My name is Riley Hammond, I’m 38 years old, and I call Asheville, North Carolina home. Nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, this place feeds my soul and my pantry in equal measure. I grew up here, in a house that always smelled like something good was about to happen—whether it was my mom’s peach cobbler cooling by the window or my grandfather smoking pork shoulders in the backyard for what he called “serious Sundays.”
I didn’t go straight into the kitchen professionally. For a while, I thought I’d be a musician. Played in a few bands, toured the Southeast, and lived off gas station sandwiches and dreams. But between gigs, I always found myself cooking. For friends, for strangers, for the joy of it. Eventually, I realized the kitchen was where I made my real music.
I trained at the Culinary Institute of America in New York, and those years were a revelation. I loved the precision, the intensity, the beautiful chaos of a line in full swing. But I never lost my love for the comfort and storytelling that comes with home cooking. I believe every dish has a story, and every cook is a storyteller. That’s something I try to honor whether I’m plating a refined Appalachian trout dish at a pop-up dinner or teaching my niece how to make biscuits from scratch.
These days, I run a small supper club called “Smoke & Solace” out of my home and consult for local restaurants who want to bring heart back into their menus. I believe in fire, in fermentation, in taking your time. I believe that mistakes make better cooks and that sometimes the best meals come from the weirdest ideas. I once served a hot honey cornbread ice cream that had half the table begging for seconds and the other half texting their therapist. I’ll take that kind of reaction any day.
Cooking, for me, is about connection. To where you’re from, to who you’re with, to who you want to become. Whether you’re a home cook finding your stride, a fellow chef chasing the next flavor high, or a food lover who just wants something honest on the plate, I’m right there with you—spatula in one hand, story in the other.
Let’s cook something real together.
