NC Part 3

Before I carry on about the dinner in Charlotte, I want to sidetrack ever so briefly to explicate on my travel time between Minneapolis and my first stop in North Carolina. For the two-hour airplane ride, all I brought with for entertainment was my laptop. I hadn’t written a post in over a month and was overdue on some stories and life events that I’ve been holding on to, and I wanted to spend the entire flight tapping away. When the seatbelt sign went off, I reached into my carryon and pulled out the computer and switched it on. Log on failure. Reboot. Or some shit in computer jargon. I rebooted several times, and looked around me to see if anybody else shared in my frustration. I hit F12 upon suggestion from my screen and it performed a diagnostic at which point it told me there was no hard drive. “Hm.” I said. And I picked up the device to see a large gaping hole where once had been some sort of drive. Well, the hard drive. “Shit.” I wasted no time in packing it up, and saving my search for when I was in a hotel room. I did find it in the bottom of my carryon, and clearly I'm back to writing.

I decided to pay for internet service for the remainder of the flight, so I got my phone set up to the point where I could pay, and then a message appeared stating internet wasn’t available on this flight.  And that’s the end of the suspenseful intermission; now to the conclusion of our dinner.

The salad was a success, but not liked by everybody at the table. My former coworker, who was with us for the early arrival and now for the remainder of the conference, noted that it was just a house salad with some honey mustard dressing, although the enoki mushrooms were on point. Yes, Tim. Good call. He was right, as we picked it apart verbally, we realized it was just mixed greens rolled up in a cucumber, sliced on a mandolin for a fancy pattern. The bacon was dry, the dressing was plain. Enough.

I may mix up the order of the next few dishes because only one of them wasn’t underwhelming. I’ll start with the fish dish. Steelhead trout is a salmon-like fish from the ocean, whose freshwater version would be the rainbow trout. It’s flavorful, delicate, and can be cooked like salmon. Ours was fully cooked. It was served with a curried carrot broth or puree—I can’t recall. It was served with baby white carrots, which the waitress refered to as rainbow carrots. Since that moment, all white objects we have seen have been pointed out as rainbow colored, much like the space inbetween the words I’m typing now. There were also two, randomly plopped Brussels sprouts, and a sprouting of bull’s blood for garnish. Bull’s blood is a small, acidic, leafy red green that also garnished our soups, and we would see a theme moving forward. There was no color play, and the broth—we believe—was also a pear base, which we guessed because it had the same consistency as the soup, and if you took out the curry, perhaps even the same flavor.

Hi, I'm bull's blood.

The servers and the sommelier were on point the whole time, never leaving a  cup half full, and always eager to talk. We didn’t ask the questions we should have because I think we were all anticipating some grand main course.

Intermezzo: Raspberry sorbet: Cooling, palate-cleansing, quite delicious; simply plated and garnished, I have no complaints so I’ll move on.

The duck. The fucking duck. Here’s the first rule in cooking duck: start with a cold pan and let it work slowly. There is a large portion of very render-able, very crisp-able fat that lies over the breast meat. Our duck breast fat had sort of a gelatinous body to it, and the only crispiness came from some sort of glaze that was caramelized over top. This means he seared it in a hot pan, giving the fat no time to render. There was another pear-based sauce at the bottom, and I was fantastically disappointed in every bite except for the asparagus. It was smoked—I think, and it had great flavor. Oh, this was all topped with bulls blood.

 

 

 

And then it was time for dessert, which deserves no time for a lead-up. It was just crème brulee. It was not very good, and there was far too much of it.

No, we didn’t complain about it at the time; maybe partly because my two companions were bribed into submission with “splashes” of wines from around the world, or maybe because we in foodservice tend to not complain. The truth is, it was a fun evening. We were surrounded by awkward silence from the get-go, and as the wine kicked in, our table encouraged others to speak up, and the atmosphere became livelier. I made some pretty good jokes throughout the night like when I asked the sommelier if they carried Alize. He either didn’t hear me, or he did and chose not to answer. We had great conversation about culinary trends, club members, and life. I got to announce to my former coworker—and I’m announcing this to the public now—that I was recently promoted to Executive Sous Chef at my club, and that this was a huge opportunity to learn, and make some changes and create some fun dining events and experiences for members who thrive on new things. But enough about that for now.

We paid our tab—Over $200 for me, and more for the wine drinkers, and we left. We made fun of the five stars on the sign, and we never looked back. Our respective companies will reimburse us for all of the food we purchase on this trip, so we aren’t out the money. What we lost was the truly unique experience that should have come from a tenured, passionate chef. I haven’t decided if I’ll leave a review anywhere yet, but here is my opinion from somebody who knows about the food that we ate.

3 out of 5 stars. They earned one extra star on service alone.

Fortunately, not all food in North Carolina is overpriced and boring. Remember, I came here for BBQ, and I found some last night that I won’t soon forget.

To be continued…

Charlotte Part 2

I began day two at 5am with a trip to the local Snap Fitness. As I wound my way through what reminded me of the pine-tree forests of northern Minnesota, I pondered the night before, and what had happened. I wondered if anybody else felt the same way I did, and if it was worth more conversation. Throughout the rest of today, our dinner last night was on the topic frontlines, and I’ve been waiting patiently to write about it all day.

Last night the three compadres that arrived early to the Chef to Chef conference in Charlotte, North Carolina to explore the city and try fine food spent the last few hours of the evening at the McNinch house. The restaurant is an 1892 Queen Anne style home of the Victorian-era Charlotte Mayor Sam McNinch. For 30 years, the house has served escalated food in a fine-dining formal environment. All I knew of the place was that they required a jacket to dine. About two weeks before my trip, I went out all by myself and purchased a big boy suit just for this event.

We donned our formal attire and strolled out from the parking garage we eventually found—never try to park anywhere in Charlotte. We stopped at a tavern and the boys I was with tried some local bourbon and perhaps something called an old fashioned. I drink tap water from a fancy glass bottle that they poured into a small tumbler. After a few rounds, we walked a few blocks through the character of a busy and well-populated urban sprawl. As we approached the restaurant, we all noticed that the only person we could see inside from the sidewalk was clearly not wearing a jacket. It was okay, we would be the best-dressed gentlemen of the evening.

We strolled into the reception area where we perused the local and national accreditations. There was a review from Zagat’s that was rather flattering and generous in my opinion with their point system. There were many local awards, and letters, all adorned with varying degrees and arrangements of stars or points, some were based on a maximum of five points, and some 10. All ranged near the top.

We noticed immediately that it was very quiet. Guests were whispering, and I felt immediately that  I would break the silence with a perfectly timed fart or bump against a china hutch. We were greeted by a friendly host/server, and taken to our table which was decorated for royalty. Beautiful china, actual silverware, fancy folded napkins, etc… I don’t know the terminology for many things I saw there, so I’ll use the term fancy where appropriate. The host was also a server, and everybody working seemed to be working together and we were greeted by them all, including the wine steward.

One thing that I mention from time-to-time is that there are days and events where I really wish I could drink like a normal person. Wine is a thing I’ll never understand. I know I like the smell of it, and I know there’s a whole culture and side of my profession that I can never be a part of because I’ll take it too far. So when the sommelier greeted us, I asked him politely to take my glasses away. I didn’t tell him why; I didn’t have the time.

Shhhh, inside voices please. Only violin played overhead as the S's, T's,  and stifled laughter were all to be heard from other patrons. We were given menus and we quickly decided we wanted the five-course Chef tasting at $189 each to include wine. 20% gratuity would be added automatically at the end. The description stated that, if we were seeking the ultimate experience, we would encounter a variety of flavors and ingredients, as well as sensations, technique, and stellar service. We were sold.

The first course—amuse bouche—came out in a small porcelain cup. It was a pear soup with a crumble of raspberry stilton. It was divine. It was fruity, bright, deep, and rich. It felt perfect as it coated my tongue and stuck around to tease me with a mouthfeel of fat and salt. It was a flavor that would present itself in nearly every remaining dish; a theme if you will. About every five minutes, the sommelier would stop by and ask the other two gentlemen at the table if they would like, "another splash?" The answer was routinely affirmative. For the purpose of a recovery-based blog, I'll limit my writing of wine and drinking unless if feel it is integral to a particular story.

The second dish was also soup. Yes, two soups. This is where I had my first problem. The soup was cream of artichoke. Subjectively, cream soups should be smooth. The artichokes were left in, and I kept chewing until I felt as if my next step would be to blow a bubble. There was very little or no acid—not vinegar or citrus—to brighten it up, and overall I thought it lacked in visual appeal. I didn’t even take a picture. I actually didn’t take a picture of either soup. It’s soup. I washed the blandness away with a chug of fancy bottled water, poured into a crystal water glass; on to the salad.

My favorite segment of the dinner visually, was the mixed green salad with braised enoki, and bacon vinaigrette. It was the only dish that seemed to have any local flair in that the dressing was a mustard-based vinegar sauce. The presentation was flawless, and the salad went down without a fight. This was my first picture of food at the restaurant.

I didn't feel comfortable using my flash, so some of the pictures could appear rather drab 

One cherry tomato could have really taken the plate to another level, but as we would experience, there was only one level.

To be continued...

Charlotte Part 1

Up, up, and away we went. The city below shrank and the pressure in my head and in the cabin grew until I popped it with a yawn; my head, not the airplane cabin. I popped it like it’s hot. Just a two-hour flight and we arrived at our destination. Everybody outside the airport in Charlotte, North Carolina was dressed in parkas and face masks, but I had on only a T-shirt and jeans as I strolled out into the spring sun.

A coworker and I had been given this opportunity to travel for work to the annual Chef to Chef conference a few months ago, and it seemed so far away back then, but here we are at the Country Inn and Suites in Matthews, NC. Yesterday was optional in that it wasn’t part of the conference, we just wanted to come explore and enjoy some local food. My main goal since I printed my itinerary was to find the smallest BBQ joints and hole-in-the-wall smokehouses I could and eat my way through a city.

I got off to a good start yesterday about two miles from the hotel at a side-of-the-road shack called Stallings Rockstore Bar-B-Q. I could see the neon sign from a few blocks away and I could also see that it appeared to be a small operation in a beautiful 1930’s renovated stone gas station. I couldn’t actually see that part, but that’s how Google described it. We pulled the rental into the small parking lot, and wandered into the small dining room where we were greeted by a literal Mom and Pop family welcome. I ordered some of everything, my coworker ordered a half-rack, and we went to town.

Now, for those of you that don’t know, BBQ is a little or a lot different everywhere you go. Some regional BBQ that I’m familiar with and what I try to imitate when I cook at home are  St. Louis, Kansas, and Carolina. St. Louis is more sticky-sweet whereas the Carolinas present their food with much more mustard and vinegar. In Kansas City you can expect a lot of dry rub to finish. All BBQ has a place in my heart, but I’ve never been able to try it in its own origin. So I was excited.

I was also disappointed. Not in the meat. The chicken was perfect. It was tender, juicy, flavorful, and with just the right balance of sweet and vinegar with a healthy dose of mustard sauce. Very little smoke flavor presented itself, but there was just enough to know it wasn’t simply cooked in a n oven. The pork was average in that it was shredded and soaked up the sauce as it should. And the rib-tips were exceptional and full of smoky flavor. When ribs are cooked properly, they should not literally fall off the bone, they should be tender enough to peel away from the bone with little effort. It’s a fine line and they nailed it. Again, I added extra mustard sauce, which is my favorite of all BBQ sauces.

It was the sides that fell short for me. The slaw seemed to be just cabbage, roasted red peppers, and vinegar. And if I dug around in their recycling bin out back, I would put my paycheck on finding an empty #10 can of Busch’s Baked Beans. The worst part was that they didn’t even doctor them up, Most of my professional cook friends who may read this know exactly what I mean; we’ve all done it. It was an unsatisfying end to a good start.

I’m certainly not done trying; I’ll need to find at least three more similar places to dine before I leave this place.

We finished up, cleaned up our table, and thanked the owners for their southern hospitality. As I would find out later, we aren’t truly in the south. Not many people here have the stereotypical accent, which should have been my giveaway.

We had big plans for the night, we were meeting up with a former coworker for a fine-dining experience at the McNinch House, which was adorned with dozens of local and national critic awards and stars and medallions and whatnot. We had made reservations three months in advance, and I even bought a suit because a jacket was required to dine.

That will be part two…

This is a 2016 Dodge Grand Caravan. It's blue. The only differences between it, and the van I own at home, are the color and the license plate. I arranged to rent a 5-speed Hundai Accent, so we could zoom to and fro, but when we arrived at the airport rental agency, they had only one vehicle left to rent: my dad-van.

Congratulations!

4am comes early, 4am to be precise. This morning I awoke to another Minnesota blizzard, and braved the storm to go to the gym as I normally do on my days off. I’ve been a busy boy. I’m at the tail-end of a complete financial makeover. When I got out of prison, I accumulated an incredible amount of debt acquiring a lifetime of needs, and the debt continued to climb when we bought a house. I’m talking about credit card debt; the worst kind. We are at a point now where we no longer need the aid of high-interest cards to obtain our livelihood, so I consolidated all of it into a much lower interest rate loan. I pay about the same every month, but I pay a lot more toward the actual debt.

I have also refinanced the minivan and the house into lower-interest loans. It actually costs quite a bit to lower the payments, but the numbers added up to significant savings over the terms of the loans. The house was appraised at $10k over what it was last time, so we have more equity right off the bat.

I said in a meeting the other night that I was astonished that I was capable of even starting these tasks, let alone credit-worthy. A lot has changed over the past 5+ years, and I am happy to settle into this cozy life for a while before I try the next big thing.

 I should mention that I am still working on the basement wall, which has all of the drywall up and the first coat of mud over the tape. If it weren’t for great neighbors, I would have been lost in a mystery of angles, measurements, and electrical maneuvering. I still don’t yet feel confident to tackle the upstairs bathroom, but maybe when the basement is done, I’ll give the old tile a knock-down.

 

In unrelated news, I recently became a certified ServSafe instructor and proctor. This means I can teach the course required for the Minnesota Food Manager’s certificate, and administer the exam itself. I suppose the exam is the requirement for the certificate, but I’m not using backspace today, buddy. I have yet to make a certified proctologist joke at work or at home, but it’s coming.

It’s a complicated process, the course management. I haven’t fully figured it all out. There are hundreds of pages of instructions and information that I haven’t quite assembled in my head yet, but I will keep reading until I understand what to do and build confidence to schedule my first class.

As I’ve written in previous posts, I am also a HACCP manager, and I’m still in the works with the Health Department to get my first plan approved. I’ve sent in my third revision, and I have high hopes that his time I won’t have missed any scientific data. I have typed clostridium botulinum so many times, I didn’t even have to right-click on a red underlined mistype to get it right. I had to draw by hand something called a process flow diagram because I am so computer program illiterate that I couldn’t figure out how to make boxes with arrows with words in them. But hand-drawn is an acceptable format for the health department, so I sent it. Maybe I’ll get a gold star or other type of congratulatory sticker for my artwork. I can only hope.

 

And finally, speaking of congratulations, I am sick of being congratulated for things I haven’t done. Specifically, every day I receive an email from PayPal that congratulates me for qualifying for a 2% back credit card. Looking closer at the advertisement, I’m actually being congratulated for the opportunity to apply. I’ve accomplished nothing, and I believe PayPal is diminishing the effect of the word which should only be used to recognize bronze or higher Olympians. Or, to take this to the extreme, here is a short list of tasks and small accomplishments that I believe deserve a congratulations and a handshake:

1.       Getting a haircut

2.       Using a coupon

3.       Completing a one-season show

4.       Sneezing

5.       Eating most of a meal

6.       Reading this blog post

 

Congratulations everybody! You really should feel like a winner.

20/20

Finding time to write has been rather difficult over the past month, to say the least. Work has been hectic, and it feels like the girls have been out of school and daycare for weeks, which I suppose is partially true. Yesterday I put in my longest day of the year, as I always do on New Year’s Eve. The club has its annual elaborate last dinner before the (some of the) members go off to their cozy cottages in Arizona and Florida, and for the next three months, we recover, create, and plan for the coming summer.

Here at home, I’ve been working on a project—since before the wedding, Amanda might add—that has tested my patience and my pride, but it would appear that I am winning and have made significant progress over the past week or so.

 I decided on a warm summer evening that I wanted to see what was behind the wood paneling in our basement, so I peeked. Then I peeled, and then I demolished the entire wall. I wanted to put up drywall so as to modernize at least part of the unfinished basement, so a neighbor came to help me put up a frame on which we could attach said gypsum board. Whilst building the frame, the radiator in front of the project sprung a leak, and emptied the contents of our heating system onto the basement floor, requiring an HVAC worker to spend significant time sealing and re-charging the system. While he was here, I had him replace some old and deteriorating pipes since they would all be sealed back up in the ceiling presumably for the rest of my life. I also had them move the radiator out another three inches so we could more easily maneuver around it while working. Problem solved. I am grateful we have plenty in savings for such emergencies, and I must say that our heat appears to be working much more efficiently—or at the very least less expensively.

Some time passed after the wedding, and the project lay in repose for months until finally I got the bug to start up again. The frame is finished—again with much assistance—and I even ran new wiring and outlet and sconce boxes along the wall. It looks good. It looks ready for drywall. Now, don’t tell anybody about the wiring I did because I don’t exactly know the rules about wiring your own home. It’ll be our secret.

In the next few days the Sheetrock will go up, we will tape, mud, and sand, then prime and paint. Next up is the trim, ceiling repair, and we will be ready for carpeting. We will then have significant finished space in the basement, as top, bottom, and walls will all be in place.

I wrote all of that telling no jokes, which isn’t really like me. It’s 6:43am, and I’ve been up for over two hours. It’s been a trend as of late, for me to get up early. I’m usually out of bed and moving around before 5am. I’m not overly tired during the day, but I definitely go to bed earlier than I did in my younger days, and I go to sleep days earlier than I did when on meth.

 

2019 was a rough year for our family. I’ve written that it included four funerals and we lost the family dog. It was also a year of happiness, as Amanda and I married, and we became an official family. The girls are wild-non-stop, but it’s a cheerful chaos that I love coming home to. They look up to me—because I am way taller than them—and I support them in every way possible. Little Emme started pre-K this year (for which we are responsible for payment?) and she is making waves of progress, albeit in semi-frustrating increments. Counting to ten was hard for her until recently, which was difficult to deal with because I can count well into the lower 50’s only missing one or two numbers. She’s progressing as any normal kid does, and we are very proud of her.

Ella is in dance and Girl Scouts, and she loves math and reading. She is an incredible artist and is  loving toward her friends and family. She’s curious about the world, and is eager to explore the big cities.

Amanda, my wife, has succeeded in her new job as F&B Manager (a title we believe only exists on her business card.) She, too, has made leaps and bounds coming out of her shell, and being more open and communicative with me. She has an understanding that I care about her thoughts and opinions, and that I value her as my partner in this little family. We parent well together, although imperfectly. Every day the learning curve seems to adjust or tilt upside down altogether, but we make it through, and face another day.

I made it through another calendar year without a drink or a drug. This past Thursday I went to the county jail to bring a meeting to the inmates inside. Some days are better than others in these meetings, and this one was particularly rough in that there was a lot of pain in the room that needed to be addressed. I only get an hour, and I will likely never see them again, and my only hope is that they glean one thing that at least makes them think that there is hope.

After a man spoke about what I perceived as unresolved resentments involving nearly everybody in his life, I told him about how I used to hang on to that shit, too. And after some time in prison, a few meetings, and some step-work, I was able to let go of it, and actually repair the relationships I had with those I had harmed. The 4^th step is pretty amazing; it gives one the opportunity to see the mistakes you made in a relationship, so you know what you need to make amends for later. It lets you turn the page on how others have wronged you, and opens the door for restoration. After my speech, he remained quiet. Introspectively, I hope he understood that he could have his family and friends back with a lot of hard work, and some significant abstinence.

I apologize daily for things I have done, whether I think I am wrong or not. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to win a fight. I’d rather be happy than right, and I’m not always right so I guess I’ll shoot for happy in 2020.

One last thought. Restraint of pen and tongue has gotten me through some situations that could have been escalated by angry verbiage. They say hindsight is 20/20, so how about this year, wait. Don’t react; just take a day to think about what somebody has said or done to you, and use your hindsight real-time. It might save you from resentment, which will inevitably lead to anger, unproductivity, and diarrhea.

Happy New Year, everybody! May this be your best year yet.

Dear Santa Clase

As Mr. Ives and Mr. Crosby were singing their holiday tunes, Ella was writing something on a piece of paper in the kitchen while I was folding 700lbs of laundry and Emme was caterwauling her own melodies. Ella folded the paper, placed it in an envelope, and sealed it with a sticker and a bow. On the front, she wrote, Dear Santa Clase. (Sic.) (Word also recognizes the typo.)

Ella said, “Daddy I wrote a letter for Santa.”

“That’s great!” I replied. “How are we going to send it to him?”

She countered, “I’ll give it to Elf on the Shelf and he can bring it to him tonight.”

Shit.

And that’s why I’m writing this now.

You see, I am Santa Clase to these little girls. Amanda is also Santa, because girls can do anything now. In fact, sometimes she identifies as Santa when we make love. It’s more for me than her. But I digress.

Playing the role of Santa required me to steal the letter from the clutches of Elf, re-seal the envelope so as not to give away my malfeasance, and read it while they were in the bath. It goes like this:

                Dear Santa,

Thank You so much for sending bubble gum. I just asking if you can give us anouther elf on the shelf. And how did you become Santa? Can you tell me how. And a big big thank you for giving children gifts every year it must be hard to do it before the sunrise.

Love: Ella Thrawl

Well that’s fucking adorable. (And what bubble gum? Oh, shit. Bubble gum is the name the girls gave Elf.) And it’s full of wonder and gratitude. And now I get to write a letter back to her in the words of Santa theyself.

Since I can't figure out how to download a Santa letterhead template and type on it, I'll just write out what I'm thinking here, and hand-write her letter for Elf to give her tomorrow.




         Dear Ella,
You're welcome for Bubble Gum! He is one of a kind, and we only make one for each family so there are no extras. He has been telling me a lot of funny stories about you and your family. You must have a crazy dog, and maybe a very energetic little sister. He tells me you are doing really well for the most part. You need to keep listening to your parents, and helping out wherever you can.

I guess I've always been Santa. I can't recall a time when I wasn't. It certainly goes back well before the Bible indicates that time started... So think about that.

And you are welcome! It is a tough job getting to all of the houses before the sun comes up, but I have a lot of help from the elves and the reindeer. Donald, Vixen, Simon, Theodore, etc.

Ella, you are a good little girl, and it sounds like you already have a tree full of presents. I hope you have a merry Christmas, and if you keep being the wonderful kid you are, your tree will be even more magical in two weeks.

I have to go, we have a lot of work left to do!

Love,
Santa


Now, I probably will leave out a few of those sentences, but that's the gist of it.

This Christmas, the tree is full, the house is happy, and the girls will have everything they want. I am seriously in awe of what this little life has become since I left the cage. This is the life I wondered if I could have. 2019, aside from several funerals, is the best year I've lived as my new self. I can't wait to see what 2020 has in store for us.

Good night,

Santa Clase

Never Gave Up

I did it. I successfully deep fried a 23lb turkey without burning a house down. It took some measuring, a dry turkey, and some patience while dropping it into the vessel. It was glorious, and the result was a fantastic, crispy-skinned bird that had a nutty sweetness to it unlike a traditional turkey. I made some black garlic mashed potatoes, glazed Brussels sprouts, and played around with a charcuterie board. Overall it was a great afternoon with some wonderful neighbors and our nuclear family.

I did miss my monthly opportunity to bring a meeting to the McLeod County jail, but there are many important factors that swayed my decision to stay put. There will be many more 4^th Thursday’s of the month, and I will be sure to get there as often as I can because, well, it makes me feel really good when I walk out of there. Not just because I’m entering and leaving a jail without handcuffs, but because of what I glean from those incarcerated men and women. They have a perspective on recovery that I can relate to, and I can truly say that I understand what they are currently going through. Every time I go, there are different people there which always makes me wonder where the last batch went. I assume some have gone to prison, some back home, and maybe some have stayed sober, and probably some have not. But I can tell you that when a person is locked up, they speak a lot of truths about themselves that probably would remain hidden under a canopy of addiction. When there’s nowhere to go, people tend to let more out. When people are at the end of a road that got them arrested, and willing enough to go to an A.A. meeting with a stranger, they somehow feel comfortable letting things out that they have been holding onto, and with that torrent comes the flood, and then a glimmer of hope and happiness.

I remember the first time I felt hope in a long time, a long time ago now. It was at an A.A. meeting in prison, and I was with a group—obviously—of guys that were hardened criminals, had lost everything, had no connections to their families, etc. The moderator, who was a volunteer, said he had been in the same boat years earlier, and felt hopeless. He said there was nothing he thought he could ever do to lead a normal life, and that he wanted to stay locked up forever. But he didn’t. He kept going to meetings, worked up the courage to write letters, reconnected with his family, and so it began: life. I listened in awe. My story was not identical, but there were certainly things I thought impossible, and things I didn’t think I could have or do. I wondered what I could accomplish. So I decided not to be lazy, and commit to going through the boot camp program. And I never gave up.

And here I am, five years later, with everything I need, a lot of what I want, and a willingness to help others do the same. That’s the message I want people in these jail meetings to hear. With a lot of hard work, all is possible.

That’s my short story of the day, it’s time to go make dinner for these two little girls, and wait for my wife to walk through the door of our home.

Fuck yeah.