume?

I’ll tell you what it does to Maddy: it motivates her to be the change she wants to see in the world. (I see you, Gandhi.)

Instead of doom-scrolling and sighing into her coffee, she built something. To combat throwaway consumerism and help embrace the repair, repurpose and reuse movement, Maddy created the Hidden Gem Market, a stage to celebrate craftsmanship, local makers, and help vintage treasures find a second (or third, or fourth) life. Her next event, in partnership with Studio Wheelhouse right here in Bozeman, is focused entirely on repair – the radical, quietly rebellious act of fixing the things you love instead of chucking them.

Think interactive stations (embroidery, button embellishment), gear repairs courtesy of Mystery Ranch, zipper rescue from the Sewing Shop, and more. The whole vibe is about celebrating the act of fixing your most used items, instead of buying new or throwing away because let’s face it – outdoor gear is expensive AF and landfills don’t need any more waste.

For me, I’m using this as an opportunity to evaluate my consumption habits. Maddy pointed out to me that in the 1960s, people bought somewhere between 12 and 25 garments a year. Today, that number has ballooned to between 50 and 70 garments.

Whether you leave with a mended zipper or just a new way of thinking about the stuff you own, the Repair Faire is making a quiet argument. Repair is slower than buying new. It asks something of you – and maybe that’s exactly what consumer culture has been trying to make us forget. See you on June 13th!

Buon Appetito!

Kayla xx

What We Sipped:

Fresh pot o’ coffee from Roly-Poly Coffee Co. We kept things classic with the “Daily Driver Blend,” a delightful round up of cocoa, stone fruit and graham in perfect proportions. Roly-Poly Coffee was the perfect pairing not just from a flavor standpoint, but for its commitment to sustainability. My favorite location (on Broadway Ave in Bozeman), is a quirky little paradise dressed floor-to-ceiling in repurposed and vintage goods, right down to the baristas. Plus, their beans are sold in aluminium cans – easier to recycle than bags, and better for keeping your beans fresh. Sustainability that also works? Yeehaw!

RECIPE: Brown Butter and Miso Donuts

Note: These beauties are baked, not fried, creating a more cake-like donut with a tender and moist crumb. This recipe yields 6 donuts, but can easily be doubled to feed a bigger (or hungrier) crowd. From start to finish, you can get these on a plate and next to your coffee in about 30 minutes!

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Rhubarb’s red and vibrant pink flecks, fading to reveal a soft green backdrop peeking through. Shimmering like jeweled prizes after a dull winter, reminding us that summer is on the horizon. And with its finite season – one of the few vegetables with a limited run – it creates a sense of urgency for me, one that borders on mania.

But why does rhubarb have me in a chokehold?

Because of the story it holds. Growing up in New Hampshire, it grew abundantly in my yard, and was a favorite of my Dad’s. He’d go outside, cut a stalk, sprinkle a little sugar on it, and bite right in – no fanfare, just simple joy. And it always felt like the most coveted invite when he’d call my sister and I over to get in on the action.

So, I was an early convert. Widely known as the “pie plant,” I’d also pick rhubarb from the yard and do just that - baking a strawberry rhubarb pie or raspberry rhubarb crumble for my Dad’s birthday in early June.

To celebrate rhubarb season (and my Dad!)I’ve got a couple of recipes for Dish + Tell subscribers this week.

Rhubarb Giardiniera: Giardiniera is a staple in many Italian kitchens; it’s a zesty, tangy little relish of pickled veggies that loves a seat at an antipasto party, spruces up sandwiches (like Italian beef or muffulettas) and generally improves anything it touches. I got to thinking: pickled rhubarb might be a worthy addition to the classic. And holy smokes, IT IS! Plus, it imparts a really beautiful, delicate pink hue that’s hard to resist!

Rhubarb Upside-Down Cake: I recently visited the Art Institute of Chicago to see the “Jazz: Rhythms in Color” exhibit by Henri Matisse. The work features a collection of shapes he hand cut from brightly colored paper to create various compositions - a process he referred to as “drawing with color.” Because I am who I am and am always thinking about food, the arrangements and bright colors reminded me of Hi-Chews (my forever candy) and the irreverent beauty of an upside down cake. An easy dessert, this cake comes together quickly and is great alongside a scoop of ice cream, a dollop of whipped cream, or your morning coffee. (Maybe all three?!)

Some stories are rooted in the soil, best held in the memories a single ingredient can invoke. Without fail, rhubarb brings me back to my Dad. Consider these two recipes a love letter to the yard, the “pie plant,” and him – the fella who showed me that the best things are often the simplest ones.

Buon appetito!

Kayla xx

History Lesson + Recipes:

Before we get to the recipes, a little rhubarb history for the curious (and the committed - thank you for being here!).

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I love people - friends, family, pets (yes, they are people, too), chefs, park rangers, my mail lady. I love places - high alpine lakes, wild rivers, hidden beaches, my friend’s “jungalow” in Venice, the Little Red Door in Paris - any spot that cracks my heart open with its beauty and leaves me in a suspended state of awe. I love things - crisp, clean sheets, a perfect cup of coffee on a slow morning, my Japanese knife, a flowy, single-track trail on a cloudy day. My love list is endless. I fall in love anew every day. Yet one kind of love, the romantic partnered kind, remains elusive. And as a single gal craving a plus-one, that particular absence has had my attention.

So when I found myself at not one but two gorgeous, heart-centered weddings in the span of just three weeks, I expected to feel it acutely. What I didn’t expect was to come out the other side realizing something in me had shifted.

Here’s the thing I’ve been shy about admitting out loud: I have historically struggled with weddings.

Not because I’m not happy for the couple (I am truly elated – and, more often than not, I’m the one officiating.) But because I’d inevitably feel an undercurrent of scarcity, achingly aware of the empty seat beside me. Brushing off tears as those of joy, rather than sadness. I’d scan the room and do the math, playing an imaginary, timeline-driven game with myself. Taking inventory of potential suitors (or lack thereof), counting years, making note of milestones that simply didn’t apply to me. It seemed that the clock kept ticking, and I stayed in place - a challenging place to exist for the extended duration of someone else’s marriage.

But at these two recent weddings? I felt something different settle into my chest. I felt full. Grateful in a way that wasn’t shadowed by what I didn’t have. I kept waiting for the familiar ache to show up, and it just…didn’t.

When I sat with what had actually changed, the answer surprised me: it was me. I have started asking myself how love (and everything, really) would come to me if I just sat back into deservingness – and stopped chasing.

That simple question shifted my perspective and heart into a kind of surrender I haven’t fully felt before. A genuine trust that what is meant for me will find me. Who is meant for me will find me.

I’m finding that letting go – really letting go, not the performative version – creates space for something I hadn’t expected: abundance. And when you’re sitting in abundance at a wedding, you notice everything – especially the food.

Weddings are extraordinary vehicles for storytelling, and nowhere is that more true than at the table.

One of my recent weddings swapped the traditional cake-cutting for the bride and groom feeding each other slices of pizza – simple, classic, inviting – just like them. The other overnighted New York bagels and schmear to the desert as a nod to the groom’s childhood, stationed alongside the bride’s beloved Salted Brown Butter Rice Krispie treats. Food at weddings isn’t just food, it’s biography. It’s the story of how two people became a family, told in bites.

I never fully appreciated that, not because it wasn’t happening, but because I was too busy cataloging my own loneliness to look up.

I’m looking up now. The hands of the clock are still circling the dial, but no longer do I feel static or like I’m behind - I trust I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

Buon appetito!

Kayla xx

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We recently sat down over a plate of salted brown butter rice krispie treats - what she has since dubbed divorce treats (tune in and you’ll understand why) – and while we could have talked about romantic love, we went somewhere even richer: the big, brave, beautiful world of adult friendship.

Because there is truly nothing quite like the friendships you build when you’re older and you know, with much greater clarity, what you have to offer and what you’re seeking in return. When there’s no backdrop of proximity, school, sports or work pushing you together…just two people who consciously decide to show up for each other. And to keep doing it.

We get into lost friends, the ones who stayed, what loyalty really looks like — and why I think experiencing awe together might be the secret sauce to a lasting bond. (Shout out to Andrew Huberman and Dacher Keltner, who’s conversation really resonated with me!)

As you listen, I’d love for you to think about your own circle of friends — who’s on the bus with you and if they’re truly deserving of that seat, and if there’s room to invite someone new for the next leg of the ride.

Buon Appetito!

Kayla xx

What We Sipped:

To complement the salty sweetness of the Rice Krispie treats, we sipped on a cava from At Roca, recommended by the lovely humans at Mischa’s in Bozeman. With notes of apple, pear and fennel and a finish of brioche, the minerality of this sparkling wine is a crispy pairing, worthy of a “krispie” treat 😉.

RECIPE: Salted Brown Butter Rice Krispie Treats

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I adore assignments and I love celebrating my people with food – obsessing over the dish, working to get it just right, treating the effort as an act of devotion. That’s why this ask sent me practically over the moon – especially because she had a wonderfully understated and perfect request: Eton Mess.

Traditionally, Eton Mess is a riot of jewel-bright strawberries, shards of crisp meringue, and pillowy cream. It is beautiful in its disorder and extravagant in its simplicity.

Though perhaps more fanciful than factual, the story goes that the Eton Mess was a happy accident; during an annual cricket match at Eton College, a rather giddy and excited dog sat on the picnic basket concealing a strawberry pavlova, squashing it. The boys didn’t care and ate it anyway, preferring it to the pavlova. And honestly, since this story has a reference to a dog coming out as the unassuming hero, I’m happy to accept it and move on. (And I suspect the birthday girl would agree.)

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As I stood back and admired the tiers of cream and crimson, the crushed meringue and glistening fruit piled high in the glass, I couldn’t help but see the Eton Mess as a symbol of us at 40…

• We are layered. Rich with story and experience, shaped by years of accumulated joys and quiet griefs, the push and pull of who we thought we’d be and who we are still becoming – all pressed together into something more complex and more interesting for it.

• We are messy. There are chapters we didn’t plan for: lost loves, faded friendships, career pivots – seasons we wouldn’t choose again. And they exist alongside moments we’d relive in a heartbeat: the meals shared, sunsets admired, simple snuggles with our beloved animals, live music that we’d dance to until our feet hurt over and over and over again. The mess and contradiction isn’t a flaw in the design. It is the design.

• No two of us look the same. Like every Eton Mess, each life at 40 has been shaped by its own list of ingredients – the specific seasons, the singular people, the losses and the loves that belong to no one else and blend to create our own unique spice.

• We are deceptively strong. And though it looks delicate — all that soft cream, crumbled meringue, and fruit threatening to spill over the edge — it holds. It is sturdier than it appears, as are we. It helps to have the strength of the vessel, other people, to lean on.

• Not every season is easy. Some seasons, the berries are perfect, sun-warmed and sweet straight from the field. Other seasons, we reach for a little sugar to help sweeten the deal - both make a good mess. Both are part of the recipe.

And the best part? Eton Mess isn’t a solo endeavor. It’s best made in a generous quantity and shared — passed around a table, eaten among people you love, someone always going back for seconds. It is sweeter for the company and better at the heart of life than it ever could be alone.

Happy birthday, dear Rachael! Cheers to the messy gorgeousness of life, and many more deliciously sweet seasons ahead!

Buon appetito!

Kayla xx

RECIPE: Springtime Eton Mess with Rhubarb Compote and Earl Grey Cream

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But there was Colette, four-years-old and utterly unbothered by any of that nonsense, beguiling us with her poolside heroics. Not yet made to feel small, pressed to dim her light, or burdened by the weight of the world, she repeatedly leaped confidently into the unknown – and somehow, watching her, I sensed the invitation to follow suit.

After working up an appetite and a thirst to match, she scrambled out of the pool asking for the sweetest, most perfect double-hitter snack: an orange. One of nature’s most well-rounded offerings – intensely hydrating, fibrous, and as it turns out, quietly healing. Peeling and parsing it out section by section, it became a snack that fueled everyone nearby – its bright, citrusy scent and her squeals of delight pulling me and my sister together over something small and real.

It was that moment by the pool that I was reminded of Amy Schmidt’s poem “Abundance,” words she wrote in memory of Mary Oliver:

It’s impossible to be lonely 
when you’re zesting an orange. 
Scrape the soft rind once 
and the whole room 
fills with fruit. 
Look around: you have 
more than enough. 
Always have. 
You just didn’t notice 
until now. 

Let’s read that last part again: “You have more than enough. Always have. You just didn’t notice until now.” I had been so focused on what my sister and I didn’t have – the closeness, the easy shorthand of people who grew up together – that I didn’t realize what had been waiting right in front of me.

A fearless toddler and her snack rituals helped me see that when I stop reaching for future certainty, I start embracing present safety. That love lives in the moments so ordinary, they could easily slip by unnoticed.

Coming home, I wanted to carry that feeling forward, to do something with my hands that felt as unhurried and present as peeling an orange with a four-year-old. So I baked.

Inspired by Colette and her devotion to oranges, I made a Citrus Olive Oil Cake. Like her orange ritual, this can be enjoyed in the morning or (and?) at night. It’s not too sweet, grounding enough for breakfast, and just celebratory enough (especially with a scoop of ice cream) for dessert. A little like presence itself: simple, and completely enough.

I talk to my sister and Colette every day now. Upon reflection, I don’t think it was the trip that changed our relationship so much as one brilliant little girl who didn’t know she was reintroducing me and my sister to each other. Is there someone in your life who’s been quietly holding a door open for you? Perhaps now is the time to bake this Citrus Olive Oil Cake and walk through.

Buon appetito!

Kayla xx

History Lesson + Recipe for Colette’s Citrus Olive Oil Cake:

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With 75 years under his belt, I suspected he may have wisdom to share - and that he did! Things like never leave a concert early (Woodstock fail, sorry Jimi), treat everyday like it’s vacation (he’s never not planning his next fishing adventure), and find gratitude for good friends because they amplify the quality of every shared experience (especially gazing at the night sky).

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Tom, much to his credit, made my job easy for this assignment because his “dish” didn’t require any cooking at all. You see, Tom loves ice cream more than anyone I know and his love for the decadent, frozen indulgence can be attributed to his father, who enlisted Tom and his siblings to churn peach ice cream at home.

But for an event as momentous as a 75th birthday, I couldn’t simply scoop some ice cream into a bowl and call it a day. (I mean, I could but that would be lame!) And that’s when it hit me - AN ICE CREAM BLIND TASTE TEST!

For context, Tom has long been obsessed with Strauss to the point of annoyance. He will only eat Straus, keeps his freezer stocked to the brim with the stuff 365 days a year, and actually flies with Straus chocolate milk because it’s not carried in grocery stores here in Montana. But recently, the discerning, educated and thoughtful palate of Nancy Silverton (one of my food heroes) tipped us off to another contender during a Chef’s Table interview, and I had been teasing him that we were going to pit Nancy’s pick against Straus.

So I did what any food-obsessed podcaster would do: gathered three top-tier ice creams, enlisted a friend to be our scooper so that it was truly “blind” to me as well, and designed a judging rubric that would make a sommelier nervous! (Scroll down for the scoop 😉)

Who won? Well, you’ll have to tune in to find out! (Spoiler Alert: Tom has thoughts. Strong ones.)

Buon Appetito!

Kayla xx

What We Sipped:

To complement our conversation, we enjoyed Rosavica Benotti’s Bruno Chinato. This small, family run operation is located in Northern Italy (Piedmont) and headed by Ermanno Cordero, a fantastically talented and kind winemaker who was a comedian in another life. This bitter, velvety wine is made with Nebbiolo grapes and fortified, sweetened and steeped with a blend of herbs, spices and botanicals to create beautiful depth. (Bitter orange! Rhubarb! Cardamom!) Considered an amaro, Chinato is typically served after a meal. It’s worth noting that this bottle is named after Ermanno’s beloved dog, Bruno. What’s not to love!?

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This episode of the Dish + Tell podcast is a real treat - both for its guests (yes, plural) and the dish. I was lucky enough to sit down with Carolyn Williams and her two dogs over lovely, lively, luscious lemon bars and homemade dog treats.

Why lemon bars? Well, you’ll have to tune into the episode and meet Gamma to find out 🍋

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In preparing for our dessert party, I got to thinking about lemons – and how no other food carries quite the same duality.

Defective cars are called “lemons.” The idiom above casts them as symbols of disappointment and adversity. And yet their bright yellow color and citrus scent are almost universally associated with happiness and uplifting moods. Nutritionally, they are recognized as an incredible source of vitamin C and support detoxification in the body. The real flex? Lemons are the unsung heroes of the kitchen, adding acidity and brightness to savory and sweet dishes alike.

The beautiful duality of the lemon – the tension between difficulty and delight – set the tone for a conversation that I wish had lasted for hours. (Don’t worry, my editing skills are improving and it’s only 38 minutes!)

Caro is an entrepreneur and a deeply reflective human who is committed to living as authentically as possible. What she’s learned along the way is something I think many of us need to hear: that following your happiness doesn’t guarantee an easy, smooth or grief-free path. But it does guarantee that the path is yours.

Her insights are thoughtful, warm, and hard-won – the kind of wisdom that lingers long after the last bite. I hope you enjoy listening as much as I enjoyed being at the table with her and the dogs.

One small but important note before you dig in: after this episode, recipes from the Dish + Tell podcast will be available exclusively to paid subscribers. For as little as the cost of one latte a month, you can keep cooking and support reader-funded content. I’d love for you to pull up a chair and stay awhile. ❤️

Buon Appetito!

Kayla xx

Keep cookin' good lookin' 🔥

Episode 3 Show Notes:

😍 For more of Caro’s wisdom, subscribe to her Substack, The Aerie.

🐛 Hungry for bug soup? Learn more about Martha Beck’s “Change Cycle.”

🐕 If you love the sight of dogs without leashes, pick-up a copy of Dog Songs by Mary Oliver.

💫 Visit Heart of the Valley, Spay Montana, and/or Stafford Animal Shelter to learn more about some of the incredible animal organizations we have in the Bozeman area - or leave a comment to let us know about others you support, too!

Recipes:

Lemon Lust Bars (human treats)

Notes: This recipe is courtesy of the brilliant Joanne Chang, owner and mastermind of Boston’s renowned Flour Bakery + Cafe. Her motto? “Make life sweeter…eat dessert first.” Who am I to argue with Joanne Chang?! The secret to these lemon bars is the lemon curd - it’s tart, bright, and simply divine - the best I’ve ever tasted! When it comes to lemon curd, my motto is “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” which is why I simply stopped trying to make my own version - Joanne’s is perfect.

This recipe calls for A LOT of egg yolks - so don’t let those whites go to waste! I put into an airtight container and cook up an egg white omelette or scrambled egg whites the following morning for breakfast.

Do Ahead: After you get to the end of Step 3, the shortbread dough can be stored in the fridge for up to 5 days or in the freezer for up to 1 month. If the dough is frozen, thaw it overnight in the fridge, and then let it sit at room temp for about 20 minutes before using. Similarly, the lemon curd can be made up to 4 days in advance and stored in an airtight container in the fridge. If using chilled curd, add 5 to 6 minutes to the baking time.

Special Equipment:

Fine-mesh sieve

parchment paper

rolling pin

Shortbread Ingredients:

1 cup (2 sticks/228 g) unsalted butter, at room temperature

6 tablespoons (75 g) granulated sugar

2 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar

1 egg yolk

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 cup (140 g) unbleached all-purpose flour (I find King Arthur’s to be the best)

1 cup (120 g) cake flour

½ teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon kosher salt

Lemon Curd Ingredients:

2 cups plus 2 tablespoons (500 g) fresh lemon juice (approx 15 lemons)

½ cup (1 stick/114 g) unsalted butter

¼ cup (60 g) heavy cream

8 eggs

4 egg yolks

2 cups (400 g) granulated sugar

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Instructions:

Step 1: Build your foundation and make the shortbread. Using a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment (or rock it old school with a wooden spoon or a handheld mixer), cream together the butter, granulated sugar and confectioners’ sugar on medium speed for about 5 minutes, or until light and fluffy. (This step will take about double the time of you’re using a spoon or handheld mixer, so consider it your “arm day.”) Stop the mixer a few times and use a rubber spatula to scrape the slides and bottom of the bowl and the paddle to release any clinging butter or sugar. Beat in the egg yolk and vanilla on medium speed for 2 to 3 minutes, or until thoroughly combined. Scrap the bowl and paddle again with a rubber spatula to make sure the egg yolk is thoroughly incorporated.

Step 2: In a medium bowl, sift together the all-purpose flour, cake flour, baking powder, and salt. On low speed, slowly add the flour mixture to the butter-sugar mixture and then mix for about 15 seconds, or until the flour mixture is totally incorporated and the dough is evenly mixed. Stop the mixer and scrape the bowl again to make sure all of the flour mixture is thoroughly incorporated.

Step 3: Scrape the dough out onto a sheet of plastic wrap, and wrap it up tightly, pressing down to form a disk 6 to 7 inches in diameter and 1 inch thick. Refrigerate the dough for about 30 minutes, or until it has firmed up but is still somewhat pliable.

Step 4: While the dough is chilling, let’s get to that lemon curd! In a medium nonreactive saucepan, combine the lemon juice, butter, and cream. Place over medium-high heat and heat to just below a boil. Meanwhile, in a medium heatproof bowl, whisk together the eggs and egg yolks until blended, then slowly whisk in the granulated sugar until combined. Remove the lemon juice mixture from the what and gradually whisk a little of it into the sugar-egg mixture. Continue whisking the hot liquid into the eggs, a little at a time, until all of it has been incorporated. Don’t send it, otherwise you’ll scramble the egg mixture and that’s just not cool.

Step 5: When all of the lemon juice mixture has been incorporated, return the contents of the bowl to the saucepan, and return the saucepan to medium heat. Cook, stirring continuously with a wooden spoon and making sure to scrape the bottom of the pan frequently to prevent the eggs from - yep, you guessed it - scrambling, for 5 to 8 minutes, or until the mixture thickens and coats the spoon. My favorite test is to draw my finger along the back of the spoon; when the trail is held for a second or two, that’s how you know it’s ready for business!

Step 6: Remove the lemon curd from the heat and strain through a fine-mesh sieve into a medium bowl or pitcher. Whisk in the salt and vanilla.

Step 7: Position a rack in the center of the oven, and heat the oven to 350* F.

Step 8: Assemble, baby! Lightly flour the dough disk and two large sheets of parchment paper. Place the dough between the sheets of parchment and roll it out into a square, about 8 by 8 inches and ¼ inch thick. Carefully peel off the top sheet of parchment. (Place the whole thing in the fridge for a few minutes if the dough sticks to the parchment.) Transfer the bottom sheet of parchment with the dough to a 8-by-8-inch baking dish with at least 3-inch-high sides. Press the dough to fit the bottom of the pan, and allow the parchment to come up the sides of the pan. The dough needs to be about the same thickness all around, but it does not have to smooth. Use your fingers, a drinking glass or anything else that feels fun to move it around as needed!

Step 9: Bake for about 25 minutes, or until the shortbread is light brown - about the same color as maple wood. Remove from the oven (leave it set at 350* F), pour the lemon curd on top and smooth the filling evenly over the shortbread with a rubber spatula.

Step 10: Bake for another 25 - 30 minutes, or until the curd has set and jiggles like firm Jell-O. Let cool to room temperature in the pan on a wire rack, then refrigerate for at least 4 hours or up to overnight to allow the curd to set. If refrigerating overnight, lightly drape plastic wrap over the top to keep any funky refrigerator smells from seeping into your lemon bars.

Step 11: Gently tug the parchment on all sides to loosen the shortbread from the pan, then slide it out onto a cutting board. Trim the edges of the shortbread (these “scraps” are excellent taste-testing opportunities) and cut into squares. The bars can be stored in an airtight container in the fridge for up to 2 days. I haven’t yet experimented with freezing these beauties, but if you have - I’d love to know if they held!

CharLu Ranch Bites (dog treats)

Special Equipment:

Food processor

Rolling pin

Cookie cutters

Ingredients:

2 cups whole wheat flour

½ old-fashioned or rolled oats (these are much easier on a dog’s stomach than processed quick or instant oats)

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 cup pumpkin puree (make sure it’s pure pumpkin, NOT pumpkin pie puree)

½ cup smooth peanut butter, and ¼ cup smooth peanut butter (divided)

2 eggs

¼ cup coconut oil

2 tablespoons bacon grease, coconut oil, chicken fat, or any other fat that will solidify at room temperature

Instructions:

Step 1: Preheat the oven to 350* F and line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silpat mat.

Step 2: Measure the dry ingredients into the food processor and pulse 5 or 6 times, just until the oats are pulverized. (they are easier for dogs to digest this way, while still providing fiber!)

Step 3: Add the pumpkin, peanut butter, 2 eggs and coconut oil, and pulse the food processor a few more times, just until the ingredients come together and the dough stiffens up a bit.

Step 4: Dump the mixture onto a floured surface and roll out using a rolling pin until it’s about ¼ inch thick.

Step 5: Use cookie cutters to cut out your shapes. (I have heart-shaped cookie cutters that I was going to use, but since these smell so good I thought it would be more wise to use ones that look like dog bones to avoid any accidental human snacking…) Gather the remnants of dough and keep rolling out, repeat as necessary.

Step 6: These treats puff up but don’t spread so you can sort of crowd them on the baking sheet. Bake for 15 - 16 minutes, turning half-way through and checking the bottom of the cookies - they should be golden brown. Transfer to a wire rack to cool.

Step 7: Time to make the glaze! Combine the remaining ¼ cup peanut butter and bacon grease (or other fat) and melt down on low heat in a pan, stirring regularly. Once melted, brush on top of the cooled treats in a thin layer using a butter knife or offset baking spatula (what you would use to frost a cake).

Step 8: Pop in the freezer for about 20 - 30 mins to get the glaze nice and set. Store tightly covered in the fridge :) Room temp is fine but only for a day or two - if you live in a warm or humid climate, the treats may spoil if you leave out any longer!

As part of a local TMI storytelling event, I shared a debaucherous tale about “getting lucky” from my, shall we say, more carefree college days.

It was terrifying…and I fucking loved it.

Taking up space on that stage. Being the center of attention. The stakes were high but the rush of adrenaline and confidence I felt in that moment was even higher. And most unexpected of all, my inner child was thrilled.

Six-year-old Kayla loved to perform. I can remember making “concert posters” that I’d tape to the front door of our house, alerting my dad to a special performance taking place in the backyard when he got home from work. And when my single audience member finally showed up, I’d hit play on my little cassette player, and proceed to lip sync any song from Paula Abdul’s album Forever Your Girl, while delivering a highly choreographed dance routine. (Sometimes, I generously let my younger sister participate in a back-up capacity.)

But somewhere along the way, that vibrant, stage-loving, free-spirited little girl took her final bow. I don’t think that experience is unique to me. Culture, media, resources, friends and even our families - knowingly or not - start to erode that aliveness over time, and often win.

It was in a comedy basement in Bozeman, Montana – of all places – that I found my way back to her.

And thank goodness I did. When I participated in this storytelling showcase, I was stuck editing the latest episode of the Dish + Tell podcast. Self-doubt, imposter syndrome and fear had all crept in and muted my confidence. A quiet, persistent voice that kept needling, “Who do you think you are?”

But standing on that stage, I felt something shift. This time, I recognized the negativity for what it was. Doubt doesn’t mean you’re off track – it means you’re waking up. You’re pushing against the edges of your comfort zone, which is exactly where the good stuff lives. Dish + Tell isn’t just a platform for connection - it’s me getting back on stage and getting reacquainted with the Main Character Energy I lost along the way.

I feel that I am returning to the version of me that’s been quietly waiting to be chosen. Remembering who I was, before the world told me who to be.

I’ve been sitting with this feeling, trying to find the language for it. Leave it to the wisdom of my tarot cards to lead the way. Recently, I have felt called to Kim Krans’ The Wild Unknown Animal Spirit deck, and repeatedly pull the Phoenix, the epitome of reincarnation, transformation and rising from the flames. I’ve been sitting with the symbolism of this message at my table, and discussing what it looks like across every corner of my life.

In career, rebirth looks like alignment. It’s not about making a living, but about building something that feels alive. In health, rebirth feels like compassion; I’m caring for my body like it’s a home, not a project. In love, rebirth is remembering I’m the constant; relationships change, people leave, but I’m always coming home to myself. And in friendship, rebirth requires pruning. I’m letting go of people who no longer feel safe and making space for the ones who meet my growth with their own.

Rebirth stirs up doubt, longing and anxiety all at once, while asking you to believe in something that you can’t yet see – and to choose yourself without a guarantee. I’m learning that on the other side of fear lives trust – trust that you’ve got the skills, the knowledge, the instincts, the support, and the “riz” to do the damn thing!

So I’ll leave you with this: what would your life look like if you chose trust over fear? Perhaps a question to ponder around the table at your next dinner party…

And you should know that I wrote this while working my way through a sleeve of Girl Scout cookies (Thin Mints, to be exact) – because if that isn’t Main Character Energy, I don’t know what is! A Girl Scout doesn’t ask permission to show up, that little boss just knocks on the door.

Buon appetito!

Kayla xx

P.S. That episode of the Dish + Tell podcast that I mentioned? It will be out in all of its lemon-y splendor next week!

It was the fall of 2022, and I was visiting Sonoma with a dear friend. On the strong recommendation of pals with trusted palates – an important distinction, as not all taste buds are created equally – we made a reservation at the now closed Animo (a loss I still haven’t fully made peace with).

Animo was an eclectic and vibrant restaurant curated by Chef Joshua Smookler and his wife Heidy He, delightfully combining Basque, Korean, and Jewish cuisine with live-fire cooking. Everything we ordered was fabulous – the kind of meal that makes you feel brilliantly lucky to be alive. But the last dish? It was something else entirely. It didn’t just taste good, it cracked something open in me. It was overwhelming in the best way, making my breath catch mid-bite.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I surrendered to a live-fire cooked Basque Cheesecake. I didn’t see it made, but I felt the evidence of the flames; its top burnished nearly black and edges holding a char that shouldn’t have worked but absolutely did.

Within this slice of imperfect perfection, I saw myself.

Upon being served, it didn’t announce itself. It arrived humble, almost unfinished – cracked, bronzed, and unapologetic. A dark edge that gave way to a center so soft, it barely remembered its shape. Each bite collapsed, melting and giving way like a secret kept too long, exposing something tangy, bitter, and sweet. It tasted of warmth and patience. Of intention folded into quiet confidence. It made me feel seen, safe and held – like something I’d been quietly carrying finally had permission to soften.

A Basque Cheesecake is a dish that doesn’t ask to impress – only to be trusted. And it was at that moment I fully understood the wisdom of this delightful dessert.

If there’s something weighing on your heart – a grief you haven’t named, a decision you’ve been circling, or a tenderness you’ve kept tucked away – consider baking a Basque Cheesecake. Let the process be slow and deliberate, and use that first bite as an invitation to trust the simple, deep knowing within.

Buon appetito!

Kayla xx

P.S. While Animo is no longer, Chef Joshua and Heidy have a New American restaurant in Sonoma called Golden Bear Station. I have not yet visited but if you have, please leave a comment - I’d love to know what you ate!

P.P.S. If you like what I’m cooking, share with a friend!

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History Lesson:

The Basque Cheesecake was born in the 1980s (like many iconic things, myself included), at La Viña, a bar in San Sebastián, Spain. Chef Santiago “Santi” Rivera wanted to elevate traditional cheesecake, and opted to forgo any kind of pastry or cookie crust and ditch the fussy and time-consuming step of baking in a water bath. He soon discovered that by baking at a very high temperature, it would create a sort of natural burnt, caramelized “crust” and maintain a surprisingly creamy, custard-like interior.

My tried and true recipe is below; take it for a spin and let me know what you think!

Recipe:

Try Not to Cry Basque Cheesecake

Notes:

This dish comes together in about 15 minutes, but does require about 60 - 75 minutes of cook time and then a few hours to cool. Cooling time really varies on environment, so it’s best to plan ahead to set you up for success!

Do Ahead: This recipe can be made 1 day ahead, simply cover and chill. However, let the cheesecake sit at room temperature for several hours to remove chill before serving.

Special Equipment:

• 10”- diameter springform pan

• Fine mesh sieve

• Parchment paper

Ingredients:

• Butter or nonstick spray, for greasing the pan

• 2 pounds (32 ounces) cream cheese, at room temperature (I’ve found four packages of Philadelphia Full Fat Cream Cheese to be the best!)

• 300 grams granulated sugar

• 6 large eggs

• 2 cups heavy cream

• 1 teaspoon kosher salt

• 1 teaspoon vanilla bean paste

• 1 teaspoon almond extract

• Zest of 1 orange

• ⅓ cup (42g) all-purpose flour

Instructions:

Step 1: Place a rack in middle of oven and preheat to 400* F. Coat the springform pan with butter or nonstick spray, then line with 2 overlapping 16x12” sheets of parchment paper (you’ll likely need to fold), making sure parchment comes at least 2” above top of pan on all sides. Because the parchment needs to be pleated and creased in some areas to fit in the pan, you won’t end up with a clean, smooth outer edge to the cake – that’s okay! I use binder clips to tame the flyaway pieces of parchment.

Note: Kitchen lore has it that you can soak parchment paper in water and then dry off with a sponge to make pliable and avoid folding, but this sorcery is not possible for me - let me know if it is for you!

Pro Tip: Place pan on a rimmed baking sheet and learn from my mistakes – DO NOT SKIP THIS STEP!

Step 2: Beat ROOM TEMPERATURE cream cheese and sugar in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment on medium-low speed, scraping down sides of the bowl, until very smooth, no lumps remain, and sugar has dissolved, about 2 minutes. Yes, I’m insistent that the cream cheese is at room temperature, to ensure the sugar dissolves properly and the cake has the right consistency! (I’ll never openly admit to having forgotten this step myself and walking in circles around my kitchen with bricks of cream cheese tucked under my arms...)

Alternatively, you can use a large bowl with a hand mixer on medium low-speed, but you may need to continue beating for a few extra minutes to dissolve sugar.

Step 3: Increase the speed to medium and add the eggs, one at a time, beating until each egg is incorporated, about 15 seconds, before adding the next. Scrape down sides of bowl, then reduce mixer speed to medium-low. Add the heavy cream, salt, vanilla bean paste, almond extract, and orange zest and beat until just combined, about 30 seconds.

Step 4: Turn off the mixer and remove the bowl from the base. Sift the all-purpose flour evenly over the cream cheese mixture using a fine-mesh sieve. Beat on low speed until incorporated, about 15 seconds. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and continue to beat until the batter is very smooth, homogenous, silky, and you’re freaking out with excitement!

Step 5: Pour batter into the prepared pan. Bake cheesecake until deeply golden brown on top and still very jiggly in the center, 60 - 75 minutes. (Start with a 60-minute timer and increase by 3 - 5 minute increments until matches the description. And fear not: the jiggle is a serious wiggle and the cake will continue to cook as it cools!)

Optional, for those who like to live on the edge: before removing from the oven, broil on high for 30 - 45 seconds to really caramelize the top. But don’t walk away – just a little baby kiss from the broiler is all you need!

Step 6: Let cool completely at room temperature and don’t let the fact that the cake will collapse drastically as it cools deflate your mood. Just before you’re ready to serve, unmold from the pan and carefully peel away parchment from sides of cheesecake. Serve at room temperature plain, alongside a fun and fruity compote, or get bougie AF and top with caviar.

But what really drew me to Nick was his leap. You see, he spent years on a conventional career path that never quite fit – until one day he stopped and asked himself where his joy actually lived. He followed his passion instead, and built something that genuinely fits him and anchors a whole community

In asking Nick to share the dish that holds the most story for him, he didn’t hesitate: Cowboy Meatballs. And trust me, you’re going to fall in love with Chuckwagon Sally just like I did.

So yes, I’m cooking meatballs again. And no, delicious as they may be, this is not a podcast dedicated to meatballs. (I’d run out of cooking content reeeeaaaaal quick!)

But after two guests identified meatballs as their most-storied dish, it begged the question: what is it about meatballs that is so embedded in our memories?

Turns out meatballs are deeply embedded across cultures – Italian, Middle Eastern, Greek, and beyond – and wildly customizable. From beef, pork, and veal to lamb and chicken, any combination of ground meat works, and gets even better with generous pinches of a variety of herbs and spices. Even different grains – breadcrumbs! Bulgur! Rice! Oats! – have all, at one point, found a home tucked within the warm embrace of a meatball. And on a primal level? All that fat and protein is basically your brain’s love language – pure satiety, pleasure, and comfort in every bite.

Hmm. Maybe meatballs do deserve their own podcast after all? Contemplate as you dive into my conversation with Nick.

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If you’re lucky enough to live in Bozeman, lasso some grape juice from Mischa’s and pull up a chair - I’m so glad you’re here!

Buon Appetito!

Kayla xx

Episode 2 Show Notes:

🍷 Nick’s pick for this dish was a crushable cabernet franc from Terra Vita Vinum, a producer from the Loire Valley in France.

🔥 Follow Mischa’s on Instagram @MischasBozeman, or pop in when you find yourself on Bozeman’s Northside.

♥️ Shout out to Domaine LA, the West Hollywood wine shop that helped Nick discover his love for wine.

Juice boxes. Dunkaroos. Sliced veggies. Mini cans of shoestring potato chips. There was always a grab and go snack, because we were always on the go. And my mom did a heroic job curating a rotating lineup of treats - fun, varied, and never boring.

But one thing never changed: the unwavering presence of a dish of pistachios in the Gorski house.

We moved a fair amount, and no matter the address, that trusty bowl of pistachios showed up like a loyal family member. Living room to living room, coffee table to side table, a quiet, comforting presence 365 days a year.

In the rare moments when we weren’t sprinting out the door for basketball practice, dance rehearsal, a field trip to Claire’s (#IYKYK), or just general neighborhood mischief, that bowl of pistachios was an invitation to sit down. To crack open a slower pace and catch your breath.

You see, these pistachios were not to be rushed. My dad was adamant we only have pistachios in shells – absolutely never, under any circumstances should the bowl be filled with naked nutmeat (the horror!) Once, a sweet and thoughtful friend – who took notice of our family’s funny little snack custom – brought a bag of shelled pistachios as a gift and my dad politely declined the gesture, letting her know it was important to “have to work for it.”

At the time, I was mortified. And frankly, I felt he was being rude. But distance has a way of softening things - and clarifying them, too. What I see now is intention. A belief that food, even snacks, deserves our attention. That the small act of cracking a shell, of slowing your hands just enough, makes room for something else: conversation, presence, connection.

For me, the humble, unassuming pistachio has come to represent the power of food and storytelling. It’s why I opted to get a tiny pistachio tattoo, and later, name my green-eyed cat after the beloved nut. It’s why my shoulders relax and I feel a little bit more at home when there’s a bowl of them nearby.

Turns out, my love language might just be salted and shelled.

Buon Appetito!

Kayla xx

History Lesson + Recipe:

Pistachio trees have grown in the Middle East for thousands of years, symbolizing riches and status for those who traded them or owned groves. Legend has it that pistachios were prized by royalty like the Queen of Sheba (no wonder I love them), and they are named in the Old Testament. Spread by conquests, the mighty nut reached Greece, throughout the Roman empire, Spain, and beyond. But it wasn’t until the 1900s when large-scale production began in America. California’s Central Valley – with its fertile soil, hot, dry climate and moderately cold winters – offered the ideal growing conditions.

While I did debate giving you a step by step guide for how to open a bag of pistachios and pour into a bowl, I figured my award-winning Golden Hour Cookie recipe may be slightly more satisfying. (You’re welcome.)

One December in Los Angeles, I was feeling nostalgic with the upcoming holidays. So, I did what I normally do in times of distress - made my way to the kitchen. I was craving something soft, chewy and comforting that reminded me of Christmas growing up in New England, but also honored my love for California. Alas, my Golden Hour Cookies were born. Using – you guessed it! – pistachios and apricots (a nod to California agriculture) and combining with the classic warmth of oats and freshly grated nutmeg (cue a crackling fire in New Hampshire).

These beauties were a finalist in a holiday cookie competition hosted by The LA Times, but honestly the real prize is knowing that some of the people I love most bake these every December as part of their own holiday traditions. But don’t limit the joy to December, these cookies will rock your socks all year-round.

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This podcast is really the heart of Dish + Tell because it’s where I get to do the thing I’m craving most right now: sit across from someone, share a meal, and have a conversation that unfolds intentionally with every bite. In a small way, I hope that feeling extends beyond my table to the wider Dish + Tell community, through the stories shared, the food served, and the recipes you might carry into your own kitchens.

Ahead of each episode, I ask my guest a simple question: what’s the dish that holds the most story for you?

From there, I set off on a research, testing and tasting mission until I can cook something that feels worthy of the memory they’re about to tell. By the time they arrive, it’s a dinner party just for them!

For the very first episode of Dish + Tell, I sat down with my friend Allison Fasano, who requested red sauce and meatballs - a comforting nod to her grandfather’s Sunday dinners. What followed was a conversation about food as connection, embracing fear, and the importance of saying “YES!!!” to opportunities.

Sit down, maybe even pour yourself a glass of Italian red (Chianti Classico from Castello La Leccia, perhaps?!), and enjoy our conversation on YouTube, Spotify, or Apple Podcasts – I can’t wait to know what you think!

YouTube

Spotify

Apple Podcasts

Buon Appetito!

Kayla xx

Episode 1 Show Notes:

🎉 Follow Allison’s journey on Instagram @allisonfasano.

💪 Pick up a copy of Slaying New York: Stories of Powerful Women Leaving Their Mark to read Allison’s chapter.

🍷 This dish is best paired with a dry red wine – my pick was a Chianti Classico from Castello la Leccia.

🌱 Learn about Brené Brown’s FFTs and give yourself permission to try something new.

A note on salt & pepper:

(*and no, I’m not referring to the iconic 90s group, though Shoop is an excellent karaoke choice…)

At one point in my food journey, I was fortunate enough to work with Chef Bobby Flay. As a capable and confident home cook, I asked him what the biggest difference was between professional chefs and home cooks and he told me one thing: SEASONING! Professional chefs aren’t afraid of salt! With Bobby’s wisdom in mind, it’s why each time I add a new ingredient, I add a bit more salt and pepper. I think of it as the glue that binds the layers together and find that it creates greater balance than waiting until the end.

Bias and passion aside, I sincerely believe food holds the key.

Food is this incredible thing that we all need – and it is so 👏🏼 much 👏🏼 more 👏🏼 than a simple plate of fuel. It has this magical ability to hold our memories, tell our stories, nourish us, delight us, and ultimately, unite us. I mean, it’s not a coincidence that as a species, we need both food and human interaction to quite literally survive.

Which brings me to Dish + Tell.

Equal parts Substack and Podcast, I’ve created this yummy little corner for anyone who’s also seeking connection – and who believes that some of our most important and memorable conversations happen around the table. This is a place where stories linger long after the last bite.

Leaning into the universal language of food, I’ll invite people to my table to share something I’ve cooked, just for them. Two things guide this culinary connection quest:

1.) There are zero filters or unifying themes when it comes to guests. My table is open to absolutely anyone and everyone.

2.) My “table” isn’t limited to my home – it’s anywhere I happen to be serving food, pouring wine, and letting conversation unfold.

Much like the way a great dinner conversation wanders and weaves, my guests and I will explore identity, culture, memories, joy, grief, pleasure, creativity, and the stories that make us human – always with food as the thread that helps us feel a little less alone.

I can’t wait to share all that I uncover – and eat! – with you. If you’re craving human connection, organic (maybe even slightly unhinged) conversation, recipe inspiration, and a sprinkle of nerdy food history, I’d love for you to pull up a chair and subscribe! 

Buon appetito!

Kayla xx

P.S. If you join as a “Dish + Tell Insider,” I’ll send you a box of cookies ❤️