Hi! I’m Marcus Holt, but most people just call me Holt. The four whirlwinds who call me Dad shout “Papa!” and hope I’m within earshot of the kitchen.
I’m 44, born on the salt-swept docks of Charleston, South Carolina, and now rooted just outside Seattle, in a sunny Craftsman where cedar sap mixes with curry leaves and the occasional chaos of a new culinary experiment.
I grew up an only child. Fatherhood hit like the best plot twist imaginable. Lila, Rowan, Juniper, and Pepper keep my curiosity lit. They press their faces to bowls of rising dough, ask wild questions about why bread needs to rest, and remind me daily that wonder is the secret ingredient to everything.
My mother cooked Gullah dishes but always pushed the boundaries of tradition. My father captained cargo ships and sent me flavors instead of postcards. Berbere from Djibouti, preserved lemons from Tangier, jade-green tea from Busan. By sixteen, I was sautéing shrimp and okra in a skillet that had already traveled the world in my imagination.
I studied at culinary school in New Orleans, pulled night shifts in Harlem kitchens, and saved every tip for food pilgrimages. I’ve traded knife skills for language lessons in a Kerala backwater, tapped palm wine beneath Oaxaca stars, and sang karaoke in Osaka to earn the trust of a ramen master who finally let me stir his broth at dawn. Not every experiment worked. Ask my kids about the durian crème brûlée. But every one brought me closer to something real.
Back in Seattle, I started Wayfinder Table, a twice-monthly supper club where food becomes a passport. One week, we follow the Silk Road with cumin-crusted lamb and pomegranate molasses. The next, we dive into Pacific waters with citrus-cured geoduck and Sichuan pepper oil. I always share the stories of the hands that first taught me these dishes, because I believe flavor is inseparable from memory.
I founded Flavor Trips to turn curiosity into connection. A map hangs on our kitchen wall, and every time my daughters taste something new, we pin a country and dream up an imaginary trip. Adults who join our dinners often leave with the same sense of wonder. If I can light that spark in people juggling kids, work, and curiosity, then I’ve done my job.
Next year, we’re piling into a camper and tracing the Spanish mission trail through California. I want to show the kids how ceviche evolved as it traveled north, how tortillas hold history, and how food can be both home and horizon.
So pull up a chair. Bring your stories. I’ll keep the ladle warm and the world in your bowl.