Angel with a Rolling Pin

Our journeys connect us with special people. We spend hours on the line pumping out meals shoulder to shoulder with folks who will impact us for the rest of our lives.

As a young chef, I was lucky to have talented people believe in me and encourage me. During a short stint at an all-girls boarding school, I met an amazing woman who taught me the power of laughter. She was not only a gifted chef—she reminded everyone around her to enjoy the simple moments.

She was a talented baker who spent time in France learning from great pastry chefs before running the bakery for a large pharmaceutical company. She worked hard, and she laughed hard. She knew how to “play the game.”

“Kill ’em with kindness, Moe,” she used to tell me. “They can’t give you a hard time if you’re not mad all the time.”
She was a wizard in the kitchen and one of the most hands-on chefs I’ve worked with in my career.

We all go through struggles. When we worked together, I was sliding into a dark place with my drinking, and she was navigating a tough divorce—an unfortunate but common story in our industry. We were there for each other. It’s funny how life lines up what we need when we need it. We kept each other grounded and sane through rough personal and professional moments.

We talked about life. We talked about work. We learned from each other. She taught me to bake; I shared the tricks I’d picked up along the way. Running that kitchen together felt effortless. It wasn’t forced. Our service was organic. We could read each other without words—a nod here, a point there—and we kept moving. It was poetry. I miss that dynamic. Chefs spend their whole careers hoping for that kind of rapport. I found it with her.

The staff noticed it too. They saw how well we bonded and followed our lead. I worked in that kitchen for less than a year, but I can honestly say it was some of the most heartfelt food I’ve ever served. The food came from a real place. It was made with love. It was made with laughter. The client, the staff, the students, and even the company took notice. It was electric.

This work is hard. It’s tiring. It takes its toll inside and outside the kitchen. But when you’re fortunate enough to cross paths with special people like I did at that boarding school, the grind is worth it.

Life isn’t fair. Loss comes whether we’re ready or not. One November evening a close friend called late—too late for good news. He told me my dear friend and mentor had died in a car accident.

I was speechless. Angry, confused, heartbroken—all at once. I spent that night replaying services we ran together, the laughs, the inside jokes. I thought about the granola she made that I ate every morning. I remembered grabbing a drink after an event and having a couple too many. I remembered our trip to Little Italy and an espresso so strong we were sweating on the bus ride back to Jersey.

Loss gives us perspective. It makes us pause and ask what really matters. It reminds us how fleeting life is and that tomorrow is never guaranteed.

When I sat down to write my book, I knew I had to mention my big sister in the kitchen. The last text she sent me was, “Happy birthday, Chef. I love you.” I wrote back, “I love you too, Chef. We need to get together soon.” Soon never came.

A month after the book released, I got a message from her mother on Facebook. She thanked me for coming to the service and congratulated me on publishing. She said her daughter always spoke highly of me. I told her how much her daughter meant to me—how she believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. I asked for her address so I could send a copy of the book. She said, “No need. When I heard you published a book, I bought a copy right away. I can’t wait to read it.”

I needed a moment.

That response is exactly why I wrote my book. It’s why any of us share our stories. For the rest of our lives, a small snapshot of my friend’s life—this woman’s daughter—will live in print. People will come across it and learn about the impact my mentor had on me during a hard time. In a career that takes so much, it also gives us gifts: the gift of love, the gift of mentorship, the gift of a story.

That’s power. That’s purpose. That’s the reason.

Grief is complicated. What I’ve learned is that the best way to honor the people we lose is to keep living—keep doing the things they loved about us. Live in a way that would make them proud. That’s how we keep their legacy alive.

“Be Like Water”

“Be Like Water, My Friend” – Bruce Lee

Bruce Lee wasn’t just a martial arts icon — he was a philosopher. Decades after his passing, his words still ripple through pop culture, influencing athletes, artists, and everyday people searching for growth.

There’s mystery and controversy surrounding his death, but what’s not a mystery is the power of his impact.

Bruce Lee: The Superhero of My Childhood

Growing up in the ’80s, Bruce Lee was larger than life to me. Small in stature, but on screen, he could clear a room of bad guys in seconds.

Sure, the movies were exaggerated — but even as a kid, I was drawn to his charisma. He had an aura that jumped off the screen. He was fast, strong, confident… and magnetic.

He had every kid in the projects trying to learn martial arts. Bruce wasn’t just a movie star — he was a movement.

As I got older, I learned there was more to him than kicks and punches. He was an educated man who blended martial arts with philosophy, and his words have inspired me at some of my most pivotal moments.

“If you spend too much time thinking about a thing, you’ll never get it done.”

Ironically, I figured this one out the hard way — before I even knew Bruce had said it.

For years, I told myself I’d write a book one day. I’d find a better job one day. I’d stop drinking when I was “ready.”

The truth? Thinking too much kept me from acting. Change doesn’t happen because you dream about it. It happens when you stop making excuses and start doing the work.

“The worst bullies we encounter in our lives are our own thoughts.”

I’ve been my own worst enemy.

I stayed in situations that weren’t good for me because I didn’t want to risk comfort for progress. I was harder on myself than anyone else ever was.

I had to learn to show myself compassion — to remember that if the work I’m doing comes from a positive place, I can give myself room for mistakes. That self-kindness has been just as important as discipline.

“A goal is not always meant to be reached; sometimes it’s just something to aim at.”

The journey is the destination.

Every detour I’ve taken — from wanting to be a writer as a kid, to falling in love with cooking, to pursuing music, to working in kitchens, to finding my way back to writing — has taught me something valuable.

Wins, losses, setbacks, and successes all carry weight. They give us humility, balance, and perspective. Life isn’t a straight road, and that’s the beauty of it.

“Mistakes are always forgivable, if one has the courage to admit them.”

In a kitchen, your greatest asset is owning your mistakes. You’ll burn dishes. Miscount orders. Miss prep.

In recovery, it’s the same. Addiction makes you hurt yourself and others, even when you don’t mean to. Real change starts with honesty — with facing the damage you’ve caused and making the choice to do better.

“Be water, my friend.”

This is my favorite Bruce Lee quote.

Water adapts. It fits into any vessel. It can flow gently or crash with force. It nourishes, but it can also break down barriers.

In kitchens, adaptability is everything. Trends shift, menus change, teams rotate. Tradition matters — but so does being able to pivot.

In recovery, adaptability is survival. You have to learn new habits, new ways of thinking, and new ways of facing the world without your old crutch.

I saw my father lose his battle with addiction. It wasn’t for lack of trying — but the pull was too strong. I knew if I wanted a better ending, I had to embrace change completely.

My Flow

I went to rehab. I’ve been sober eight years.
I left a job I held for sixteen years for one where I feel valued.
I had bariatric surgery and lost 130 pounds.
I published a book about my life — one that’s now on the shelves of my local library.
I created a website to connect with the food and recovery communities.

None of that happened without change. None of that happened without adaptability. None of that happened without learning to flow like water.

Comfort is easy. Even when life is hard, it’s tempting to stay where you know the rules. But real growth means stepping into the unknown — and letting fear flow out of you like water down a stream.

It’s still a work in progress. But I know one thing for sure:

“Be like water, my friend.” – Bruce Lee

People, Places and Things

“Loyalty Will Kill You Faster Than a Bullet” – Carlito Brigante, Carlito’s Way

Some lessons hit harder when they come from a movie character than from a motivational speaker. For me, Carlito Brigante taught one of the toughest.

Gangster movies have fascinated fans for decades. The dynamic between moral code, loyalty, and what motivates someone to live outside the law is always compelling. The grey areas in these stories often mirror the ones in our own lives.

One of my favorites is Carlito’s Way, a 1993 crime drama starring Al Pacino, based on the novels by Judge Edwin Torres.

The Pull of Loyalty

Carlito Brigante walks out of prison after the DA wrongfully tapped his phones. He’s free — with a choice. Go back to slinging drugs, or walk away for good.

He chooses the latter. He wants a clean slate. A new life.

But no one believes him. They laugh when he says, “I’m retired.” The idea that one of New York’s biggest drug dealers could just hang it up? Unthinkable.

The truth is, we are products of our environment. What we’ve done shapes how the world sees us — especially the people closest to us. Carlito understood that to change, he’d have to leave his old world behind.

People, Places, and Things

In recovery, there’s a saying: people, places, and things. If you want to change, you often need to change who you spend time with, where you spend it, and what you put your energy into.

Carlito knew this. But the pull of our everyday lives is often stronger than our escape plan.

This is true in kitchens, too. If you’re rooted in a certain culture or establishment, walking away — even for your own good — can be harder than it sounds.

The Kitchen Connection

Carlito spends much of the movie tying up loose ends. Helping his crooked lawyer, David Kleinfeld. Trying to win back Gail, the love of his life, and take her to the Bahamas. Planning to rent cars to tourists and start a family.

But he slips. A cousin begs him to come along on a drug deal. Against his better judgment, he goes. The deal goes bad. Carlito walks away with money he “found” after the dust settles and uses it to buy into a nightclub.

On paper, it’s a legit investment — his ticket to a clean future. But in reality, it’s another tie to the same world he’s trying to leave.

Who’s Really in Your Corner?

We all have goals. We all chase something. But pride and misplaced loyalty can blur the finish line.

Kleinfeld tries to tell Carlito there’s only one rule: “You cover your own ass.” Not because he cares — but because he’s living by it. Kleinfeld doesn’t care about Carlito’s dreams. He just wants to save himself.

And yet, there’s always someone in our corner. Someone who truly wants us to win. For Carlito, it was Gail. She believed in his dream. She was ready to pack a bag, hop a plane, and live out a quiet life with him.

I’ve had my Gails. Family, friends, mentors who wanted me to become the best version of myself — not just for me, but for the good it would ripple out to others.

Changing the Ending

In the end, Carlito’s old world catches up to him. His best friend, Pachanga, sells him out to an up-and-coming drug lord, Benny Blanco from the Bronx.

On the platform at Grand Central, Benny pulls the trigger. Gail is left holding the pieces.

“I almost made it. You gonna be a good mother someday.”

The Lesson

We can change our ending — but only if we’re willing to change our surroundings.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. You don’t always need to move physically, but mentally? Absolutely.

Carlito had the desire to change. He had the plan. But he stayed too long in the world that scarred him. And in the end, that world took everything.

A desire to change is powerful. But if you’re not careful, staying in the same place for too long will kill your dreams faster than a bullet.

Chicken Parm and Hummus

Cooking for Students: More Than Just a Meal

There’s something uniquely humbling about cooking for students. It’s not like plating for a fine-dining crowd or sending out room service to a hotel guest who’s never going to see your face. Feeding students means you’re part of their routine, their growth, their daily grind. It’s a responsibility that goes far beyond filling trays and counting portions.

For many kids, school meals aren’t just a convenience—they’re the most reliable food they’ll eat that day. That’s not just a line in a grant proposal or a statistic in a government report. It’s the truth you feel when you see the same faces every morning, some of them half-awake, some of them already carrying the weight of the world before first period.

The Role You Don’t See in the Job Description

On paper, I’m a chef. I manage menus, train staff, keep costs in line, and make sure every plate meets the nutrition guidelines. But when you work in a school kitchen, you’re also part mentor, part role model, and sometimes, part lifeline.

Students notice more than you think. They see if you take pride in what you’re serving. They feel the difference between food that’s slapped together and food that’s been cared for. And for kids learning how to navigate life, that quiet example matters.

When you give them a hot breakfast with a smile, you’re saying, You matter enough for me to show up early and do this right. When you ask how their day’s going, you’re reminding them someone’s listening.

Beyond Calories—The Unspoken Lessons

Food is a language, and in a school setting, every dish is a message. A plate of fresh vegetables says, I care about your health. A homemade soup says, I want you to feel comforted. And a perfectly cooked piece of chicken says, You deserve quality.

I’ve learned that what you feed students today can shape their relationship with food for years. The way they see balance, the way they think about freshness, even their willingness to try new flavors—it all gets planted here, in these years, meal by meal.

Cooking for students isn’t about impressing critics. It’s about making small, consistent deposits in a young person’s memory bank. One day, they’ll remember the pizza you made from scratch or the day you swapped out the standard menu for a cultural lunch that celebrated where they came from.

The Challenge of Feeding a Generation

There’s no sugarcoating it—feeding hundreds of students every day is hard work. Budgets are tight. Time is tighter. Regulations shift. And you’re balancing it all while trying to create food that’s not just “good enough,” but good enough to spark a little joy.

You’re also feeding a generation raised on convenience. They know fast food menus by heart but might not recognize certain fresh vegetables by sight. You have to meet them where they are without giving up on where you know they could be. That’s the tightrope we walk—providing comfort while expanding horizons.

Sometimes that means introducing new flavors slowly, mixing them into something familiar. Other times it means just putting the food out there and letting curiosity take over. You can’t force it, but you can plant seeds.

The Energy Exchange

Cooking for students teaches you that food service isn’t a one-way transaction. There’s an energy exchange happening every day. You might start your morning tired, but the laughter at the breakfast table or a “Thank you, chef!” from a kid can flip your mood.

It’s not always obvious in the moment. Sometimes the appreciation comes years later when a former student reaches out to say, “I still remember that chicken parm day,” or “You made me try hummus for the first time, and now it’s a staple in my house.” Those moments are a reminder that the work you do here travels far beyond the cafeteria doors.

More Than a Job

Cooking for students isn’t a steppingstone. It’s a calling. It’s a chance to build something lasting—not just in the kitchens you run, but in the lives of the people you feed. You’re shaping habits, memories, and sometimes even futures.

And the truth is, these students are shaping you too. They teach patience, they keep you humble, and they remind you daily why the work matters. Every time they come through the line, you’re reminded that you’re not just serving food—you’re serving opportunity, comfort, and care.

Cooking for students is cooking for tomorrow. And tomorrow is always worth the effort.

What Makes a Chef

We live in a world where everyone believes their opinions hold value. Social media gives us a platform to voice our views on any topic we choose to discuss and to pass along any information we wish to share.

But as you have read through the last thirteen chapters, you can see that I have a little bit of backing for what I believe makes a chef, a chef.

The first ingredient is roots. Whether it’s understanding your family traditions and history or having an early foundation of passion for food, remembering why you started keeps you grounded.

I always look back fondly on the days of my grandmother making her rice and gandules in her walk-up apartment in the Bronx. I also remember my grandmother Dolores making a meal out of just white rice and canned corned beef hash and making it feel like a fine dining experience. Ultimately, that foundation is built on love. Love for food and the people you serve. As you grow in your culinary career, you learn to love the people who work alongside you as well. They become a part of your story and your success.

The second ingredient is sacrifice. I spent my early years missing out on fun with my friends and even my senior prom. I remember working one particular 4th of July. My grandfather Victor, another childhood hero of mine, was gravely ill in the hospital. I, of course, was grilling hamburgers and hot dogs for 100 hungry nuns while he was on his deathbed. I got the call that he had passed mid-shift. Instead of packing up and running out, I cleaned up and closed the kitchen just like I normally would. I went straight to the hospital from work, still smelling of the grill I had just spent hours cooking over. It’s not a bragging point or an angle to exhibit arrogance. It is simply an example of how much we as chefs are willing to give up to maintain our sense of responsibility. We spend the greater part of our workday racing against a clock. Time is always in our line of sight. But when we don’t spend it with our loved ones in moments that matter, the people closest to us may find it extreme. But to us, it’s just being a chef.

Next is balance. As I grow older, now 43 years of age, I have learned that it can’t always be about work. I know for the restaurant owner working seven days a week, that is easier said than done. But just as we spend our days racing against the clock, the clock in turn passes us by. My mentor and friend from the all-girls boarding school lost her life in a drunk driving accident in November of 2024. Her last text message to me read, “Happy birthday chef, I love you.” My reply was, “I love you too chef. We need to get together soon, it’s been too long.” We never got together. I was too “busy” with work. Our lives are comprised of the moments we create both inside and outside of work. There has to be a balance between both to make us whole. Otherwise, we could wake up one day with a heart full of regret. Doing what you love shouldn’t lead you to regret anything. It should lead you to peace.

Be a teacher. Always be willing to share what you know about your craft. There is no reason to keep anything close to your chest. Part of growth and being a leader is paying forward the lessons you have picked up along the way.

Be accountable for your actions, your work, and your decisions. The consequences of any of those three things are yours to answer for and manage. Good, bad, ugly, or indifferent, our choices define the manner in which we grow.

Show perseverance. You will fail. You will make mistakes. You will fall. You get back up and show up the next day. That’s how you push forward.

A mentor is valuable. If you have someone who is great in an area where you are lacking and wants to take the time to teach you what they know, embrace it. Absorb their knowledge and adopt their wisdom. It will only make you better at your craft.

Be open to changes and willing to learn. New does not mean bad. Comfort kills ambition. Complacency can deprive us of our longing to be better. Comfortable is easy. It doesn’t take much thought or effort. But when we force ourselves to learn new systems, techniques, or environments and combine them with what we already know, our potential only intensifies.

Remember to laugh. The days can be long. The stress can get to you and wear you down. If you take a moment to crack a joke with a colleague or have a chuckle with a customer, you are making an effort to lift weight off your soul. You are doing what you love, so smile about it.

Take pride in presentation. The presentation of your food, your kitchen, and yourself all reflect on you as a leader. People always have their eyes on you — especially when you are in charge. When you think they aren’t watching, that’s when they are paying the most critical attention. Keep your food neat, your kitchen clean, and your appearance tidy. You’ll be respected for it.

Respect is everything. Show respect to your colleagues, your superiors, your customers, your craft, your product, and most importantly to yourself. You earn what you give in life. Integrity and respect will take you far.

Be present. Come to the kitchen engaged and ready to face whatever comes at you each day. You are not always going to make the right choices, and you aren’t always going to have the best showing, but being present and having your mind clear gives you the best chance to stay on the path to success.

Pay attention to the details. Small things add up in this industry — placement of equipment, the organization of the cooler or storeroom, the days you bring in product based on your menu rotation. Minor details that go overlooked can make a difference in keeping your cool and managing your business.

Understand that your past doesn’t define you. It has only made you who you are up to this point. You can always learn and improve. You can adapt and learn from yesterday. The “I don’t do things that way” or “this is how I always do it” mindset will keep you stagnant. Embrace where you have been, but work toward where you want to go.

Stay humble. No matter how many years you’ve been cooking or how many awards you’ve won, humility keeps you approachable and willing to grow. In the kitchen, the ego should be the first thing you check at the door. There is always something to learn, and sometimes even the youngest cook on your staff has a lesson to teach you.

Understand it’s a business. A chef can get caught up in food just being food, but it’s a business. It’s numbers, deadlines, reports, schedules, planning, and managing your costs. Knife skills are great, but you have to know how to slice those numbers.

Care for yourself. Addiction and burnout are real. It’s easy to hit a wall when you’re running at full speed. Today we see so many chefs losing their lives to different types of issues, some of which are related to the hardships of this business. Our bodies and minds keep us going, so show them some love.

Be a champion of community. Be the magnet that brings people together. Whether it’s your staff or the people you serve on a daily basis, your ability to connect people is a powerful tool.

Be grateful. Be grateful for your family, your teams, your career, your health, your talents, and your shortcomings. They all make you who you are as a person and as a chef. Chefs rely on the people around us. We can’t do it alone — we have to show gratitude where it’s due.

Believe in yourself. Trust your skills and your instincts. Your experience doesn’t make you an expert in your craft, but it gives you wisdom.

I could probably keep going, but I think these points are strong enough to leave with you. Understand, deep in your heart, that the work you do matters. It matters to the people you feed, it matters to the people who work by your side, and because you get up every day and put on a chef coat before you walk into that kitchen, it matters to you.

My Father’s Eyes: My View-His View-The Big Picture

What I Saw

If you're lucky, your father is your first childhood hero. I was fortunate to have mine around during my early years. He taught me valuable lessons. He was my first role model—the first person I wanted to emulate, the first person I wanted to make proud.

As kids, we don't fully grasp the complexity of life. There are layers of nuance and hard truths that we’re just not equipped to understand. Even when adults try to explain things, sometimes the only real teacher is experience.

Addiction was one of those raw truths for me.

My father struggled with alcohol and heroin throughout my childhood. It was an intense habit to witness at such a young age. Trying to wrap my head around that kind of darkness took me years.

At times, he tried to explain. He’d tell me about growing up rough—how he fell in with the wrong crowd, how the streets raised him more than his parents did. Drugs were always around, and in a strange way, I’ve come to understand that maybe they gave him a kind of stability. They were always there—through the highs and lows, the good days and bad.

But when things got bad, they got real. He’d steal from his own home to feed his addiction. My video games, VHS tapes, small appliances—gone. Sold for a fix. Sometimes he’d say he was going to the store to buy groceries and disappear for days. As a kid, you know groceries don’t take that long. So I’d go to the store myself, pick up what we needed—because I knew the money meant for food had gone straight into his arm.

Then there were the run-ins with the law. I still remember my first visit to see him at Rikers Island. That place has cycled through generations of inmates, including more than a few from my family. The metal detectors, pat-downs, checkpoint after checkpoint—all that just to sit across from my father for ten minutes in a cold visitation room. Seeing him in that orange jumpsuit with numbers on his back—it shook me. I didn’t want that for my life.

It was a lot to process. And all while I was still just a kid—still overweight, still trying to keep up in school. My mom eventually brought me to a nutritionist. That’s when it hit me. If a doctor needed to help me manage my food, I was no longer just the jolly big kid—I was now a child with a health problem.

I broke down in that office.

“I just don’t understand why he keeps doing drugs.”

The tears came fast. I hadn’t planned to let them. But I had spent so much energy trying to be strong—for my mom, for my sisters—that something in me snapped. That was the first time I let it out.

I tried to keep up in school. But sometimes it was hard to focus. My dad would be in jail. Or in rehab. Or just gone. As a boy, you think your father is supposed to be a superhero—someone who protects you from the world. But when your hero is battling demons of his own, you want to help him. You want to save him. But I was just a kid. There was only so much I could do.

Still, I never stopped loving him. I gave him every chance to be the father I needed. Sometimes he promised to pick me up from school—and never showed. He’d go get high instead. Sometimes he bought me a new game—and sold it days later. Sometimes he took me to a movie—and other times he was too sick from withdrawal to leave the couch.

But there were good moments too.

There were days when he did pick us up. When we did go get ice cream. When we didn’t have to worry. Those moments mattered. And they stuck. But I always wondered—how long would it last? How long until I had to step up again and hold things together for my little sisters?

I was afraid to admit it then, but I was scared. Scared he might not come home one day. Scared of overdose. Scared he’d get locked up for good. I didn’t understand all the details, but I knew enough. Drugs killed people. Drugs took them away for years.

My mom taught me what strength really looks like. She took my father back, time after time. Even when they fought—screaming, breaking appliances—she stayed. Her love for him ran deep. And she knew how deeply we loved him, too.

When those late-night arguments broke out, I’d snap into big brother mode. I’d sit close to my sisters, just so they wouldn’t feel alone. It wasn’t easy. But I never saw myself as a victim. I saw it as something I had to go through. Something I had to learn from.

Maybe that’s why I held onto this quiet belief—that the pain wouldn’t last forever. That there was a reason my life wasn’t like those picture-perfect families on TV. And maybe, just maybe, those raw and painful moments were shaping me. Teaching me something I’d need later.

What He Saw

Everyone has their own perception of a drug addict. From the outside looking in, it’s easy to judge someone’s choices.

“They’re just low-lives.”
“They have no self-control.”
“They’re street trash.”

But watching my dad struggle with his demons, I never thought that way. I didn’t see a criminal or a junkie. I saw a man I loved who was lost. I saw someone who wanted to stop but didn’t know how. I saw pain, and I just wanted to understand it.

I think my dad knew I loved him. He just couldn’t always find the best way to express his pain. It’s hard to tell your child the truth about the things that haunt you—especially when you’ve spent their whole life trying to shield them. There’s guilt in exposing innocence. And that guilt can turn into regret.

The trap is that addiction often becomes the escape from dealing with that regret. I believe there were moments when looking at me triggered him—not because he didn’t love me, but because he did. In the moments when I asked hard questions or gave him a look full of love and confusion, I think it made the mirror too hard to face. Running back to the familiar high was easier than sitting with the pain.

“Don’t be like me. Be better.”
He used to say that to me often.
“You’re smart, son. Smarter than I ever was. Do something great with your life.”

I think he saw me as a chance. A shot at a different life. One he never got to live. He knew his addiction had taken so much from him, and he wanted me to be the one who broke the cycle.

When he was in jail, I’d write him letters. I even wrote him short stories so he could pass the time while locked up. He would always write back and tell me how much he enjoyed them—how good of a writer I was. It meant something to me. Maybe more than I ever let on. He planted that early seed of possibility—that maybe writing could be something I’d pursue someday. Life had its own plans, but those moments stuck.

My dad had this uncanny gift of landing back on his feet. No matter how many times he got locked up or ended up in rehab, he’d get out and find work—fast. That was the hustler in him. That old-school charisma. He knew how to talk to people. He could walk into a room with nothing and leave with opportunity. He wanted me to have that gift too.

He used to tell me,
“You can’t be quiet all the time. Life ain’t gonna hand you anything. You gotta speak up. You gotta go get what you want.”

But as a father, you know your child. He knew I was introverted. Shy. I kept things inside. I let things roll off my back. I think he saw the goodness in that, but he also feared the world would eat me alive if I didn’t learn to use my voice.

He tried to nurture that strength in me. He encouraged me. But my fear of ridicule and rejection had a tight grip on me back then. I appreciated his words, but I didn’t always know how to carry them out.

My mom helped me process what I couldn’t understand. She reminded me, “Your father is sick. But he’s still your father.”
She told me to love and respect him.
To never forget that no matter what he was going through, he would always be my dad.

That truth stayed with me my whole life. It shaped how I loved him. And it shaped how I showed up for others.

Even in his darkest moments, my dad still tried to help people. He would take young addicts under his wing in recovery. He’d share what he learned in the program—12 steps, NA, AA. He even passed some of that on to me. Not because he thought I needed it, but because he believed in the power of truth-telling.

“Always be real about who you are,” he told me once.
“When people trust you, life is a little bit easier.”

Those were the moments I felt most like his son. Not just a boy watching from the sidelines, but a student—someone he could pass his wisdom down to. A torchbearer.

I wanted to be a light.

But when your soul is consumed by pain, even the faintest glimmer of light can feel like too much. I saw that often in my father. That deep pull to retreat, to hide. He was suffering. He was hurting. But he still believed in me. He believed my future would be bright—even if his was uncertain

The Big Picture

There is no shield for pain.
The hammer of life swings too hard for any armor to absorb its blows. What we think protects us often cracks under pressure—and addiction can be one of those false shields. It convinces you that you're safe from the pain life throws your way. That you're insulated. Untouchable. But it’s a lie. I watched my father reach for that armor over and over again, hoping for relief. But instead of healing, it brought more pain—to himself, to my mother, and to us, his children.

As a child, your emotions are fragile and confusing. You’re not sure if how you feel is how you're supposed to feel. You don’t fully understand responsibility yet. You’re focused on school, trying to please your parents, and looking up to the people who are supposed to hold your world together. But what happens when they start to fall apart?

The world shifts.
Naïveté gives way to raw truth.

When you visit your father in a state jail, or sit in the waiting room of a rehab facility, you see life from a new angle. You see what happens when pain wins. You witness the consequences of choices—how quickly one decision can rewrite everything. The duality of the human experience presents itself to you in full color: the man who tucks you in at night is also the man in an orange jumpsuit.

In the midst of that confusion, you reach for comfort in the ways you know best:
Action figures.
Cartoons.
Video games.
Martial arts flicks.
A plate of home-cooked Puerto Rican food.
Anything that brings back that feeling of safety and simplicity.

And still, in all that chaos, something beautiful happens:
You learn how to love.

Not surface-level love. Not birthday-card love. But real, unconditional love—the kind that persists through disappointment and mistrust. The kind that doesn’t flinch in the face of pain. When you can still look at someone who’s hurt you, who’s let you down, and say, “I love you anyway”—that’s a love deeper than words.

That’s a father-and-son kind of love.

And despite everything, my father and I always had that. Even when life showed us its rawest face.

Recovery-Learning to Breath Again

Valentine’s Day is a holiday for love. Restaurants fill with couples sharing romantic meals, toasting to their bond.

On Valentine’s Day, 2018, I made a different choice. I chose to love myself.

That night was the last time I ever took a drink.

Knowing I was checking into rehab the next day, I went to my local liquor store and picked up the “usual.” I didn’t even have to ask the clerk anymore. As soon as I walked in, he had my pint of Jack Daniel’s ready—like clockwork.

I went home and drank alone.

The next morning, my sisters drove me to a satellite treatment center. After checking in, we exchanged hugs, said our goodbyes, and I was off. Off to heal. Or at least, try.

I didn’t know what to expect. I remembered visiting my dad at various rehab centers over the years—some as part of court mandates, others voluntary. I always remembered them being peaceful. The people seemed calm. My dad always looked healthier afterward. Like rehab gave him a chance to reset.

Maybe that’s what I needed, too.

The drive from the intake center to the actual rehab facility felt like forever. It was way out in the middle of nowhere—which I later learned was by design, to deter people from leaving mid-treatment. Still, we heard stories about people who managed to “fly the coop.”

Checking in was humbling. I weighed in at 500 pounds and had to strip naked so a female security guard could search me for paraphernalia. Not exactly the introduction I wanted—but I got over it.

Detox was the first step.

It was raw. Guys were curled into balls, shaking, sweating, battling withdrawals from all kinds of substances. I’d seen my father detox from heroin, so I knew the signs. I felt anxious too—over 24 hours without alcohol and nothing to numb me. I had to sit with the discomfort. No escape.

To my surprise, the other patients were comforting. The ones not violently detoxing were approachable, friendly. Judgment stayed at the door. We were all there trying to get back some kind of control.

The first night was rough. The bed was hard as concrete, and my snoring? Unpopular. I got a few hours of sleep. Mostly, I stayed in bed except to walk to the main building for meals—shoutout to the kitchen staff, though. The food was solid.

The nurses gave me some pills to ease the withdrawal symptoms. That first night, I had a wild dream: I was riding a purple unicorn through a meadow. It was so vivid that I literally rolled off the bed and hit the hardwood floor like a bowling ball.

The thud echoed through the room.

“Yo, Moe just fell out of the bed!”

Nine guys laughing hysterically at 3 a.m.—I’ll never forget that sound. And honestly? I needed it. I sat on the floor and laughed with them.

The next morning, I asked to be taken off the pills.

Recovery is complicated.

You’re stepping out of your old life, but you’re not sure what’s waiting on the other side.

One of the most comforting things was the support from my friends and family. People sometimes see addicts as weak, shady, or lost. But the people I met in that rehab? Doctors. Teachers. Plumbers. Musicians. Chefs.

Some were there for the second or third time—but they showed up. Just like when a dish doesn’t land right in service—you go back, fix it, try again. That’s all rehab is. Trying again.

Our days were structured: group sessions, one-on-one counseling, shared meals, downtime. The counselors? Many were recovering addicts themselves. They got it. They didn’t just speak at us—they related to us. That made all the difference.

For the first time in my life, I stepped outside of myself and took a real look at who I’d become. At the people I’d hurt. At the control I’d handed over to alcohol.

I was there voluntarily—and that mattered. Some patients were already talking about going right back to their dealer or corner liquor store once they got out. I didn’t judge them. I got it. You can’t be forced to change. You have to want it.

The 12 steps of AA and NA were part of the program. Not every step hit home for me—but Step 12 did: help others who are still struggling.

That’s a chef principle too. When someone’s in the weeds, you help. You don’t ask if they deserve it—you show up.

At the end of every evening, we’d say the Serenity Prayer:

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Serenity. Courage. Wisdom.

Those became anchors. Small but powerful reminders of what healing required.

One night during “talent night,” I got on stage and rapped. I told my story—about drinking alone after long shifts, about getting pulled over in my own driveway, about the panic attack at my desk.

I don’t know if it helped someone else, but it helped me.

It was like an exhale. I got it out of my head and off my chest.

Another night, a speaker told us how “the disease” took his father.

That broke me.

That was the night I cried—not just tears, but soul-deep sobs I’d been holding in for years. I couldn’t hide behind the stove. I couldn’t pour a drink to numb it. I had to feel it. Raw.

I had to grieve.

I had to heal.

Those tears saved me.

That moment let me breathe again.

After completing inpatient, I started outpatient treatment. I went to meetings after work. I stayed connected. I saw people relapse, and I saw them come back. And I realized—just like in the kitchen, not every dish is perfect.

But if you show up,

If you care,

If you try—

You can get better.

And I was getting better.

One breath at a time.

The Hip Hop Ingredient

New York in the mid-90s was an era of trends and lasting cultural innovation. Fila, Jordan, Nike, British Knights, Reebok Pumps — these were on the feet of every young person from five to forty-five. It was a time of expression and rebellion. The colors were vibrant and bold, flirting with the idea of nonconformity. The same went for the music.

90s hip hop was as rebellious as it was melodic. It drew inspiration from nearly every era before it — jazz, classical, rock, disco — a culmination of musical roots with an added edge that spoke to a new generation.

One of my earliest memories of hip hop’s impact goes back to 1993. As a middle schooler, listening to Bacdafucup by Onyx felt like breaking the rules. That music paralleled my own transformation from childhood to adolescence. It was brash yet beautiful, raw yet soothing. Artists referenced places I knew and spoke with slang I grew up with — dope, fly, sick, raw, ill, nasty, nice, phat, wack — all part of my teenage vocabulary.

Without even realizing it, I learned language and literary tools through hip hop: similes, metaphors, personification — long before any English class ever pointed them out. Sure, these existed in earlier music, but hip hop redefined popular culture. Listening to artists who grew up on the same side of the world as me had a special magic. Nas, Wu-Tang Clan, Gang Starr, Mobb Deep, DMX, Big Pun, Biggie, Brand Nubian, De La Soul, Jay-Z — they all spoke to our generation like they were speaking directly to us.

It was so impactful that it inspired me to want to be part of it. I wanted to express myself in that same way, because I felt woven into that sound and vibe.

Sure, I didn’t partake in a lot of the lifestyle they rapped about, but I understood their messages. I related to ideas of honor, loyalty, pride, confidence, respect, work ethic, and persistence. I wanted to tell my stories and my point of view because the music invited me to do so.

The jazzy horns, the scratched records, the flattened drums created more than a sound — it was a movement.

“Writing in my book of rhymes past the margins…” — Nas

From the subtle poetry of Nas to the raw, rebellious screams of Onyx, to the smooth and jazzy yet still gritty sounds of A Tribe Called Quest — it all played a part in the growth of my love for an art form that inspired me to pursue a passion and a dream from my teenage years into adulthood.

My early raps were nothing short of terrible — juvenile, with no sense of cadence or harmony — but everyone starts somewhere. My ability to think on my feet made me good at what we called “freestyle” rapping: performing on the spot, no pre-written lyrics.

It was fun, and it was a bonding experience for my close friends and me during those years when we were changing mentally and physically.

As I continued to work in kitchens, part of my weekly $5.75-an-hour salary went straight to the local record store. I’d buy whatever was newly released, and I’d dig to find something I’d never heard before. I became a student of the art.

My friends and I would share cassettes and CDs, trying to “put each other on” to new artists and songs in an effort to round out our hip hop knowledge. My collection was so extensive that friends would drop off blank 90-minute cassettes and ask me to record songs I thought were worth hearing. It was a special time, and I’ll always be grateful to the music for that.

By the time I arrived at culinary school, I had two large plastic containers filled with CDs, and there was no way I was leaving them behind in my tiny New Jersey bedroom.

My freshman roommate had a collection of his own, and together we would sit for hours, talking about songs, artists, lyrics, and production. That connection helped me bond with someone outside the kitchen, and eventually our shared creative drive turned friendship into brotherhood. We formed a group, and spent the better part of a decade recording music.

We started in small studios near college, learned how to structure songs, and worked on delivering our words with confidence and conviction. It came naturally to me, but I still had to work hard. The challenge kept me motivated because my love for the music ran deep. I wanted to get better.

Those experiences — pursuing a passion for music — could fill an entire book by themselves. Creating music helped me voice emotions and ideas I might have otherwise kept to myself.

There is always a curve when it comes to learning and developing in any art or occupation. I look back and realize that my passion and respect for hip hop was a mirror of my passion for cooking. Both became deeply ingrained in my personality — part of my “vibe.”

From Rhode Island to Atlanta, I saw the power of a music form that had grabbed its hooks into me early on. I crossed paths with so many talented rappers and producers. I learned about using your voice to make an impact, even if it was just ten people watching you at an open mic — or a thousand screaming college kids at a free campus concert. Those were important times of growth and self-discovery that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

I even saw hip hop help my close friend battle cancer. During those rough years after I moved from Georgia back home to New Jersey, he recorded an album called Cancerous Flow: A Lyrical Journal while undergoing chemotherapy.

When I came back home, I was hit with loss, pain, addiction, and the choice between trying to “make it” as a rapper or building a stable career in food. Ultimately, I chose food, because it gave me a foundation.

But I don’t look back on those days with regret. I look back with pride, knowing I had the courage to do what so many people are afraid to do — to try and make something happen.

Humility Wears The Apron

One of my favorite questions to ask my crew is:

“Are you good?”

Now, as the chef — the person in charge — I usually already know the answer.

If I see someone in the weeds or clearly overwhelmed and they hit me with, “Yeah, I’m okay,”
I’ll ask again:

“Are you sure?”

That second ask usually opens the door:

“Actually… can you grab those potatoes out of the oven?”
No problem.

Because here’s the thing — humility isn’t weakness.
It’s being honest about your limits.

Sometimes, all it takes is that one extra hand to push the food out the door.
And that’s okay.

Of course, you shouldn’t let people carry you or do your job for you. But as you gain experience, you’ll learn to recognize the difference between managing your station and getting buried by it.

Leave the Ego at the Door — or the Kitchen Will Do It for You

I’ve learned that if you try to check your humility at the door, the kitchen will gladly bring it back in and hand it to you like,

“Hey — you dropped this.”

You’re going to want to prove yourself.
You’ll want to show that you can handle multiple tasks and carry the weight.

That’s natural — and even admirable.
But don’t burn yourself out trying to be a hero.

There’s a long road ahead. Pace yourself.

Use your time in the kitchen wisely. Be effective. Focus on:

·                     Good technique

·                     Consistent execution

·                     Quality work

I’ve seen chefs try to do ten things at once.
They may finish one, but then end up needing help finishing the other nine — leaving a mess behind for the team to clean up.

You’ve got two hands and two legs. Be smart.

Trying to do everything — and failing at most of it — isn’t impressive. It’s a liability. And it puts pressure on your crew.

That’s not leadership. That’s ego.
And that makes you someone people don’t want to work with.

Ask for Help — And Mean It

The kitchen is about teamwork.
If someone isn’t pulling their weight, it’s on leadership to handle that.
And if they don’t? Then you respectfully hold that person accountable — the same way you’d expect them to hold you accountable.

We’re in this together.

I tell my crew all the time:

“Ask me for help if you need it. I won’t be mad. I’ll respect you more for it.”

Not because I doubt their ability — but because I know sometimes they just need an extra set of hands.

Maybe the dish got more complicated.
Maybe a substitution got called mid-service.
Maybe a delivery was shorted and now we’re making it work on the fly.

There’s always a reason behind helping.
And there’s never shame in asking.

It’s not about pride. It’s about keeping the train moving.

Humility Also Means: “Chef, Can You Taste This?”

It’s also okay to say:

“I don’t know how to do that — can you show me?”
“Chef, taste this. Let me know if it needs anything.”

Even if you’re proud of the sauce you just made — ask.

That small gesture goes a long way.
It shows you’re:

·                     Willing to learn

·                     Open to critique

·                     Focused on the standard, not just your ego

That kind of attitude keeps the kitchen aligned.
It keeps everyone moving in the same direction.

If You’ve Got Time to Lean…

One of my biggest pet peeves?

Seeing a young cook standing at their station, arms folded, doing nothing.

Just because your work is done doesn’t mean the kitchen is done.

My chefs used to say:

“If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean.”

But it’s bigger than that.

The cooks that impress me most are the ones who finish their work, then ask:

“Hey Chef, I’m good to go for service — anyone I can help?”
“Yeah, jump on salad. They could use a hand chopping lettuce.”

That’s how you build respect.

On the flip side, the worst response I’ve heard:

“I don’t get paid to do that.”

If that’s your attitude? I don’t want you in my kitchen. And I’m not the only chef who feels that way.

Because one day, you’ll need help.
And if your teammates respond with the same energy — arms folded, scrolling their phones — how would that feel?

This Isn’t TV. This Is Real Life.

This isn’t Chopped.
This isn’t some Food Network showdown where you’re competing for camera time.

This is real life.
We’re people. Working hard. Trying to serve food and do it well.

It’s not about ego. It’s not about accolades.
It’s about integrity.
It’s about respecting the people beside you.

If you just want a paycheck, that’s fine.
There’s no shame in that.

But if you’ve made it this far in this book — I’m guessing you want more than that.

Final Word

Karma lives in the kitchen. I’ve seen it.
When you do good work, when you help others — it always comes back.

That’s what makes this industry thrive.

Humility is one of your greatest strengths.
Never forget that.

20 Raw Realities of the Kitchen

Reality 1- Food service is more about people than it is about food.
 What we serve matters—but how we treat others matters more.

Reality 2- Addiction doesn’t discriminate.
 You can be talented, loved, and successful—and still be in pain.

Reality 3- The kitchen reflects your character.
 Your team will adopt your energy—good or bad.

Reality 4- Grief will knock the wind out of you—but it can also clear a path.
 Loss can bury us or break us open. Sometimes both.

Reality 5- Silence is comfortable, but connection is healing.
 Isolation feels safe until it starts to rot you from the inside.

Reality 6- You can be strong and still need help.
 Asking for support isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom.

Reality 7- Not everyone will understand your path. That’s okay.
 Live it anyway. Loudly, quietly, honestly—just live it.

Reality 8- Sobriety isn’t a finish line.
 It’s a choice you make every single day.

Reality 9- Burnout is not a badge of honor.
 If you don’t rest, life will make you rest.

Reality 10- The mirror lies when you hate yourself.
 Healing begins when you start talking back to that voice.

Reality 11- Old habits die hard—but they can die.
 You just have to want change more than comfort.

Reality 12- Creativity is therapy.
 Writing, painting, rapping, cooking—each one is a way to breathe.

Reality 13- Being honest about your struggle gives others permission to be honest about theirs.
 That’s how we heal—together.

Reality 14- Forgiveness frees you, not them.
 Whether it’s your father, your past, or yourself—let it go.

Reality 15- Body image is a battleground, but change is possible.
 You can lose the weight, gain strength, and still carry emotional scars. Keep going.

Reality 16- Not everyone needs to know your business—but someone should.
 Hiding is what pain wants you to do.

Reality 17- You can be a chef, an artist, a leader, and a work in progress—all at once.
 You don’t have to fit into one box.

Reality 18- Sobriety isn’t about what you lose—it’s about what you finally get to build.
 Life beyond the bottle is wider than you imagined.

Reality 19- Your story is yours.
 Share it. Own it. Don’t let shame be louder than your truth.

Reality 20- You don’t need permission to start.
 Wherever you are, however far you’ve fallen—it’s not too late.

Coffee with Pops

If I could sit across the table from you, Pops, steaming mugs of Cafe Bustelo between us, there’s so much I’d want to say.

First, I’d tell you I forgive you. I forgive the chaos, the confusion, the distance, the addiction. I know you carried your own pain, and you did the best you could with what you had. I’ve carried that understanding with me all these years, and I want you to know — I don’t hold it against you.

Then, I’d want to tell you thank you. Thank you for the lessons you gave me — the hard ones, the ones you might not have meant to teach, but I learned anyway. I learned how to work, how to hustle, how to push through even when the world feels like it’s stacked against you. I learned how to love my people and how to show up for them, even if my ways weren’t perfect. That was you, all day.

I’d tell you how much I wish you could see me now. See the man I’ve become — a chef, a leader, someone people look to for guidance. You’d get a kick out of that, no doubt.  Knowing I run kitchens, manage crews, mentor the next generation of youth. You’d probably laugh that I somehow turned all that kitchen stress into a career, and you’d definitely tease me about putting down the mic and ask “What happened, you retired” with a deep chuckle in your voice.

I’d want to tell you about my book. About how I took my story, our story, and put it on paper so it wouldn’t get lost. So maybe someone out there wouldn’t feel so alone, the way I did some days. I’d tell you I talked about you in those pages — not to shame you, but to honor you. Because you shaped me, whether you knew it or not.

And then I’d want you to know about the good things — the love from people in my life, the friends who became family, the mentors who took me under their wing, the dog I adopted who reminds me that loyalty can change a man’s heart. I’d tell you, “my bad I haven’t made you a grandpa yet, I know you always asked when I was going to make you a grandad.”

I’d tell you that I miss you. Even with all the messiness, all the fights, all the heartbreak, I still miss you. Sometimes when I’m driving to work or cleaning up after a long day, I wish you’d pick up the phone and check in. I wish you could see how I’m trying to walk through life the best way I know how. I had my battles with the bottle too, and I learned that it takes time to heal from that struggle also.

If we were sitting there, and you asked me, “Son, are you happy?” — I think I’d tell you yes. Not every day, not every minute, but on the whole? Yeah. I’m happy. I’m at peace. I’m proud of what I’ve built, of the man I’ve become, of the way I’ve learned to love myself. I try to carry myself with dignity and lead by example. I think you’d be proud too.

And as our cups grew cold, I’d thank you again. For giving me my first kitchen lessons, for showing me what perseverance looks like, even in the darkest days. For being a part of me, whether you were near or far.

Then I’d stand up, give you a dap, hug you tight, and tell you the one thing I maybe didn’t say enough while you were still here:

I love you.

Knowing Your Roots

Every first Sunday of June, the streets of Midtown Manhattan come alive with thousands of proud, passionate, and vibrant people celebrating Puerto Rican heritage. It feels like an endless wave of colorful floats honoring everything from the soulful rhythms of salsa to beloved brands like Goya, Café Oro, Don Q, Ron del Barrilito, Bacardí, Cameo, and Yaucono — all living, breathing symbols of our culture.

My father took us to the parade almost every year, dressed head to toe in the red, white, and blue, the single star shining as a badge of pride. Strangers greeted each other like family, yelling “¡Wepa!” and “Pa’ que tu lo sepas!” — pure expressions of tradition and joy.

In that tradition lies the food. Soulful, passionate, flavorful dishes were woven into my South Bronx childhood. My family was rich with incredible cooks, each with their own flair. Dishes like pernil — that beautifully roasted pork shoulder rich with garlic and oregano — or arroz con gandules, each pot made with a sofrito recipe guarded like gold. Mofongo, pasteles, plátanos maduros, tostones, surullitos de maíz, pollo guisado, bistec encebollado, chuletas fritas — always served with love, and of course, a side of avocado. That food was essential: birthdays, holidays, weddings, even an ordinary Tuesday night. Recipes passed from mother to daughter, father to son, standing the test of time as cornerstones of a magnificent culture.

My childhood was steeped in the aroma of fresh garlic and cilantro, sizzling achiote oil, onions and peppers hitting a hot pan, and the occasional pop of grease frying up something magical.

And then there were the Bronx cuchifrito spots. They served edible art you could eat in your hand — alcapurrias, papa rellena, bacalaitos, empanadas. I can still remember walking by, being stopped in my tracks by the smell, the faint thick layer of grease hanging in the air, trailed by salty, savory, rich aromas that made you hungry even if you’d just eaten.

That was pride. That was culture. It wasn’t just representing an island in the Caribbean; it was representing family, love, celebration — a heritage worth fighting for.

I swear Puerto Ricans are born with a radar that lets us spot each other in any crowd. Maybe it’s how we carry ourselves — confident, proud, loud, but with hearts that love hard.

My parents, grandparents, and all the elders in my family showed me how to embrace my roots and take pride in the culture that raised me. I often joke with people that I was born in Puerto Rico’s true capital. When they ask, “San Juan?”, I say, “Yeah — the South Bronx.”

The Bronx was rich with Puerto Rican pride. Outside the bodegas, the old heads drank Budweiser and played dominoes, yelling “Capicú!” and slamming that final ficha on the table. The music was electric — salsa, meaning “sauce,” was a mix of sound and rhythm, drums from Africa blending with jazz harmonies, blasting from project windows on Saturday mornings when it was time to clean the house.

Puerto Ricans have shaped American pop culture too. Artists like Marc Anthony, Jennifer Lopez, Big Pun, Fat Joe, Ricky Martin, Daddy Yankee, and Bad Bunny took our vibe worldwide. Actors like Benicio Del Toro, Raúl Juliá, Rosie Perez, and Luis Guzmán brought that Boricua spirit to the big screen.

My pride is a product of that upbringing. It was about love and respect for our cultura, keeping traditions alive to hold families together. The Bronx was imperfect, sure, and the 80s and 90s were tough years, but it introduced me to pride, passion, and dishes that still live in my heart.

Our people have always been resilient. In 2017, Puerto Rico was devastated by a category 4 hurricane, killing nearly 3,000 and destroying its infrastructure. But there was no choice except to fight, to rebuild, to persist. They are still fighting, still recovering.

Just like life. The storms come — addiction, heartbreak, stress, financial struggle, sickness, loss — but the roots our elders planted help us weather them. They taught us to be proud, to work hard, to love fiercely.

Strong roots don’t just help you grow — they help you stay grounded so you can always find your way back home.

Pass the Torch

The Wisdom of Denzel Washington

I once listened to an interview with the legendary actor Denzel Washington. The interviewer asked him why he felt it was important to teach the young actors he worked with about the craft of acting.

“Acting is my gift. It is God-given, and I don’t take it for granted. When I leave this life, I can’t take it with me. So that means I have a responsibility to leave it here after I’m gone.”

Powerful.

Your Knowledge Isn’t Yours to Keep

The same is true for a chef—or for anyone in any profession, really. Your knowledge is only as good as the people you can share it with. Gatekeeping wisdom out of fear—fear of losing your job or someone replacing you—isn’t just a sign of low confidence. It’s missing the entire point of leadership.

A great mentor, now like a father to me, once said:

“If you take my job, good. That means I showed you what you needed to move on. Now I can go find work somewhere else.”

That’s the mindset of someone secure in who they are. And it’s one I try to live by.

Teach With Pride

I’ve trained plenty of chefs—some with more industry experience than me, even some with more managerial experience. But they needed my systems, my structure, and my understanding of the operation to succeed. It was my responsibility to help them. And I did.

We don’t measure success by the failure of others. We measure it by how we carry ourselves, by how consistently we do the work, and by how willing we are to elevate those around us.

Every time you train a cook, pass along tips to a new chef, or show someone how your station flows, you have an opportunity. Teach with pride. What you know might be exactly what inspires someone to keep going. Or better yet, what gives them the confidence to level up.

No Room for Ego

Being shady is toxic. Wanting others to fail so you look good is never a recipe for success. It’s a trap.

Don’t be afraid to offer suggestions. Even if they aren’t perfect, your input might trigger the solution. I ask my staff questions all the time:
“Should we serve rice or potatoes?”
“Does this need a jus or a sauce?”
“What’s the best platter for this?”

Just like you can teach, your staff can teach you. We all learn from each other. That’s how great kitchens work.

Knowledge Is a Two-Way Street

Even outside the kitchen, knowledge is currency. I’ve taught family and friends how to elevate their home cooking. I’ve given grocery tips, cooking hacks, meal suggestions. They’ve returned the favor with advice from their fields—teaching, finance, tech, you name it.

Stay open. Let information in from outside your comfort zone. It makes you a better chef—and a sharper person.

Leave the Light On

I don’t have all the answers. But I’ve made the effort to take what I’ve learned and put it down on paper. That’s what this whole book is about—leaving something behind, passing the torch.

A mentor once told me:

“When you take over a kitchen, always look at who your replacement will be. If they aren’t there yet, you’ll probably end up hiring them down the line.”

I didn’t fully get it at the time. But now I do. Even if your exact replacement isn’t clear, someone should at least know what you do. They should understand the rhythm of your day, how to keep things moving in your absence.

Not sharing that knowledge only limits you.
Sharing it? That opens doors.

Knowledge offers freedom.
So pass it on—and keep the torch burning.

Welcome

This website was created as a way to connect—with the food world, the recovery community, and anyone driven to make a meaningful impact. It’s a platform for collaboration, conversation, and honest storytelling.

Each day, I’m more inspired to use my experience to help others find their own path toward growth and self-discovery. In a world oversaturated with filters and façades, my mission is to bring truth to the table—raw, unpolished, and real.

Whether it’s a speaking engagement, podcast appearance, interview, workshop, or simply a meaningful conversation, I’m open to any opportunity that feeds that mission. We spend our lives searching for purpose—why not create it?

This platform will also be a tool for me to publish some of my writing, whether it be excerpts from my published work, previews of future projects, or content exclusive to the site. The goal is sharing. The reality is growth. Welcome to the journey.