Smoke, Soul, and Legacy: A Return to Family Reunion at Salamander Resort
When the announcement went live, the memories came flooding back.
The official announcement dropped on March 11, 2025—Family Reunion was back for its fifth year. And, my name was on the list of chefs invited to showcase their skills at this four-day celebration of Black food, culture, and community.
It’s hard to explain what this event means to those who haven’t been. Salamander Resort, the stunning property owned and founded by Sheila Johnson, is the perfect stage for something that feels bigger than just a gathering. This isn’t just another food festival; it’s a homecoming. A reunion in every sense of the word.
This event gave me something I didn’t even realize I was missing.
Yes, I have my place in the barbecue world—a community I love and a craft I’ve dedicated years to perfecting. But Family Reunion gave me a sense of belonging that I didn’t know I was searching for. Even though it was my first time attending, it felt as if I had grown up here. Like all the chefs were long-lost cousins, returning not out of grief or obligation, but out of pure joy—a celebration of togetherness, of history, of shared purpose.
And it gave me something else, something I had never experienced before.
For the first time, I had the opportunity to share the stage with three of the men I respect most in this industry. Three men who have shaped how I move through this business, who have helped me navigate the highs and lows. Mentors, yes. But more than that—friends, brothers. Never before had all four of us been together at once, cooking side by side. It was a moment that is forever engraved in me.
To be invited back this year? That feeling is indescribable.
Family Reunion isn’t just about the food, though the food is unforgettable. It’s about the cultural touches—the music, the people, the energy that fills every space. It is Black excellence, showcased in the best possible way.
When I saw my name on the list, waves of emotion and memory came rushing back.
I thought of those long nights by the smoker, the embers glowing as we worked through the dark, sharing laughs and stories with legends like Rodney Scott and Chef Erick Williams. We talked and cooked until sunrise, the air thick with the scent of smoked oxtail for Pops and my jerk beef ribs, dishes that carried generations of history in every bite.
Some memories stand out more than others.
Like the moment Aunty Delilah sprinted toward the stage the second she heard D-Nice was DJing. I have never seen anyone—not even Usain Bolt—move that fast. Her excitement was electric, contagious. And when D-Nice took the time to speak with her and snap a few photos, she was over the moon. Immediately, she started sending the images to her daughter and friends, making sure they all knew exactly what they were missing.
But perhaps the most defining memory wasn’t about the music or even the food.
It was a quiet, introspective moment.
I was walking back to the smoker, my arms full, carrying supplies for the next event, when I glanced up and saw a scene across the field. Aunty Delilah, Rodney, and Pops were sitting together on a hill, shaded by a large tree, talking and laughing.
They had put in decades of work. They had earned that moment—to sit, to reflect, to enjoy.
And I wanted to join them.
But that’s when it hit me—it wasn’t my time yet.
They were sitting there because they had paid their dues, tended their fires, put in the years. I still had a literal and figurative handful of work to do. The smoker stood in my path, waiting, demanding my attention. I had come so far—from my childhood days of playing with fire alongside my grandfather to standing on this stage with my heroes.
But there was still work to be done.
One day, I will have my time under the shade of that tree.
One day, I’ll sit back and enjoy the moment the way they did.
But for now?
The fire still needs tending.