As a private chef building my name in this industry, I’ve noticed a common thread behind some of the most frequently asked questions:

“So, what kind of food do you cook?”

“What’s your signature dish?”

“Did you study a certain cuisine?”

“What was food like back home in Hawai‘i?”

“What do you really think about pineapples on pizza?”

All of these questions, casual as they may seem, have made me take a long, hard look at myself—and at a deeper social issue I’ve spent most of my life avoiding.

For the past year, I have been a personal chef to dozens of clients, working with them for weeks or months on a recurring basis. I have taken pride in my commitment to being curious about each client’s health goals, food background & preferences. I’ve walked through an average ‘what I eat in a day’ for each individual. I’ve extrapolated data from their favorite cuisines, dishes, ingredients, and local restaurants. I have spent nights pondering what textures irked them, what flavors brought comfort, what new dishes might intrigue them. All this – to create a weekly menu curated for them. To cook the food they don’t even realize they are craving as the seasons shift and as their lives evolve. In the process, I’ve cooked with ingredients completely foreign to me and made meals that aren’t particularly to my taste. 

It’s been a privilege to care for others through food, my love language. But as an act of self-love, I’ve been craving the chance to cook food that feels deeply connected to me.

Now, that sounds really charming — 

until I realized that after all this practice, I couldn’t even apply my own intake process to myself.

I wish I had a neat answer, like “I was raised on traditional Hawaiian cooking” or “I grew up making Japanese home meals with my grandmother.” But that wasn’t my reality. I remember TV dinners, Chinese takeout, Costco chicken sandwiches, and occasionally, a Japanese-ish dinner: some steamed veggies, rice, maybe poke from that one local spot. At one point, food was just fuel to get me ready for my next sports event or beach day. I wasn’t interested in flavor, culture, or origin.

I was exposed to lots, sure. Frequent potlucks made me no stranger to family favorites from a dozen cultures that I didn’t stop to question as a teenager. There was no reason to wonder why there would be kimchee (spelled the Hawaii way) next to a whole honey glazed ham and LA galbi. Or why did we have six carbs from spanish rolls, potato salad, peking duck bao, sushi, chinese egg noodles, and… more steamed rice? I didn’t yet understand the complexity of local identity — the unique blend of cultures and adaptations shaped by immigration, colonization, economy, and proximity.

Now that I’m older, I recognize that there wasn’t just one culture on the table. There were many — and most were Americanized in some way, made to suit local palates or available grocery store options. Even these memories don’t always feel like my story. Sometimes they feel phony. Or borrowed. And if I’m honest? I feel confused. 

And the one thing I don’t want to plate on any dish I serve is confusion.

What I do want is clarity. Respect. Accountability. 

Because if there’s one thing I’ve come to loathe in this industry, it’s the careless trend of misappropriating cuisines without research or reverence. Reducing a country’s food to two Instagrammable staples — like pho and lemongrass banh mi, ignoring Vietnam’s three culinary regions and 50+ ethnic groups. Tossing trendy "Asian" ingredients together and calling it fusion. And don’t get me started on what North America calls "Hawaiian poke" or "Japanese bowls" made with sesame dressing on a Whole Foods salad.

I find myself so easily offended by these things — and I have to ask why. Maybe it’s because I’ve benefited from the same privilege. Maybe because, until recently, I hadn’t taken the time to understand the roots of the food I cook — or the roots of myself.

So now, as I continue to build a portfolio of dishes I can truly stand behind, I’m holding myself accountable. I want to honor the ingredients and techniques that inspire me, while acknowledging the limitations of my upbringing. I want to represent cultures thoughtfully, especially those I didn’t grow up with. And most of all, I want to cook with intention — even when imposter syndrome creeps in and I wonder: Do I have the right to share this dish?

I’m learning to navigate the imposter syndrome that comes with honoring so many cultures I’ve touched—but not fully known. My goal is to cook with clarity and care, not confusion.

I know I’m not the only third- or fourth-generation immigrant who’s had to come to terms with their own identity, authenticity, and belonging in the world. It’s taken years to even ask the right questions — and now I’m learning that listening might be the most important part.