Based in Gowanda, New York, the Cattaraugus Territory of the Seneca Nation, Chef Lorinda John represents a vibrant intersection of Indigenous art, food sovereignty, and cultural healing. Raised in a family where the garden, the table, and creative making were inseparable, John transformed a personal journey of discovery into a practiced expression of resilience—hand-harvesting cedar from her yard to craft dreamcatchers and blending ancestral foodways into catered experiences and community workshops.

A descendant of the Seneca Nation and a “cultural-bearing artist,” as she puts it, she engages students, chefs, and makers alike through public cooking events, dreamcatcher programs, and Indigenous food-art collaborations. Whether teaching a knife skill in a school kitchen, smoking bison with a cedar stalk, or leading a dreamcatcher workshop at the Ross Student Farm at Penn State, John’s work invites us to rethink materials, meals, and memory in a way that honors the land, the people, and the power of creative reclamation.

John’s visit to Penn State from Nov. 10-13, 2025, included delivering a Sustainability Showcase keynote talk titled “Reclaiming Roots: Indigenous Food Sustainability.”

(This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.)

What was the first piece of art you remember creating, and how did that influence your path into culinary art—or vice versa?

You’re the first person ever to ask me that question! I’ve been creative my entire life. I’ve always loved to make things—gifts for people, holiday crafts, little art projects with my daughters. But it was during COVID that I really started creating dreamcatchers. I work with cedar trees from my yard. My dad was in the hospital, and I was cleaning up branches from one of his trees. Something told me to bend one, and that’s how it began. I started making dreamcatchers from the branches and learned a lot about the materials. People loved them, and that gave me courage to start sharing my food, too. It was only a few years ago when I began sharing my art and culinary work with others, so it’s been a very recent journey for me.

How did growing up in the Seneca Nation shape your relationship to both cooking and making art?

It’s everything—that’s just who I am. I’ve realized more as I’ve grown older how much my upbringing shaped me. My mom isn’t Seneca—she’s from Montoursville, Pennsylvania—but she learned to make traditional corn soup and corn wheels. My dad does the gardening, and my grandma did too. I grew up surrounded by people who worked with their hands, cooked, and grew food. Now I see how much those experiences influence what I do, from growing herbs to cooking for my community. It’s part of who I am and something I get to pass down to my daughters. Life on the reservation is different—it’s a different rhythm, a different lifestyle—and it grounds me.

When you introduce yourself as a cultural-bearing artist and Indigenous chef, what kind of story do you feel like you’re stepping into?

I feel like I’m continuing a story that others started before me. I get to lay the next stone on a path that was already paved by people who shared their words and work. I have a platform now to use my voice for things they didn’t have the chance to say. It’s a way to honor them—to keep doing what they did and share it with others. That’s what being a cultural bearer means to me.

In your cooking, how do you think about dishes as artifacts of culture? And how do you think of your physical artwork as metaphors?

It depends on the event or the people I’m cooking for. I listen to what they want to learn and then tell a story through food. I don’t have a set menu—every meal is different because everyone needs something different. For example, I made a three-sister fritter to represent the relationship between corn, beans, and squash. It was spaghetti squash fritters with a bean salad and cowboy caviar on top—delicious! It told a story about nourishment and interdependence, and it sparked conversation.

My dreamcatchers are similar in that way. I started making them for peace—they’re what I do when I need to get through something. I use stones and beads that once belonged to my dad. But I also learned to be intentional with my materials. After taking a sociology class about capitalism, I realized I didn’t want to buy beads made through exploitative labor. So now I only use what I already have or partner with programs where students make beads themselves. It’s about creating art that aligns with my values and helps others at the same time.

What would you say is a visual or aesthetic link between some of your meals and the pieces of art you create?

Cedar. I work with cedar in both my art and my food. I use Northwestern Red Cedar from my yard—it bends beautifully for dreamcatchers, and it adds amazing flavor to food. I make a cedar-smoked bison with corn and barley, and I use cedar stalks in the cooking process. Using what’s around me feels natural. The materials connect both sides of my creativity—the food and the art.

Would you be able to talk more about the personal meaning these materials hold for you, both in the kitchen and your studio work?

They bring me peace. Making dreamcatchers is how I calm my mind. I’ll make them while I’m on the phone or when I’m anxious. It keeps my hands busy and helps me think. I carry them with me everywhere, and each one reflects something I was feeling or working through at the time.

Could you tell me about your journey from making dreamcatchers to presenting your work professionally?

It’s deeply personal. I was arrested during the pandemic, and my dreamcatchers saved my life. That was my rock-bottom moment. Making them helped me heal and gave me something to hold on to. Within a year, my work was in a museum exhibition—something I never could have imagined. It taught me that a mistake doesn’t define you; it defines a moment. You can always create a new path forward. That’s what I teach my daughters. Since then, I’ve grown my business, catered for professional athletes, and found my confidence again. My purpose is to use what I do to impact my community and show people that you can always rebuild.

What role does materiality play in your art, and how do you choose or source your materials?

At first, I didn’t even realize how much the materials mattered until I started learning about the cedar I used. Northwestern Indigenous people have used it for generations—for canoes, clothing, and ceremony. Now I harvest everything by hand, dry it naturally in the sun, and let it cure for a year. I learned that trees have vibrations and even the way you cut them can affect their growth. I started the Community Dreamcatcher Project because I had so many large cedar hoops I didn’t want to waste. Now, instead of sitting unused, they’re being turned into giant dreamcatchers displayed in organizations and community spaces. It’s a full-circle process of giving back.

How do you balance honoring tradition in your work with experimenting with contemporary design?

It’s just who I am. I don’t think of it as contemporary—it’s storytelling. A lot of modern dreamcatchers have wire or feathers, but the original ones didn’t. The circle represents the circle of life, the web represents what we hold onto, and the beads reflect our stories. Mine don’t always look “perfect,” because life isn’t perfect. Each piece is different, like each person’s story. Honoring that individuality—that’s how I stay true to tradition.

What are your thoughts on non-Indigenous dreamcatchers being mass produced and sold?

It made me raise my prices! If those folks can make money selling something that isn’t even true to our culture, I can certainly profit from my own authentic work. It’s about taking the story back and educating people about where it really comes from. There’s always going to be capitalism and cultural appropriation, but I’d rather make sure I’m benefiting my community, not someone exploiting it.

When you design a menu, do you think of it as an art exhibition?

Absolutely. Food is art. Every sense has to be engaged—the smell, the color, the sound of cooking, the texture. I want people to taste something and be surprised, to think about it afterward. Each dish is like a composition; every bite should tell a story.

Who are the growers or craftspeople you work with for ingredients, and how do those partnerships reflect your cultural vision?

I source locally as much as possible. I work with Gakwi:yo:h Farm on Seneca territory and use herbs from my father’s garden. I love buying from roadside stands and small farms around Buffalo. Building relationships with growers is essential—it’s about mutual respect and shared goals. Sometimes I’ll adapt menus depending on what’s in season or what they have available. It keeps things sustainable and connected to the land.

You mentioned your “Three Sisters” dish. If you were to create a similar metaphor for your art or food, what would it be?

Maybe something like a lasagna—it’s all about layers. But honestly, I think it’d be a dish with bison, broccoli, and squash. The bison because I’m a bull—strong and grounded. The broccoli stands tall like trees, and some people love it, some don’t. And the squash puree represents softness. Maybe I’d even throw in wild rice because, well, I’m wild!

That’s how my mind works—I start thinking about how to plate it, how to tell the story through food. It’s always evolving.

How do you use your art and food as teaching tools in schools or public events?

Every time I show up, I just do what I know how to do. Teaching people to cook or make art often turns into therapy sessions. People are drawn to certain materials or foods for a reason, and learning about them gives a sense of value and connection. With food, I focus on simple, empowering skills—like teaching kids how to cut safely or prepare a meal. It’s all about building confidence through creativity.

If a community group wanted to start an art and food program to teach Indigenous heritage, what would you recommend that curriculum look like?

Start with the land. Learn about what grows around you, what the soil is like, what you can harvest. Teach why things matter, not just how to do them. Once you understand your environment, you can build everything else from there. Sustainability starts with knowing your land and respecting it.

How do you ensure that your cooking and art remain accessible to your community and not just to privileged audiences?

I’ve worked with chefs who cater only to the elite, and that’s not me. I stay where I’m needed—on my territory. We’re 45 minutes from Buffalo, surrounded by fast food. I want people here to have access to something nourishing and meaningful. When kids see me succeeding, they start to believe they can too. All it takes is planting that little seed.

What have been some of the biggest lessons in running both a culinary venture and an art practice?

Don’t give up. You’re your own toughest critic, and judgment will limit you. Take care of your mental health—slow times don’t mean failure. They mean it’s time to pivot. My daughters keep me motivated. I can bring my work anywhere, even here in Aruba while I’m visiting with my family, because I’ve built a life that lets me create from anywhere. That freedom comes with discipline, though—you have to stay focused.

Where do you envision your brand going in the next five years?

I’d love a new studio where I can have all my pieces together. Eventually, I want a cedar farm. I believe trees can heal the land, and planting more could help the environment where I live. I’m also working toward my PhD—my daughter told me I couldn’t, so now I have to! She’s in accelerated classes and already competitive, so that’s our dinner-table challenge.

Was there a dish or artwork you retired because it didn’t feel right culturally or aesthetically?

Not really. The only thing I won’t make is our traditional corn soup, because of how sacred it is. It’s meant for ceremonies and made a certain way, with ashes, and I honor that tradition by not commercializing it. Otherwise, I share my recipes openly and keep creating new ones all the time.

Was there a piece of art that surprised or challenged you to rethink what Indigenous art can look like today?

Every dreamcatcher I make surprises me. But the one that stands out most is a yin-yang design I created out of wood. It amazed me that I could bend it like that. I made it around the time of the Buffalo TOPS shooting, when I was learning about food deserts. It reminded me why I stay rooted in my community—because where I live is also a food desert. My work has to speak to that reality.

If you could collaborate with any artist or chef on a project that merges food, art, and culture, who would it be?

Sean Sherman—the Sioux chef who helped bring Indigenous foodways into the mainstream. He’s a huge inspiration. There are many Indigenous chefs I’d love to work with, though. We all come from different regions, with different ingredients and stories. Collaboration would be powerful—like reclaiming old trade networks through food and knowledge sharing.

How do you hope to influence younger, both Indigenous and non-Indigenous people through your work in art and cuisine?

I want to inspire them to learn more about the cultures that came before them—the Seneca, the Lenape, and others—but also to learn about themselves. If you don’t know who you are, you can’t truly connect with anyone else. I hope my work encourages people to find that understanding and then use it to support others.