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.

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.

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.

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.”

Tom and I recently bought bikes. Yes, I know. Everyone these days owns a bike. The United States has approximately 30 million bikers, to be exact. But what makes our situation a little more unique is the fact that the last time I owned a bike was when Columbia 10-speeds were in style. Yes, back in the 80’s. Now, there’s nothing wrong with Columbia bikes, per se. In fact, I’m very proud of my old bike.

We were one of the few kids in the neighborhood growing up that didn’t have bikes. No, bikes were luxury items. It didn’t quite have the same prominent stamina such as food and clothing. Most of what we had were generally hand me downs from church families. When my mom got her first $500 bonus from work several decades ago, it was a big deal for her and my dad. After all, it wasn’t long before that when we escaped from Vietnam ravaged from war. As you can imagine, $500 was a lot of money for them, especially back in those days. One of the first things ma did for us was to buy my brothers and me 10-speed bikes. I remember my bike clearly. It was a boy’s bike, with a bar going across the top of the frame with curled handle bars. It was crème brûlée in color with a dark brown stripe. It wasn’t the most high-tech bike in the neighborhood, but I was proud of it and most importantly, it was mine.

Tom and I have been talking about buying bikes for several years. We thought it would be so fun to have bikes so we can go on family bike rides with our kids. We could never justify it because there were always more pressing items of which we needed to spend our money. We never thought that bikes were a necessity. What finally made me decide to buy bikes for us was watching Tom and seeing him wistfully watch other families in the neighborhood as they biked by, going on their family bike ride. After one particularly stressful day at work for Tom, I figured it was time. Tom works so hard for his family and never spends money on himself. I figured that I would spend the money for him, so we headed to the local bike shop.

Walking in was a bit of a bike-culture shock for me. There were hundreds of bikes everywhere. I don’t know where my mom bought our original bikes but I can’t imagine there were this many selections and after looking at the price tags, I can’t imagine our bikes cost this much either. There are some things in life that are here today, gone tomorrow. There are other things, however, that should be considered investments. I knew our bikes would be the latter. We walked out the store that day as proud bike owners.

Since then, Tom and I have thoroughly enjoyed our new toys. We’ve taken our bikes on numerous adventures, solo as well as those long-awaited, well-deserved family rides. I can’t describe the freedom I feel when the wind blows through my hair as we coast along beautiful trails. And the peaceful look that Tom has on his face is priceless.

Those early days of bike riding many years ago on my first real Columbia bike is not lost upon me. My bike back then didn’t have the bells and whistles that my current bike has. But what my Columbia bike did have was heart. It had heart because it was bought with love from someone who wanted to give to her kids before she gave to herself.

It is with this same love that I wanted to buy a bike for Tom.

Okay, although that may not be a surprise to most who know me, but let me explain to what extent I dabble in gastronomy, or the art and science of good eating. In many of my previous blogs, you now know that Tom and I will travel great lengths to eat at destination restaurants. We’ve thoroughly enjoyed ourselves at numerous establishments around the country stretching from Beverly Hills to one of the food meccas of the world (and our all-time eating paradise) New York City. I can honestly say that I probably have one of the most diverse palettes of just about anyone out there. I can (and have) eaten some of the worst to noshing on some of the best in the world and everything in between.

I’m a strong believer that you can’t know what good food is unless you’ve tried bad food. If all you have is good food, then how do you know it’s really good? Wouldn’t it just be average? I mean, what do you have to compare it to? However, many people probably wouldn’t go to the extent that Tom and I go through. In fact, some people might find it downright moronic to spend more on one meal then some people spend on a mortgage payment. It’s what’s in your taste, really, and what drives you. However, I never thought my “thing” would be taken to an extreme.

Tom and I moved into our new home last November. We worked with an interior decorator to choose all the selections inside and outside our home. When it came time to do the exterior, the decorator talked us into a color palette that I wasn’t really comfortable with. It just wasn’t us. It wasn’t quite unique enough. However, in an attempt to keep the momentum going, we decided to go with the decorator’s suggestions.

Last minute, however, I had a bit of a panic attack and decided that I didn’t like the exterior colors after all. That spewed an ongoing process of hiring a new interior decorator as well as finding new exterior colors. After countless meetings and near hair-pulling for me and Tom, we finally decided on the new colors.

Well, the magical day finally came. The painters arrived at our house to start the painting process. Over the course of the weekend, Tom and I watched the painters do their magic. We watched as they transformed our unpainted, raw James Hardie-siding house to a flourish of colors in a span of a few days. Everything was starting to take shape and the colors held a beauty of their own. Throughout the process, however, I watched with intrigue as our house was starting to resemble something that was strangely familiar, but I couldn’t exactly put my finger on. As the painters were halfway done, it finally dawned on me what this something was.

I looked at Tom and uttered two words: Spanish olive.

Yes, my “thing” for food somehow, subconsciously, affected my decision in choosing the paint colors for our home. At first I was a little unsure of the resemblance, but now I’ve embraced it. Why not? It’s perfectly apropos, considering what I do for a living. Hey, it could have been worse. It could have been salmon color to represent my love for fish or black to represent caviar. Rather, it is a palette of colors rivaling the best of salad bars. So now I can just tell people to look for the giant Spanish olive in the cul-de-sac. You can’t get more unique that that.

Lately, I started thinking about a friend I met in culinary school years ago that I’ll call Joe. At the time, Joe was a young man in his early 20’s. I didn’t meet him until I was in my final quarter at culinary school. We were in a couple of classes together. The first time I saw Joe, I thought he was a bit arrogant and I questioned whether he truly had any culinary abilities. He threw pots and pans around like he knew what he was doing but I knew better when I saw how he mishandled beautiful sea scallops like it was chopped liver.

As I got to know Joe better, I found him to be a friendly, helpful and sincere person. He wasn’t the best cook, but he tried. Unfortunately, not everyone saw what I saw. He was picked on mercilessly by a number of the students. Joe just didn’t know how to stick up for himself.

One time, I noticed that Joe had been absent for several days and I wondered where he was. He finally showed up late to class one morning and quickly slid into a chair. During a break, I asked Joe where he’d been and he said he had not been able to sleep. I assumed it was from late-night partying and that he just couldn’t get up for class. He said no and rolled up his coat sleeve. There, on his arm, were signs of being mistreated at home. My heart was sad for him and I didn’t know what to say.

Over the course of the rest of the quarter, I got a number of opportunities to talk with Joe about his situation. With the help of a couple of friends, I was able to get Joe contact information about a support shelter just in case he ever needed it. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was grateful. Labs finally ended and I was now officially done with culinary school.

And that was the last time I saw or heard from Joe.

Every now and then, I wished that I could have stayed in contact with Joe. I would have loved to introduce him to Tom and the kids and see what he was up to. As I sit and write, I wonder how Joe is doing and whether he ever called the number on the card that I gave him.