My name is Kayla Neff, I’m 39 years old, and I live just outside Austin, Texas, where the skies stretch wide, the sun burns bright, and the kitchens never seem to quiet down. I’ve been cooking since I could barely reach the stove—back then, always under my grandmother’s watchful eye, stirring slow-simmered chili or flipping tortillas that puffed perfectly when you treated them just right. Those early days taught me that food isn’t just about feeding people—it’s about connecting with them, even without saying a word.
I don’t cook to impress—I cook to feel alive. I’ve never boxed myself into one cuisine or tradition. If it tastes good and makes you pause for a second to savor it, I’m in. My kitchen is a crossroads of flavors: Tex-Mex comfort, Mediterranean brightness, Korean glazes, a little Cajun heat. I believe spices should be felt, not just sprinkled, and that kitchen “mistakes” often lead to something delicious—maybe not what you expected, but sometimes even better than what you planned.
For a long time, I thought being a “real” cook meant chasing perfection. But at 37, I’ve learned that real cooking is messy, joyful, and wonderfully human. It’s burning the first batch of cookies because you were dancing to old Prince songs. It’s making dinner with one hand while holding a sleepy dog in the other. It’s finding beauty in the little things—the sizzle of garlic in a hot pan, the pop of citrus that wakes up a dish, the quiet satisfaction of sharing something you made with your own hands.
People often ask what my “signature dish” is. The truth is, I don’t have one. I have stories. Like the night I tried to impress a date with homemade gnocchi and ended up with dough stuck in my hair. Or the first time my dad—who once called tofu “sad cheese”—asked for seconds on my vegan lentil stew. Those moments are what keep me coming back to the kitchen.
These days, I spend a lot of time helping people—especially those my age—reconnect with their kitchens. Life gets busy, messy, and loud, but food has this incredible way of bringing you back to yourself. I want people to know it’s never too late to try new flavors, make mistakes, and create something that’s perfectly imperfect. Whether it’s your first roast chicken or your fiftieth sourdough attempt, I’m right there with you—apron on, music playing, ready to cook something real.