Our organic, regenerative extra virgin and pure avocado oils are reliable standbys for the chefs in our direct community and beyond—beloved for their efficacy and versatility in both high-heat cooking and finishing. This is why we are introducing a new series, "By Chefs, for Chefs," profiling individual chefs, their culinary journeys, and respective commitments to sustainability and/or regenerative sourcing.

Seasonality is at the heart of thoughtful cooking—and few have championed it more compellingly than chef, farmer, and author Joshua McFadden. With roots in both fine dining and hands-in-the-dirt agriculture, Joshua's approach blends technical precision with deep reverence for the land. After cooking at influential kitchens like Blue Hill, Lupa, and Franny’s—and spending formative time on a farm in coastal Maine—he went on to open beloved Portland restaurants Ava Gene’s and Cicoria, among others. His award-winning cookbook, Six Seasons: A New Way With Vegetables, has become a modern classic (as has follow up books Grains for Every Season and Six Seasons of Pasta), inspiring chefs and home cooks alike to embrace vegetables at their peak—and in unexpected ways.

Today, McFadden is restoring Berney Farm, a historic property in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, where he continues his work at the intersection of regenerative agriculture, community nourishment, and ingredient-driven cuisine. His food philosophy is grounded in an attunement to soil, season, and the intelligence of plants at every stage of their life cycle.

Read on for his generous perspective on cooking with the land, reimagining vegetable-forward cuisine, and building a future rooted in restoration.

Photographs by AJ Meeker.

Can you give us a quick recap of your career in food?

I’ve been cooking for over twenty years, and have been fortunate to spend time in some incredible kitchens—Franny’s and Momofuku in New York, Blue Hill at Stone Barns, and Lupa. I also spent time cooking in Rome, where my love for pasta and seasonal Italian cooking really deepened.

As an author, my first book, Six Seasons: A New Way with Vegetables (with Martha Holmberg), won a James Beard Award. My second, Grains for Every Season, expanded those ideas into the world of grains. My newest, Six Seasons of Pasta, continues the journey with my lifelong obsession—pasta—and how it changes with the seasons.

Through it all, my focus remains consistent: helping people see ingredients at their best and showing them how to cook in ways that are simple, exciting, and deeply delicious.

What was your upbringing like in regard to food? Did you grow up eating seasonally or with an awareness of seasonal produce? If not, what was the moment (or series of moments/path) where you discovered this approach?

I grew up around farms in Wisconsin, so agriculture was always in the background—the rhythm of planting and harvest, the sense that food was tied to land and time. But at the same time, I had a pretty typical fast-food upbringing: burgers, fries, convenience. It was a mix—part of me connected to the seasons, even if I didn’t fully recognize it, and part of me eating the way most American kids did: quick, easy, and disconnected from where food comes from.

There wasn’t one single moment that changed everything—it was more like a series of nudges over time. Working in restaurants was the real turning point. Suddenly I was surrounded by chefs and farmers obsessed with the difference between a tomato in August and one in February, or how the same ingredient could show up in completely different ways from early to late spring. That blew my mind.

It wasn’t a straight line. I just kept bumping into people, places, and dishes that showed me seasonality wasn’t some abstract idea—it was a way of cooking that made food taste alive. Over time, that perspective became my lens for everything I do in the kitchen.

You’re known for championing vegetables, especially those in their prime moment. What first drew you to seasonality as a creative and culinary lens?

What first drew me to seasonality was how alive food feels when it’s eaten in its moment. Early on, I didn’t have the vocabulary for it, but I could taste the difference between a tomato in August and one in February. The August tomato needed almost nothing—just salt, maybe a drizzle of oil—and it was magic. That was an early realization: ingredients are most inspiring when they’re in season, and as a cook, your job is to recognize that and not get in the way.

Seasonality also became a creative lens. It gives you both boundaries and freedom. You’re not starting with every ingredient in the world—you’re starting with what’s best right now. That constraint pushes you to be more inventive, while also grounding you in something bigger: the rhythm of nature, the farmers who grow the food, the landscape you’re cooking in.

For me, seasonality isn’t just about taste. It’s about respect—for the ingredient, the craft, and the eater. Once you experience that alignment, it’s hard to imagine cooking any other way.

Photographs by AJ Meeker.

In Six Seasons, you offer a more nuanced calendar than the traditional four. Why was it important to go deeper, and how has that perspective changed the way you cook, source, and think about the land?

When I started thinking about Six Seasons, I realized the traditional four-season calendar didn’t reflect how I was actually cooking—or how ingredients actually behave. Early spring and late spring, for example, are completely different. The first zucchini of summer feels exciting, but by midsummer you’re practically begging neighbors to take them off your hands. Those subtleties matter because they change how you approach an ingredient in the kitchen.

Expanding to six seasons gave cooks a more accurate and useful framework. Early spring is about the transition from storage crops to the first tender greens—completely different from high summer, when tomatoes, corn, and peppers are at their peak. That perspective made me more attentive as a cook: you’re not just cooking with an ingredient, but with an ingredient in a specific moment of its life.

It also changed how I source. I’m always looking for what’s just arriving or just fading, not lumping everything into “spring” or “fall.” It reminded me that the seasons aren’t rigid boxes—they’re fluid, overlapping, alive. And once you start paying attention at that level, you realize there’s always something new coming, and always a better way to honor what’s here right now. That’s the lens I carry into every recipe.

Your menus, and your writing, celebrate the unglamorous: stalks, stems, and bolted greens. How does honoring the full life of a plant support a more regenerative food system?

For me, it’s about respecting the whole life of the plant, not just the perfect, glossy version. Stems, stalks, bolted greens—they may not be “glamorous,” but they’re delicious if treated right. Honoring those parts expands what’s possible in the kitchen while also reducing waste.

On a wider scale, that mindset supports a more regenerative food system. When cooks and eaters value the whole plant, farmers don’t have to chase only the most photogenic peak. They can sell the whole harvest, which gives them more flexibility and stability. For cooks, it means engaging with food in a way that’s more resourceful, seasonal, and true to how things actually grow.

It also shifts culture. When guests see stalks, stems, or bolted greens on a plate and they taste great, it rewires how they think about food: “waste” becomes flavor, “ugly” becomes beautiful. That ripple moves through kitchens, farms, and communities, helping build a food system that’s not just sustainable, but truly regenerative.

Photographs by Laura Dart.

What have you learned from the land at Berney Farm? How has restoring that space expanded or evolved your thinking around sustainability and stewardship?

What I’ve learned at Berny Farm is that restoration takes time—and that’s a lesson in itself. Right now, I’m focused on the house and grounds: clearing, repairing, setting the stage for what’s ahead. It’s less about farming today and more about stewardship, building the foundation for orchards, animals, and a whole system I plan to grow over the next few years.

That process has already shifted how I think about sustainability. Even before planting, every decision—where a fence goes, how water is managed, which trees to plant first—shapes the future of the land. It’s taught me patience and pushed me to think on a much longer horizon.

With the growing interest in regenerative agriculture, how do you see chefs playing a role beyond the plate? What opportunities do you think the kitchen holds in shaping that future?

I think chefs can play a huge role in regenerative agriculture, but it goes far beyond putting food on a plate. The kitchen is a platform—we decide what products we buy, who we buy them from, and how we tell those stories. When a chef highlights a regenerative farm, a flour mill, or a cheesemaker rebuilding soil health, it doesn’t just feed people dinner—it builds awareness, creates demand, and supports the producers doing that work.

Chefs are also connectors. We sit at the intersection of farmers, distributors, diners, and media. We can translate the often-complex language of “regenerative” into something people can taste and understand. A simple dish can become an entry point into bigger conversations about soil, climate, and community.

Ultimately, regeneration is about relationships—between people and land, farmers and eaters. If cooks learn to value whole plants and waste less, and if guests leave not just with a good meal but with a sense of connection to where it came from, we’ve done something powerful. Chefs have a unique opportunity to help shape a food culture that’s not only more delicious, but more resilient.

For chefs—and home cooks—looking to source more responsibly, but without easy access to local farms, what small shifts can make a real impact? Where do you start?

The first thing is letting go of the idea that you have to do everything perfectly or all at once. Not everyone has access to a farmers market or a CSA, and that’s okay—small shifts really do add up.

Start by paying closer attention to labels and sourcing at the grocery store. Look for regional products—cheese, grains, beans, oils. Even big stores usually carry some local items, and choosing those helps build demand. Another simple step is wasting less: use the stems, peels, and scraps you’d normally toss. It stretches ingredients and honors the resources it took to grow them.

And most importantly, build relationships wherever you can. Talk to the cheesemonger, the produce manager, the butcher—ask what’s good right now and where it comes from. Those conversations open doors to better sourcing while reconnecting with the human side of food.

The goal isn’t perfection—it’s intention. A few thoughtful choices—buying beans from a regional grower, using the whole carrot, sourcing one product responsibly—can make a real difference over time.

Photographs by AJ Meeker.

What's your favorite way to use west~bourne avocado oils in your cooking?

I use avocado oil all the time because it’s so versatile and reliable. I can crank the heat to sear vegetables or meat without worrying about it burning—it holds up beautifully. At the same time, its clean, neutral flavor makes it perfect for drizzling over salads or roasted vegetables without getting in the way of other ingredients. I’ve even used it in baking as a swap for butter, and it works surprisingly well. For me, it’s one of those oils that fits seamlessly into whatever I’m cooking that day.

Your cookbooks have become kitchen essentials for so many home cooks and chefs alike. Is there one recipe within their pages that you're particularly proud of, or that you find yourself returning to season after season?

This is always a tough question—every new season brings something fresh that I get excited about. Right now I’m starting to think about Celery Root Cacio e Pepe [from Six Seasons of Pasta]: the truth is, there’s never not a good time for pasta!

Celery Root Cacio e Pepe

1 cup (4 ounces/115 g) cubed peeled celery root (1-inch/2.5cm cubes)
3/4 cup (180 ml) whole milk
1 bay leaf
Kosher salt (preferably Diamond Crystal)
1 1/2 teaspoons (4 g) whole black peppercorns
8 ounces (225 g) radiatore, torchietti, or spaghetti
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/3 cup (40 g) 50/50 cheese (half Parmigiano-Reggiano, half Pecorino Romano, grated in a food processor)
Freshly ground black pepper (optional)

1. Put the celery root, milk, and bay leaf in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Gently bring to a simmer and cook, uncovered, until the celery root is tender, 15 to 20 minutes. Stir a few times to make sure the celery root cubes cook evenly.

2. Cool slightly, then remove and discard the bay leaf. Transfer the milk and celery root to a blender, and blend until completely smooth. You should have about 2/3 cup (150 g) of celery root purée, a couple tablespoons more or less is fine.

3. Fill a large pot (at least 6 quarts/L) with 1 gallon (4 L) of water; add 4 tablespoons (40 g) kosher salt, cover the pot, and bring the water to a boil while you make your sauce. If the water begins to boil before your sauce is ready, turn down the heat, but don't let the volume of the pasta water reduce by boiling off.

4. Crack the peppercorns. Set a large skillet over medium heat. Add the cracked black pepper to the dry pan and toast, stirring, until you smell a lovely black pepper fragrance, 15 to 30 seconds. Don't go too far or the pepper will be bitter. When the pepper is toasted, splash some pasta water into the skillet to stop the cooking. Stir in the celery root purée. Bring to a simmer, then slide the skillet off the heat.

5. Bring the pasta water (back) to a boil, add the noodles, and set your timer for 2 minutes less than the shortest suggested cooking time on the package of pasta; this will ideally be 2 minutes before the pasta is al dente. Stir the noodles several times during the first 2 minutes of cooking to prevent them from sticking to the bottom of the pot or otherwise clumping together.

6. When the timer goes off, start tasting the noodles. When they seem like they are 1 1/2 to 2 minutes away from a perfect al dente, drain and transfer them to the sauce using your preferred method, reserving at least 1 cup (240 ml) of the pasta water.

7. Slide the skillet back onto medium heat and finish cooking the noodles, tossing and adding plenty of splashes of pasta water until the noodles are perfectly al dente and the sauce is nicely juicy. If the sauce seems watery, simmer for another few seconds to tighten it up, bearing in mind that the cheese will thicken it.

8. Reduce the heat to very low. Add the butter and the grated cheese and toss to emulsify them with the other sauce ingredients, adding splashes of pasta water (or plain hot water, if things are getting too salty) if needed to keep the consistency creamy and prevent the cheese from clumping. Taste and adjust with more salt or freshly ground black pepper if you like.

9. Divide the pasta between two warm bowls and serve right away, with more cheese to add at the table.

Excerpted from Six Seasons of Pasta  by Joshua McFadden with Martha Holmberg (Artisan Books). Copyright © 2025. Photographs by AJ Meeker.

For more on Joshua, his books, and his wide-ranging portfolio of projects, visit Joshua McFadden.