When I first met Tom in the bowling alley long ago, he told me he had a dog and suggested that maybe we could take him for a walk.  I wasn’t a pet person per se, but I figured I could handle a little lap dog (as long as it didn’t try to lick my face, that is).

“What kind of dog do you have?” I inquired.  “His name is Farley and he’s a Golden Retriever.”  Tom replied. (Okay, not only does this man have a dog, he has a big dog.  In my opinion, anything that was taller than my kneecap was a big dog).  Needless to say, I fell in love with Tom and with due time, I fell in love with Farley. 

Early in our relationship, Tom went on a trip to Scotland/Ireland and Farley stayed with me for 10 days.  Farley was four years old at the time.  I’ve never been alone with a dog, let alone for 10 days.  But I knew if there was going to be a long-term relationship with Tom, Farley was going to have to be in the picture. 

During those 10 days, Farley and I started to bond.  He didn’t listen to me at first (and I’m not so sure he listened to me 10 years later), but overtime, he and I became buds.  My “favorite” memory of Farley during this time was going for our first walk.  It had snowed earlier that morning and the air was pretty cold.  I dutifully brought a bag with me to scoop up his doggie doo.  When Farley finally did his business, I put my hand in the bag like a glove and reached down to get the poo. I didn’t realize there was a hole at the bottom of the bag and ended up grabbing a handful of…stuff.  The word that came out of my mouth and what I actually grabbed was ironically the same thing. 

As the years went on, Farley and I bonded even more.  We went on walks, I would throw the ball to him, and even fed him table scraps when Tom wasn’t looking. Yes, Farley and I had fun.

Then the kids came.

All of a sudden, I just didn’t have the same amount of time for Farley that I once had.  Although Farley did wonderfully with the kids and never once showed any aggression towards them, I just couldn’t find the time to take him on as many walks or throw as many balls.  But I still had time, I justified to myself.  And Farley waited patiently.

Then we opened our catering business.

I went from being busy to being extremely busy.  There was culinary school to finish, cooking competitions to compete in, and all the endless tasks that needed to be done to get our business off the ground.  On top of all that, I still had the young kids.  But I still had time, I justified to myself.  And Farley waited patiently.

Before I knew it, 10 years had passed since I grabbed Farley’s poo through that bottomless bag.  We’re in our new house now, the kids are in school, and our catering business has blossomed.

While I would be working in my home office, Farley would come and nudge my arm to let him outside.  I usually put him in the front yard where he could be tied up.  By now, Farley was getting old and was consistently roaming the neighborhood.  But many times, Farley didn’t want to go out the front.  He wanted to go to the backyard, where the sun was warm and he could roll around freely in the grass. 

But because we didn’t have a rope back there for him, I didn’t let him out there very often.  You see, I was too busy.  I couldn’t take a few moments out of my day to watch him in the back to make sure he didn’t run off.  And besides, I didn’t want the yellow burn marks in the grass from him peeing.  I still had time, I justified to myself.  Not much time, I knew, but some time.  And as always, Farley waited patiently.

On Monday, however, Farley stopped waiting patiently.  I had finally run out of time.  Our dear dog, which was 14 years and 10 days old, couldn’t wait anymore and bid us farewell.  It was heartbreaking. 

Despite my shortcomings, however, I knew that Farley had a very good life with our family.  There are plenty of loving memories to hang onto.  As I sadly look outside my office window at those yellow burn marks, I realize those marks don’t matter.  If anything, they actually brought new meaning.  They were proof that a beautiful, well-behaved, well-loved dog once lived here. 

Friend, please don’t mourn for me
I’m still here, though you don’t see.

I’m right by your side each night and day
And within your heart I long to stay.

My body is gone but I’m always near.
I’m everything you feel or hear.

My spirit is free, but I’ll never depart
As long as you keep me alive in your heart.

I’ll never wander out of your sight
I’m the brightest star on a summer’s night.

I’ll never be beyond your reach
I’m the warm moist sand when you’re at the beach.

When you start thinking there’s no one to love you,
You can talk to the Lord up above you.

I’ll whisper my answer through the leaves on the trees,
And you’ll feel my presence in the soft summer breeze.

                        -Author unknown

Good-bye Farley, we love you

Farley “Farleto” Moore

April 20, 1998 – April 30, 2012

Last Christmas, Tom took our Golden Retriever, Farley, to Pet Smart to buy dog food. When he came home, he put some suspicious-looking pamphlets on the kitchen center island. I should have known better than to look at those pamphlets, but the sheer curiosity of it all got the better of me. Inside were inserts about different types of gerbils, hamsters, and the like. Yes, Tom decided that he would like to buy the kids some new pets for Christmas.

Over the course of the next week or so, I tried to humor Tom. I played along like, “Sure-why-not.-The-kids-would-love-it” sort of thing. When I found out that he was actually serious, I realized that I had put my foot in my mouth.

Days before Christmas, Tom arrived home with two small, little rodents. One was field brown and one was midnight black. I should have known what we were in for when it came time for the kids to “open” up the gerbils. Believe me when I say they were more interested in the box than they were of the gerbils. However, we forged on. It was now time to give the gerbils a name. Some of the kids’ favorite sitters were a nice, young couple named Sarah and Robb. Our 6-year old decided to name her brown gerbil Sarah and our 8-year old named his black gerbil Bob.

In all honesty, Sarah is sweet enough. She’s smart, cute, loves to exercise on the wheel, and most importantly, lets us hold her. Bob, on the other hand…I should have known that his midnight black fur was a sign of something less pure.

One night after the kids had gone to bed, Tom was cleaning out Bob and Sarah’s cage. Knowing that Bob wasn’t the friendliest rodentia, Tom made the mistake of attempting to pet that desert rat. I could only imagine what Bob thought as he saw this giant hand come at him. After all, this was HIS domain. He did what any other threatened mammal would do: He took his chompers and dug it into Tom’s finger. The scene that followed was one that could only be compared to that of a cartoon.

Tom reactively flings his hand into the air, not realizing that Bob would still be attached to it. Bob sails across the room like a Frisbee on a sandy beach. He landed on the floor, near where I was sitting. My eyes grew huge while Tom was yelling at me to get up! Get up! I realized that Bob was somewhere near by body and running around like a mad animal on speed. I half-arched, half-jumped and did this crazy dance to keep from stepping on Bob, as he hopped back and forth, pooping with every step he took. Finally, Tom was able to catch Bob and put him back in the cage.

Tom told our 8-year old the story and at one point, made the mistake of calling Bob a Devil. My son’s eyes grew huge and he was horrified that his dad would say something so cold, so vicious. “Bob is NOT the Devil!” wailed my son. I shook my head and walked away, letting Tom to deal with that shortcoming.

Since that fateful day, Sarah is still a sweet little gerbil, while Bob continues to exercise his chompers any chance he gets, especially on Tom. Yes, Tom still calls Bob the Devil. But rather than saying it out loud, he now whispers it.

When I first started watching reality cooking shows, I was shocked when I saw chefs throw customers out of their restaurants because the customers didn’t like this or that. Often times, I wondered if that act was real or if it was rigged for ratings. Usually, I thought it was the latter. After all, why would a chef go to such extremes to lose current and future business? It goes against my profit grain of thinking.

We all know that chefs can be sensitive, right? After all, it is a stressful, high-demanding job and sometimes with little appreciation. We put so much effort into what we do and we’re proud of our accomplishments. At the end of the day, we would like to think that everyone who eats our food not only likes it, but also thoroughly appreciates it – the planning and execution of it all. Going a step beyond that, we want people to not only love our food, but to fully immerse themselves into the whole culture of how it came to be.

Recently, I read an article about an iconic LA chef named Kazunori Nozawa. Mr. Nozawa is a 66-year old sushi chef (and self-proclaimed sushi Nazi) who is retiring after 47 years in the business. He and his wife own a 25-seat restaurant called Sushi Nozawa that has all the linoleum charm of a coffee shop. Most of the customers who patron Mr. Nozawa’s restaurant (or hole in the wall as his son, Tom, lovingly calls it) know the rules: no cellphones, no texting, no loud talking, no asking other patrons to switch seats, and God forbid, no telling Mr. Nozawa what you want.

As a chef, I can definitely relate to having rules in my kitchen and at catering events: no foul language, respect the ingredients (as well as each other), know your job and do it well. And if you’re a server, God help you if you’re standing around doing nothing. It’s a joke in my kitchen that if you have the option of either burning the food or burning your hand, then burn your hand. (I say this jokingly…but then not jokingly…).

My biggest rule of all, however, is I never have salt on the tables at any dinner party I’m cooking for – professionally or not. At one catering event, I was mildly offended when a guest asked for salt until I was told this guest has a hard time tasting food.

For all the hub bub about Mr. Nozawa’s reputation, the notion of him as the celebrity-blind restaurateur who would evict even the biggest stars is a bit of Hollywood legend, albeit not completely. Mr. Nozawa did eject actress Charlize Theron in 2007 because, while sitting at the sushi bar directly in front of the chef, she kept telling Mr. Nozawa to serve her specific kinds of fish. He told her to stop and just eat what he was serving. She didn’t and got kicked out.

At the end of the day, however, I’d like to think that I’m a little different from Mr. Nozawa. Still the same drive and passion, but maybe a little more lenient, customer friendly and not as sensitive. Just don’t ask me for the salt.

There was a time when my family thoroughly enjoyed my feasts made from recipes of famous chefs. My feasts (aka DesignerDinners) are made from recipes of some of the best including none other than the likes of Eric Ripert, Jean Georges Vongerichten, Gordon Ramsey, Rick Tramonto, and my all-time favorite: the famed Thomas Keller.

Back in the day, when Tom would walk through the door after a long, hard day’s work, and asked me what was for dinner, his eyes would light up with delight when I would tell him what I was making. I guess I don’t blame him because “back in the day,” not only would I do all the cooking, but I would also do all the cleaning. Well, folks, the tides have changed. Yes, indeed. The tides have changed.

Now, our general unspoken rule of thumb is I cook, Tom cleans. I’m not sure how and why the tides changed, but I’m sure not going to argue it. I’m no dummy. You’re probably wondering “what’s the big deal about cleaning up?” Let me put it to you this way. There is a clear, stated difference between cleaning up after dinner and cleaning up after a DesignerDinner. With a DesignerDinner, there are usually five times as many ingredients + five times as many pots/pans = 10 times the mess.

My recent DesignerDinner was a work of art. No lie. I decided to make a classic recipe from the Escoffier era. Let me introduce you to Escoffier, if you’re already not familiar. Georges Auguste Escoffier was a French chef, restaurateur, and noted culinary author. He is a legendary figure among chefs and gourmands and one of the most important leaders in the development of modern French cuisine.

Well, my Escoffier-era dish was Filet of beef en croute with mushroom duxelle. In translation, this is beef tenderloin wrapped in sautéed mushrooms with cream, wrapped in spinach, wrapped in homemade crepes, wrapped in puff pastry and baked to a perfect golden brown.

I was completely in my element as I clarified my butter, made my duxelle, and danced around the kitchen like a mad woman throwing flour around with abandon. I was having a fantastic time until…

Tom walked through the door.

I heard the garage door open then followed by a weary “Hi, what’s for dinner?” I made one comment “DesignerDinner” and heard a soft, but noticeable groan coming from the mud room. I can only imagine what Tom thought when he walked around the corner to see what he saw. His eyes grew huge as he surveyed the kitchen, the mountain of pots and pans on the stove and the shrieks of laughter coming from the kids as they ran around like wild animals waiting to be hunted down.

Yes, the kitchen was a mess. There was flour everywhere – on the counter, on the floor, and even on the dog. (I’ll take responsibility for the counter and floor, but that’s about it. Have no idea what happened to the dog).

I methodically continued to slave over my dish, ignoring the cries of impatience and hunger coming from the two wild animals running around the room. As time ticked on and the impatience and cries grew (this time coming not only from the wild animals, but also from Tom), I sighed an exasperated sigh while muttering “No one appreciates art!” under my breath. Finally, my masterpiece was done and ready to go into the oven.

Let me tell you, the project was worth the wait. It was a gorgeous piece of modern art. I was so proud of it and we wolfed it down like the carnivores we truly are. I could tell by the look on Tom’s face that he was pretty satisfied with the dish and maybe the three hours I spent on it as well as the two hours of his impending cleanup is worth it.

Would I make this dish again? Absolutely! Maybe just not on a week night and maybe with just a little less flour next time.

Now that the holidays are over, I might actually think about doing some shopping for myself. They say the best time to shop is after the season is over, or in this case, after the holidays. After all, everything is on sale and usually you can get coupons for an extra discount.

One thing I’ve noticed since I left the corporate world is that my wardrobe and fashion sense has taken a backseat. Quite a backseat, in fact. There was a time when I may have been in the running for best dressed, but those days are long gone. I’m not much of a shopper, you see, and since my current work attire consists solely of a white chef coat, white apron and black chef pants, there’s no reason for me to look too deep in the aisles at Saks Fifth Avenue or Neiman Marcus.

Don’t get me wrong. Although you won’t see me shopping too much for myself, I still know what looks good. I’m not THAT much of a cave woman. I still like to rock it in my 7 Jeans and black fur-lined boots. (Okay, the jeans were a present from Tom because I just won’t spend that kind of money on myself).

I have to admit I’m not an easy person to shop for. I literally don’t want anything. Gift cards are great, but that’s the extent of it. If I want something, I would have already bought it myself. So when you ask me what I want for Christmas or my birthday, you will always get the same response – “nothing.” And I’m serious about that. I’m not trying to be difficult. I’m not trying to be coy. I’m not trying to be anything. It’s just that I’m at a place in life where I just don’t need “stuff.” I don’t need another widget. Do you know where my widgets end up? In the box going to Goodwill.

But…every now and again, I do admit I yearn for something trendy. Something that says “Hey, you still got it going on. You still know how to work it.” I recently had one of those moments.

Tom and I were recently at the Mall of America during one of the post-holiday-sales trips. At one point, I decided to go look for boots. I love the cosmopolitan look that a nice pair of boots can give you. I like the style it creates. The look of couture. The look of sophistication. This time, I thought to myself. THIS time, I will buy me a pair of THOSE boots. You know of which I speak. Those boots that you would see a celebrity wear while meeting a girlfriend for coffee, all the while pretending not to be annoyed by the paparazzi. Ah, yes. This time I will buy those boots, not the mom boots like I usually do.

As we got near the department, I quickly eyed all the selections available. I saw boots of various colors, with heels, without heels, with buckles, with no buckles, you name it. I spent all of 15 minutes looking. Remember, I’m not a shopper. By the time we left the department store, I had found a pair of boots I liked and looked forward to spending the rest of the winter in them. With my mom boots in tow, we headed home.

Okay, you read right. Mom boots. I know, I know. I’m all talk. At the end of the day, that’s what I feel most comfortable in – and they really were cute. But NEXT time, however. Next time, I swear I’ll get me a pair of those boots.

As I sit writing this blog, I still remember those days in the soup kitchen. I still remember the salvaged ingredients and I still remember that slightly built man. I remember the shame I felt for taking what I had for granted. But in the end, I’ve become a better person from it.

I’m a strong believer in fate. And yet, I know it’s more than fate. I don’t believe that things happen by accident. I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe that everything happens at a specific time for a specific reason. I believe I made some rather idiotic choices during my college years to fully appreciate what I now have. I’ll take it a step further. Not only do I fully appreciate what I have, but I like to think I’ve perhaps done something right once or twice along the way.

Tom and I try to stay active in our community, especially with those less fortunate. We try to find ways to give back whenever and however we can. In some ways, I think it may be for selfish reasons, for me anyhow. With every charity event, with every plate we hand out, with every person we meet, I feel a deeper sense of purpose. I don’t feel like I’m blessing these individuals as much as they are blessing me.

We recently did a charity event for a low-income housing nearby. This organization provides permanent housing with supportive services to their residents. These residents are at this housing shelter because they’ve committed to building better lives for themselves.

For this charity event, we and our small group from church organized a catered lunch and bingo for all the residents. As we were setting up the lunch buffet and table for all the bingo gifts, I was getting pretty excited seeing everything come together. I never take any event for granted. Whether it’s a charity or a high-paying event, I take my catering seriously. In my usual caterer-and-chef manner, I was directing orders to make sure that everything was in place by the start of the event. The room came together and everything looked great. We opened the ballroom door and there was a line of guests waiting.

Lunch went by without a hitch and there was hardly any food left by the time bingo started. Ah…bingo. You would never know how serious a bingo game can get until you watched the residents at this event. One woman knew the rules like the back of her hand that she was starting to direct the game! I leaned back against the wall and watched in awe as the residents played their bingo in earnest. However, there was one particular person that really made an impact on me.

A young man in his twenties was sitting at the far side of the room towards the back. I’ll call him Steve. Steve was sitting by himself and was playing with such fervor that you would have thought his life depended on winning. He had seriousness about him as he was determined to win. The problem was everyone else was winning… but he wasn’t. Game after game rolled by and poor Steve always had an almost full card sitting in front of him. Soon, as luck would have it (okay, luck had nothing to do with it. Tom just thought he needed to help out Steve and gave our Bingo caller some of Steve’s numbers), Steve finally “won.” The fact that he won wasn’t what amazed me. It was what he chose for his prizes that did.

Our prizes were an eclectic selection of “needs” versus “wants.” Steve won four times. We found out later that when Steve first walked in, he eyed the prize table and had his eyes set on three things that he needed: an umbrella, a pair of socks and a lunch box. One by one as he won, he got these three items. Ironically, or not so ironically, the things that Steve needed were always still available. Remember, most of the people in the room won before he did. But yet, the items that he truly needed were always still available. Coincidence? I think not. After Steve got his desired items, he won one final time. What did he choose after he got what he needed? What else? A bag of mini chocolate bars. Steve, unlike most of us, chose first what he needed, not what he wanted.

As I walked out the building that cool October day, I felt the crisp air on my cheeks and the warm sun on my face. That day, I didn’t do anything special for anyone less fortunate. No, it was the less fortunate that did something special for me.

We, as a human race, don’t always think of one another and only think of our own situations. How many times have we gone through struggles in life feeling sorry for ourselves only to find out there are other people around us that are faring even worse? And when this does happen, how many times are we secretly thankful that their situation wasn’t ours?

Over the years, I’ve grown a heart for others. I guess you can say that I am sympathetic to those less fortunate. I want for others what I feel God has blessed me and my family with. And I’m not talking about cars or fancy vacations or any of that mumbo jumbo. I’m talking about basic necessities such as, oh I don’t know, a hot meal and clean clothes.

Before I got into the culinary world, I had my eyes set on the Corporate World. I went to college and double majored in Business Management and Marketing with a minor in French. I figured by the time I was done, I’d have the world in my hands and maybe make history along the way. It was this confidence that not only helped me through my college years, but it also got me into trouble at times, too.

During one particular time, I had a momentary lapse in judgment and found myself doing community service during my early college years. Because of my ill decision-making, I was assigned to perform community service hours at two places. One place was rather odd, where all I had to do was babysit some old pictures in an even older, slightly run-down building. The other place, however, was a local charity that housed both a soup kitchen and clothing shelter. Having never been in a place like this, I had no idea what to expect.

My first day at the soup kitchen was something I wouldn’t soon forget. This kitchen provided dinners Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Lunch was provided on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The kitchen was closed on the weekends. Meals at the kitchen were made from “salvaged” ingredients. Basically, this meant that although the ingredients were still edible, they had reached their expiration date and could no longer be sold in the stores. By using these salvaged ingredients, soup kitchens such as this one were able to provide “fresh” produce and meats, thus providing healthier meals for their guests.

I guess what really stood out to me was not particularly the food that was served or the concept of salvaged ingredients, but it was the people who came through the soup kitchen. You would think it would be only the homeless individuals. Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of these folks. In fact, there was one slightly built man who didn’t appear to be much taller than me, but he must have gone through the line three times. Each time he did, he piled the food on his plate just as high as it could go without falling over. I found out that he was a regular and eating at the soup kitchen was the only time he actually ate, so he had to make sure his stomach was full.

The people that really stood out to me, however, were the “normal” people. People like you and me. People who probably have seen better days and are now faring worse than us. It made me realize how vulnerable we really are. How one minute we could be living a great life and the next…that life is gone, for whatever reason. At that point, I felt ashamed. Ashamed for all that I had and all that I had taken for granted. What I didn’t realize that day at the soup kitchen was how my heart would change from that day forward…

These days everyone wants to be famous…pregnant teenage moms, children in beauty pageants, and yes, let’s not forget the celebrity chefs. I recently read an article by Rachel Forrest and she hits it on the head. Chefs should be cooking in the kitchen, not acting on TV.

To many, celebrity chefs are stepping away from what they’re meant to do. Ms. Forrest is not talking about very accomplished and talented chefs who are nominated for the James Beard Award. She’s talking about the chefs that don’t actually cook anymore. In fact, these days, celebrity chefs are shamelessly promoting themselves doing things that have nothing to do with cooking. They’re on the road traveling around the world. Or they have a daytime talk show. Or worse yet. And this is worse.

They’re acting on prime time television.

If you’re a fan of Entourage, you’ll know what I’m talking about. In the HBO show, Ari, the high-powered agent, and his wife are getting a divorce. Guess who she’s dating? Bobby Flay. Yes. Bobby Flay is playing himself in the show. The writers put in a bunch of stuff surrounding his cooking. The problem is that in real life, Bobby Flay is actually already married to Stephanie March, an actress. So if he’s playing himself (because why would a celebrity chef play anyone else), we have to pretend that it’s Bobby Flay, but not the real Bobby Flay. Just the idea of Bobby Flay. Is it bad to say that the real problem here is that these chefs can’t really act?

A couple of years ago, Tom and I were in Vegas for a catering convention. While we were there, we dined at Bobby Flay’s famed restaurant, Mesa Grill. The server was telling us how cool it was when Bobby would visit the restaurant and come out of the kitchen to say hi to the guests. Come out of the kitchen? When is he ever IN the kitchen anymore?

I don’t dislike Bobby Flay. In fact, I think he is an extremely talented chef who, at the age of 8, asked for an Easy Bake Oven for Christmas. His dad thought this was not gender appropriate and wanted instead to buy Bobby a GI Joe. Little Bobby got both. He later dropped out of high school at the age of 17 and studied culinary arts at the French Culinary Institute. The rest is history.

I guess I can’t call the kettle black when I, myself, auditioned for the Food Network a couple of years ago. But it just seems to be such a waste to me to have someone like Bobby Flay who is so talented in the kitchen act on television shows. Where is the pride, Bobby??

Well, maybe next time I visit Mesa Grill, Bobby will “step out of the kitchen” and come say hi.

We  have a full household. Yes, we do. There’s Tom, myself, our 7-year old son, our 5-year old daughter, our dog Farley and two gerbils named Bob and Sarah. Sarah is actually a boy gerbil. Don’t tell my daughter this. We just didn’t want to have a bunch of baby gerbils running around. You know what I’m saying.

I’ve never been a big lover of animals…that is, until I met Tom. He loves animals. All sorts. His dream job would have been to be a veterinarian working with dogs, cats, turtles, snakes, what have you. He would have LOVED it. Instead, he’s the IT Director at a major corporate firm. Funny how life works.

Don’t get me wrong. Tom is very good at what he does. In fact, he’s good at anything to do with computers, whether it has anything to do with work or not. Take the time he fixed my dad’s computer when, while trying to relocate the computer, my mom rips the mother board out of the back of the unit. Yes, Tom fixed that. Or what about the time my computer crashed with all my catering stuff on it? I’m talking about thousands of hours of blood, sweat and tears down the drain (or so I thought) as I watched my monitor turn completely black for the last time. Yes, he fixed that situation too. But when it comes down to it, he would rather be fixing an injured animal over fixing a hardware component any day. This brought back memories of the time I tried to replicate Tom’s love for animals and tried to help one myself.

I went to pick the kids up at school one day last spring. As I was walking into the school from the parking lot, I noticed a turtle crawling along the curb, heading for a nearby sewer drain. I knew the turtle would not make it past the grates of the drain and fall to its doom. I wanted to help the turtle, but I get squeamish touching “wild animals,” if you will. As I looked around for something to use, I saw a plastic Target bag float by and grabbed it. I put my hands in it to use it as “gloves” and quietly approached the turtle from behind. My intention was to grab the turtle and carry him over to a nearby pond, thus setting him free and heroically saving his life. Okay, it didn’t quite happen that way.

The turtle was inches from the sewer drain and within moments, I knew he would be doomed. I quickly bent over and reached for him. I must have scared him because as I reached forward to grab him, he sensed my touch and lunged forward, sending him down that dreaded sewer drain. He landed with a thunk. My heart stopped because I figured he would be dead. I nervously leaned forward and looked down the drain. There he was. Alive as could be…but stuck in the sewer drain. I did the only thing I could think of.

I called Tom and asked him to pick up a head of lettuce on his way home from work…

I could only imagine the look on his face with his eyes rolled and with a sigh of exasperation, wondering why the heck I would need a head of lettuce. Tom finally drove into the parking lot, walked over to the drain and looked down. He looked over at me then quietly walked into the school.

Tom returned with a sledge hammer, crow bar and workman’s gloves that he got from the janitor. I moved out of the way and let him get to work. Before you knew it, Tom moved the turtle back to the safety of the pond and had the sewer drain cover put back on.

At the end of the day, the kids thought he was a hero and I knew that Tom felt a certain sense of joy knowing that he helped that turtle, one of God’s creatures. Okay, I may not have done the turtle any favors but I did save a head of lettuce.

I’ve somewhat become a creature of habit. I’ve never really been this way until the last five years or so. I usually like to try new things whether it’s where we travel, what I order in a restaurant or even what I plan on doing for the afternoon. However, I’ve noticed that I’m starting to do the same things over and over again. My latest trend, if you will, has to do with what I eat when I’m working.

The last couple of years, I’ve become a repeat customer to a Chinese restaurant down the street called Rainbow. In my opinion, Rainbow has one of the best wonton soups around. My order is not only a repeat for them, but also very specific: wonton soup with mein noodles and pickled mustard greens. Oh, and please don’t forget the hot chile sauce on the side because I WILL send you back if I don’t see it in my take out bag. (My staff knows this all too well when they go to get our take out order).

This meal has become such a staple for me when we’re catering that I actually crave it before I even arrive to work. The question in our kitchen is not where should we order for lunch? The question is what time are we ordering wonton soup from Rainbow? Sure, I may tease my team about the possibility of ordering from a Greek or Caribbean place, but in the end, it’s the same thing every time. I think it’s safe to say that I’ve influenced my team enough that now when they place their order at Rainbow, it’s for wonton soup. Sure, they may add their own little twist to their soup concoction, but let me be clear, they still order wonton soup. All this is interesting to me considering that I usually never like to do the same things twice.

Whenever I create a menu for a client, I like my menus to be inspired and influenced by many things. Of the hundreds of events we have now catered, I can honestly say that we’ve never done the same menu twice. Never. The menus may have similarities here or there but it’s never the exact same menu from beginning to end.

The menus I write is influenced by many things: the season, the trends, the colors, even what I may have seen on TV or in a magazine. But what truly influences me? One may think it’s the celebrity chefs on reality TV or maybe the glossy gourmet magazines that may grace the inside of my mailbox. Although the answer to this question may appear obvious, it surprised even me.

My son is 7 and my daughter is 5. They have extremely different palates. My son enjoys sautéed duck breast and can recognize that my new breath spray “is spicier, but has less flavor.” My daughter, on the other hand, thinks ketchup is spicy and loves that darn macaroni and cheese from a box! What they both have in common on a culinary level, however, is that they love salads with ranch dressing. Yes, ranch dressing. AKA American Ketchup. They love this stuff and eat it with many things: salads, veggies, whatever. Heck, they’d put it on my roasted beef tenderloin if I’d let them.

Yet, somehow, I’ve noticed that my menus will in some way or form reflect my kids. My son’s favorite meal of “meat sticks” (see my blog called Meat Sticks) is one of our most popular grilled hors d’oeuvres. Our most popular shrimp hors d’oeuvre came as an inspiration one day while watching my daughter at the age of three play with her food. I guess my most telling sign of what influences me came one day when, at a restaurant, I ordered a side salad to go with my meal. The server asked what kind of dressing would I like. My answer is normally something along the line of sesame vinaigrette or honey poppy seed. Not this time. No, this time my answer was a little simpler than that: “Ranch, please.”