I shrugged.
“Someone who doesn’t have money?”
She gave me a patient look.
“I see somebody’s child. Someone whose mother probably spent years worrying whether he had enough to eat. Maybe that mother isn’t around anymore. So for a little while, someone else needs to care.”
She returned to her work.
“Today, that someone is me.”
Mom passed away eighteen years ago after a brief battle with pancreatic cancer.
Near the end, she held my hand in her hospital room.
“You’re going to build something worthwhile one day,” she whispered.
“I hope so, Ma.”
“Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Whatever you build, never forget the hungry people.”
I promised.
It took nine years before I could truly honor those words.
I worked my way from dishwasher to prep cook and eventually became a full-time chef.
I changed restaurants several times, learning everything I could.
My wife, Denise, worked long nursing shifts while I attended evening culinary classes.
