About Me

My name’s Harper Ava. I’m 42 and I live in a cozy craftsman-style home just outside of Asheville, North Carolina, where the air smells like woodsmoke in fall and the farmers’ markets bloom with heirloom everything by spring. I’ve spent my life in kitchens, professional, makeshift, and sometimes outdoors with nothing more than fire and cast iron, driven by one simple, stubborn belief: food should make you feel something.

My roots are pretty humble. I grew up in a small Midwestern town, the kind where potlucks were gospel and casseroles had their own language. My mom was a magician with pantry scraps, and my dad insisted on Sunday pancakes, rain or shine. I didn’t go to culinary school right away. Instead, I learned on the job, scrubbing pots at a diner at sixteen, slicing prep at a bistro in my twenties, and eventually staging my way across a few kitchens that taught me as much about patience as they did about food.

I’m not your classic fine-dining chef. I’ve worked the line, sure, but my heart’s always been in food that feels lived-in. I’m fascinated by fermentation, obsessed with the right sear, and deeply in love with regional American cuisine, the kind that tells you where it’s from with every bite. Think dry-aged duck with sorghum glaze, or sourdough biscuits soaked in wild mushroom gravy. I like dishes that whisper history and aren’t afraid to evolve.

Cooking, to me, is storytelling. That’s why I started hosting underground supper clubs about ten years ago. Seasonal menus, community tables, lots of wine and even more conversation. No dress codes, just good food and curious people. It’s where I’ve met some of the most interesting palates I’ve ever cooked for, and it’s where I’ve had the freedom to play, fail, and surprise myself.

My kitchen philosophy is simple. Respect the ingredient, trust your instincts, and always taste as you go. I keep a well-worn notebook full of flavor pairings I want to try, and sometimes they flop hard. Note to self, not everything loves licorice root. But when something clicks, that’s pure magic.

These days, when I’m not testing recipes or hiking the Blue Ridge for wild herbs, I’m writing. I’ve started putting together a cookbook, not just recipes, but the stories behind them. Because food without a story is like a song without a melody. It might fill you up, but it won’t stay with you.

So if you’re the kind of person who reads cookbooks like novels, who wants to know why duck fat behaves differently than butter, or who just loves a damn good bite, I think we’ll get along just fine.