I started cooking when I was 10. Not because it was romantic or because someone told me I had a gift. Because there was a kitchen, there was food, and I liked making things happen with my hands. By 14 I was working in professional kitchens in Asunción. By the time most people are figuring out what they want to study, I already had calluses and a philosophy about salt.
I learned across South America. Not in a school — in kitchens, at markets, from grandmothers and line cooks who didn't know they were teaching me anything. Every place left something in the way I cook. Paraguay gave me roots. The rest gave me range.
Then the pandemic hit. I ended up in Seattle with my partner, an Italian-American who understands that food is love even when it's on fire. And I started asking myself: what do I actually want to cook? Not what a restaurant wants. Not what a menu committee approves. What do I want to put on a plate?
That's TeKo Karu. It's a Guaraní phrase — ask me what it means when I'm at your table. The short version: it's about care, about feeding people the way they deserve to be fed. Not with pretension. With intention.
Now I cook in people's homes. In Medina, Bellevue, across Seattle. I show up with everything, I cook everything, I clean everything. You sit down with your people and experience something that will never happen exactly the same way again. That's the whole point.