IntroductionI call them Trips to Nowhere. This time, we’re somewhere deep in the deserts of eastern Oregon. The views are endless: the tracks of the 4WDs we came here in trail off toward the mountains and a sunset that seems to last forever.
It’s easy to feel small, alone, and exposed in a spot like this, but we’ve made it our own. We’ve set up tents like planting flags in the ground, Sade is playing on the Bluetooth speaker, and we throw on our best fleece sets as the night chill sets in. A thin pillar of smoke rises from the campfire to the enormous sky, along with the aroma of what’s for dinner: a straight-up transcendent—if I do say so myself—lamb ragù (see page 175).
We’ve come this far to reconnect to our senses. Eyes soaking up the surroundings. Noses picking up the smell of cooking over fire and desert air. Spork-tender lamb melting in our mouths. Ears pricked to the soundscape of the wilderness mingled with our own laughter.
This might not look like any cookout you’ve ever been to, but we’re definitely cooking— food, yes, but also community, ritual, memories. And we’re definitely outside.
I haven’t always felt like I belonged in nature, or like the outdoors were built for me. It’s taken me awhile to get here, with some detours, dead ends, and twists and turns along the way. But over the years, I’ve developed a basic recipe for feeling at home outside: Mix food with community, unplug, and let nature do its thing, and you get a grounding, recharging, transformative experience. Consider the recipes in this book a roadmap to get you there, too.
The cookout is in my blood. I was raised on shindigs, potlucks, reunions, and gatherings. Most of these took place on the shores of Lake Norman, North Carolina, where my family spent a good chunk of our summers exploring, fishing, and speeding around in a SeaCraft boat. Food made with love, from fish fries to barbecues, was almost always part of the experience, but it wasn’t just about what we ate. Folks leaned on tailgates while trading stories. Kids chased each other between folding chairs. There was rhythm, smoke, and laughter layered in the air.
I didn’t realize it then, but that was my basic training. The combination of smells, tastes, fresh air, and family has made eating well in the great outdoors my definition of good living ever since.
With every Isley Brothers song and glass of lemonade, we were making space for connection, celebration, and just being ourselves. But that space had its limits. I was always aware that we were unwelcome and unsafe past the tree line marking “our side” of the lake. There were stark boundaries marking where we could and could not go. So, it’s probably no surprise that when I was ready to leave the nest, I found myself drawn to cities instead.
In my twenties, as I moved between DC, Harlem, and Brooklyn, the memories of those family cookouts stuck with me. But rather than the backwoods of North Carolina, the metropolis became my base camp for exploring the worlds of food and hospitality. I was teaching myself to cook in my tiny apartment around the same time my now-wife Shequeita and I started dating. (She was patient through lots of recipe fails, but I hope she also got some good meals out of it.)
Eventually, I started a catering company called Yoshi Jenkins that blended my Southern roots and the flavors of the African and Asian diasporas all around me. The bustling streets, hustling entrepreneurs, and bold restaurants inspired me to figure out my own authentic approach to making moments and memories through food. Deep down, I think I was still trying to re-create the celebratory, communal family cookouts in North Carolina—on New York rooftops and in Brooklyn bars instead of on the shores of Lake Norman.
Grinding to make the catering business work in the nonstop city didn’t leave room for much else. The only times I found some peace and quiet were on annual excursions my brother Ron and I started to call Trips to Nowhere. We’d pack up Ron’s truck, pick a spot on the map, and just drive. Up to that point, I hadn’t seen myself in images of camping and hiking: grueling multiday treks, eating freeze-dried food out of a plastic bag, roughing it. But in the rig, my brother and I could reach places I’d never even imagined in style—and crack open an ice-cold beer from the cooler when we got there.
After a while, it started to feel like a no-brainer to show off my hard-earned chef skills in these beautiful places at the end of the world. Hundreds or even thousands of miles away from the hustle and the noise, the food just hit different. Nature no longer felt like an awkward fit, or just a background for a vibey meal—it was the main character. The energy of the wilderness made conversations with my brother deeper and our bond stronger, my sense of self and what mattered most more certain. Treating loved ones to Steak Tacos (page 132) under the stars . . . This felt like me.
The pieces fell into place. Shequeita, Ron, and I founded an eco-adventure company called Camp Yoshi dedicated to bottling up the cookout and bringing it to the wild. The tools may be lighter and the food might be a little fancier, but the feeling is the same: experiences that stick to your ribs and stay with you long after the fire dies down. A shared meal beneath the open sky has a way of grounding you, connecting you to the place and to each other. Think of this cookbook as a guide, a map, a playlist to help you find your best self in the wild.
For me, nothing feels more like home than preparing and eating delicious food. Cooking out is just hosting in the great outdoors—where everything tastes better—and hosting is one way to really make a place your own. If you’re someone who approaches nature with a little bit of trepidation, who doesn’t exactly feel welcome in the wilderness, I’ve found biting into comforting food that you’ve cooked yourself brings an instant sense of calm, so you can start to tap into that serenity in the midst of the isolation.
When you learn how to roast a whole fish over the fire (see page 155) or can fry up some pancakes (see page 91) in the fresh air before the sun’s up, you’ve passed the point of surviving: You’re thriving. When you’re sending soulful wafts of Gumbo (page 166) around the campsite, you’re telling everyone there: We’re outside. And you might be surprised how many people will ask if they’re invited.
Getting out there looks different for everyone. This book is about one way: eating some of the best food you’ve had anywhere in the middle of nowhere, giving yourself a chance to reflect and recharge, and just the right amount of swagger. But you don’t need a decked-out 4×4 to flex at camp, and eating well in the outdoors doesn’t have to feel impossible. With a little planning and prep, the cookout will be so good your crew will swear it’s magic. You’ve already taken all the trouble to get there, so why not be a little extra?
When it comes down to it, the peace and clarity offered by the wilderness is simple and should be open to everyone. Whenever I go on an adventure, my goal is to feel welcome in the outdoors and to enjoy the tranquility of sitting down, having a drink, watching a sunset, and just being still. The recipes here have been my building blocks for fostering community, spreading joy, and making the outdoors my own. So, throw this book in the trunk, drop it in the mud, splatter it with pasta sauce, and cover it with coffee rings and condensation from ice-cold lemonade. You’ll be finding your way home the deeper you go into the wild—one cookout at a time.
Copyright © 2026 by Rashad Frazier. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
