That job became significantly harder in season three. With the renovation of Matheson’s home kitchen — and the growing impatience of his wife, Trish — the Just A Dash crew was forced to rethink everything. Gone was the comfort of a familiar space. In its place came an improvised, increasingly unhinged approach: cooking in an RV, on a plane, and even inside an elementary school classroom.

“Everyone from seasons one and two is back,” Rabin says. “And the show basically starts when we find out we don’t have a kitchen to make a cooking show.”

At one point, she admits, things feel genuinely precarious. “If nobody dies, I will be surprised,” Rabin jokes — only half exaggerating — as the brand-new third season premieres on Netflix on January 20.

From a plane to a classroom, the crew gives a whole new meaning to what a cooking show can be. Because of the chaos baked into the season, Rabin feels the food itself often takes a back seat. “I feel like food is secondary to the plot lines and the characters,” she says, pointing to how the show has gradually shifted away from traditional culinary structure in favour of something looser and more character-driven.

That unpredictability makes it nearly impossible to single out a favourite episode. “It’s like choosing a favourite child,” Rabin laughs. What ultimately sets the show apart is the chemistry between Matheson and the crew, paired with Rabin’s quick, often incredulous reactions as things spiral. Unlike the polished illusion of control found in legacy cooking television, Just A Dash thrives on the absence of a safety net. “When you look at a show like Martha Stewart’s, I imagine everything is staged so they can sell the magic of television,” Rabin says. “Here, there’s no predicting what Matty will do on camera.”

Rabin and Matheson first crossed paths years ago when he opened a restaurant she frequently visited. “We started from there,” she explains. “Then I started working for him when Vice produced It’s Suppertime! When that wasn’t renewed, we started Just A Dash.”

Their timing aligned with a broader cultural shift. In recent years, food television has become less about instruction and more about storytelling — a form of comfort viewing that mirrors the stress and satisfaction of creative labour. “During Covid, people were locked inside their houses with nothing better to do than watch other people make sourdough,” Rabin says. The explosion of food content across television and social media has only intensified the demand for something that feels real.

“There are so many layers to cooking,” she adds, noting how producing a food-centric show requires balancing performance, logistics, and genuine emotion. While some elements of Just A Dash are exaggerated for effect, there are moments that ring painfully true for anyone who’s spent time in a professional kitchen. “I think the success of the show comes from debunking the magic of television,” Rabin says. “We show that making a cooking show is exhausting. It’s a lot of work. Seeing the emotional rollercoaster we go through while making a dish matters.”

One episode in particular captures those highs and lows through a surreal, slow-burn storyline involving a three-tiered cake and an imagined romance. It began when Rabin jokingly fabricated a story that Matheson assumed was real. “I developed a crush on Billy Zane,” she says, explaining that the success of the show generated enough buzz that Zane actually ended up watching it. “When I went to L.A. to visit friends, I messaged him on Instagram and asked if he wanted to hang out. He said yes. So we wanted to continue that plot in the third season.”

When scheduling conflicts kept Zane from appearing, the crew committed fully to the bit anyway — planning a wedding, baking a cake, and waiting in a lakeside suburb for something that might never happen. “It’s so cinematic, actually,” Rabin says.

Behind the scenes, Rabin’s role remains crucial. She plans the chaos as much as it can be planned — deciding which dishes will be made and ensuring the crew has what it needs — while knowing that control is ultimately an illusion. “There’s an episode where we get lost in the RV and the electricity isn’t working, so we have to figure out how to blend a sauce,” she says. “Those things are never planned, but that’s the beauty of the show.”

The solution is often scrappy and deeply familiar. “The show must go on,” Rabin adds. “When you’re with that many people on set, you brush it off and laugh. We show exactly what happens when you’re home cooking and you don’t have sugar. You ask a neighbour. If we run out of fries, we go to McDonald’s.”

As for what comes next, Rabin says there’s no grand plan — only a commitment to the work itself. “I love cooking. I love being on set,” she says. “My hope for the future is to keep making food television in any form.”