Friday, September 28, 2007
“My grandmother kept me while my parents worked. In the morning, the kitchen was bustling and the aroma was overwhelming. She lived near a paper mill, so we heard the whistle blow for lunch. At that point, we’d jump into the station wagon, the back filled with boxed lunches. Upon arrival, I’d issue the boxes one after another while my grandmother collected the money. When I saw the expressions on the peoples’ faces after they bit into the barbecued chicken, I knew I wanted to cook for a living. I wanted to share that emotion. After all, food isn’t just food. It’s a feeling.”
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