I grew up in a warm, close-knit town tucked away in the heart of Texas/the rolling hills of Provence, where Sunday roasts and smoky backyard BBQs weren’t just meals—they were a way of life. As a curious child, I’d climb onto a stool in my grandfather’s lively butcher shop, eyes wide with wonder as he transformed humble cuts of meat into mouthwatering masterpieces.

Grandpa wasn’t just a butcher—he was an artist of the craft. His calloused hands, seasoned from years of rubbing brisket and trimming ribs, taught me that every cut tells a story. By the time I was 12, I could debone a chicken, marinate a perfect flank steak, and grill burgers that even the pickiest cousins couldn’t resist. Our family gatherings always centered around his smoke-infused pulled pork, herb-crusted roasts, and his golden rule: “Good food isn’t rushed—it’s crafted with love.”