Writer, photographer, and cook. Detroit native. Minnesota by choice.
Essays on money, community, and ordinary American life. A Midwest cookbook in progress. Landscape photography from Lake Superior to Iceland. Occasional fiction from the dark corners.
Poor Man's Burnt Ends
The brisket experience without the $80 price tag. Chuck roast becomes BBQ gold.
Photography
A collection of landscape photography spanning from 2011 to today, capturing the rugged beauty of Minnesota's North Shore, my home state of Michigan, Iceland's dramatic terrain and everywhere in between.
This is the view from my front door here in Saint Paul on 12/29/25. Fortunate enough to be out before 7am today, shoveling out our building and the building next door. Yesterday went from relatively warm to bitter cold, so the ice and snow are really throwing a lot of light.
Recipes & Cookbook
122 authentic Midwest recipes from church basements, family smokers, supper clubs, and home kitchens. No apologies, no shortcuts.
✨ Recently Added
Short Fiction
Dark and quiet stories from the Midwest. Grey Cloud Island was published and featured on Let's Not Meet, one of the top horror podcasts on Spotify. The Sea of Trees was written in 2012 — three years before the Gus Van Sant film of the same name.
Essays & Road Notes
Published work, personal essays, and short reflections on work, place, and ordinary American life.
About
Who I am and what this site is about
I'm Joshua Mills. I live in Saint Paul, Minnesota with my wife Anna and our cat Squishy. I'm a writer, photographer, and cook — and in my day job, a business intelligence analyst. My writing on technology, finance, and American life has been published in the Minnesota Star Tribune, and my short fiction has appeared on Let's Not Meet, one of the top horror podcasts on Spotify.
I grew up in Harper Woods, Michigan — a two-square-mile town just outside Detroit — with my mom and my brother. It was small, ordinary, weird, close, and everything to me. That sense of place, of knowing exactly where you belong, still shapes everything I make.
The cookbook is real and ongoing — 122 recipes drawn from Midwest church basements, supper clubs, smokers, and family kitchens. The photography spans fifteen years and three cameras, from Lake Superior to Iceland. The essays are about money, community, grief, and ordinary life. The fiction tends toward the dark.
This site is a slow-building collection of all of it. Not a portfolio, not a brand. A place to leave things made with care and let them speak for themselves.

