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.