I’m just a kid from South Memphis, barely out of high school, but I already know what I want to be: a pitmaster. Not just someone who can grill a burger at a backyard cookout—but someone who knows smoke, fire, and time the way a musician knows rhythm.
When you spend your weekdays knee-deep in rows of golden sweet corn under the Georgia sun, you learn to appreciate the simple pleasures of life — rich soil, honest sweat, and the kind of meals that bring a big family to one long table
I’ve competed in triathlons, run ultra-marathons, and trained through snow and sweat—but nothing gets my adrenaline going quite like firing up the grill. It’s my therapy. My tradition. My link to my father, who taught me everything I know about fire, flavor, and focus.
I’ve eaten my way across the United States—from dry-rubbed brisket in Texas to Carolina pulled pork so tender it melts on the bun. I’ve had wagyu in California, smoked elk in Montana, and more backyard cookouts than I can count. But no matter how far I roam, no meat stirs my soul quite like Kansas City burnt ends.