I had always known that I wanted to be a chef. It was just my mom and I when I was growing up so after school I would often make dinner for the two of us so she could just relax when she got home. My father died just after I was born and for the most part, my mom didn’t want to talk about him. And for the most part, I abided her wishes of not trying to search for him. As I got older, the more interested I got in who he was and where he came from.
I just wanted to see if I had any cousins or any other family I could rely on. I was terrified to be left by myself. To distract myself, I kept plugging along with my cooking and dreams of going to culinary school. But my father never left the back of my mind. What kind of food did he like? What was his favorite restaurant? When I was younger, I had searched though my mom’s closet and old pictures while she was still at work and found a picture of her and who I assumed was my father.
Before school, I worked part time at a bakery because I could be out of work and gone before eight or so. Once I applied to culinary school, I got a little more nervous every day. Everything changed the day my father showed up in the bakery.