I’ve always been a maker.
I didn't set out to become a woodworker — it's just who I've always been. I've been making things for as long as I can remember. In high school, when I couldn't afford what everyone else had, I made my own — like turning a pair of shoes into gladiator sandals with ribbon and a stapler. Were they perfect? No. Did they work? Also… debatably. But that wasn't the point.
That instinct never left. I built furniture for my kids when buying it wasn't an option, rescued discarded pieces from the side of the road, and reimagined them into something new. I used to call my style "Pseussicasso" — a mix of imagination and reinvention, where creativity mattered more than rules.
The best things aren't new. They're just not finished yet.
My path into working with whiskey barrels started at a distillery, where I combined my creative background with hands-on problem solving. What began as organizing and redesigning displays turned into building custom pieces — first for use, then for customers to take home. That's when everything clicked.
Barrel staves are not easy. They're curved, bowed, and a little stubborn — basically the opposite of what woodworking textbooks recommend. Most people avoid that. I don't. I work with the wood instead of fighting it, shaping each piece to be functional, safe, and smooth, while preserving the character and history that make it special.
Nearly everything I create is made from reclaimed materials — because I've always believed the best things aren't new, they're just not finished yet.
Built Together
My husband, Chris, was a huge part of this journey — and we could not have been more different in the workshop.
He was a "one and done" kind of maker. Build it once, figure it out as you go, and move on. Me? I'm… let's call it precision-driven. When he taught me how to build my first Adirondack chair, he showed me the process. I took that process and spent the next three months building jigs to make sure I could do it perfectly, every single time.
He created freely. I engineered consistency. Somehow, it worked. Beyond the shop, he was the one who brought the business to life — building our website, running social media, and handling all the technical pieces so I could stay focused on creating. We even added laser engraving together and started building what we thought would be our retirement — me making, him running the show behind the scenes.
After he passed away, everything changed. I moved to Arizona to be closer to my kids, and now I'm carrying both sides of that dream. Still making. Still building. And still hearing his voice in the process.
I want you to feel it before you set it down.
When someone brings one of my pieces into their home, I want them to feel it. The buttery-smooth finish. The weight of real wood. The grain that will never be duplicated. I want them to know they're holding something that wasn't rushed, wasn't mass-produced, and definitely wasn't easy.
Nearly everything I make is reclaimed — about 90% of it, in fact — which means every piece has already lived a life before it ever reaches your hands. My job is to honor that, preserve it, and turn it into something both beautiful and functional.
It may cost more than something mass-produced. The price still doesn't come close to reflecting the time and care that goes into it. But that's the point.
Whether you're buying a gift for someone who has everything, outfitting a bar with pieces that actually mean something, or treating yourself to something built to last — you'll feel the difference the moment you pick it up.
