Father’s Day has come and gone, at least according to the calendar. But I’m still carrying it with me.
There wasn’t a big moment this year. No slow morning at Table 19. No movie with the kids.
I was in Atlanta with my wife. We had brunch at one of my favorite spots—pancake the size of a hubcap—then caught a flight home late that afternoon.
That’s how it goes sometimes. Just because the day looked different didn’t mean it meant any less.
I didn’t see my kids, but I heard their voices. That was enough.
My son called from Chicago, where he’s been working in kitchens and steering his own path. He’d been cooking all weekend for some big-deal James Beard Awards event, but he carved out time. We talked like fathers and sons talk—about food, work, and a little bit of everything. Nothing dramatic. But solid.
My daughter was tied up in a wedding. She’s at that stage where all her friends are getting married—or she is. Still, she picked up the phone and called. We talked for a while, covered a lot of ground. Some serious, some light. All of it real.
When you’re a dad, you learn fast that the best parts don’t come gift-wrapped. They sneak in when no one’s looking. A quick text. A shared look. A laugh you didn’t see coming. That’s where the good stuff lives.
I became a father at thirty-six. I had wanted to be one since I was a teenager.
That might sound odd. Most teenage boys are thinking about cars or sports, not parenthood. But I lost my dad when I was six—one day he was here, and a few weeks later he was gone. Brain tumor. Fast and quiet. Like a door closing.
My brother and I were the only kids in our Sunday school class without a father. Each year on Father’s Day, they handed out boutonnieres. One color if your dad was alive, another if he wasn’t. I don’t know who thought that was a good idea. I wish I’d had the guts to say no. But I didn’t. I just wore it and kept my head down.
I don’t know when churches stopped doing that, but I’m glad they did. Some traditions need to die.
I didn’t grow up bitter. I never threw a pity party. I just knew, even early on, that if I ever got the chance, I wanted to be the kind of father I missed out on having.
When that day finally came, I didn’t take it for granted. Still don’t.
I’ve worn a lot of hats—chef, restaurateur, author, tour leader—but none mean more than “Dad.” It’s not even close.
My son and daughter are grown now, out in the world doing big things in their own way. They couldn’t be more different, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. My son is steady, focused, driven. My daughter is bright, thoughtful, sweet, and funny. They’ve each taught me more than I’ve taught them. I’m better because of them.
Fatherhood doesn’t clock out. There are no timecards or vacation days. It’s always there, running in the background, no matter what else is going on in life.
And I wouldn’t change a thing.
I didn’t grow up with a father, but I wasn’t completely without guidance. There were a dozen men in our neighborhood who stepped in over the years. They gave advice. Offered correction. Showed up when it counted.
And then there was my mother. She never remarried. Raised us on a public school art teacher’s salary. Went back to school for her master’s degree while figuring out how to keep two boys in line.
She didn’t know a thing about football or hunting. So, she did something better. She scraped together what little she had, bought a trailer, and parked it down near the Pascagoula River. Said she could learn to fish with us. And she did.
That little fish camp gave me some of the best memories of my life—and taught me more about food, family, and joy than any classroom ever could.
But even then, I didn’t fully understand what it meant to be a father until I had kids of my own.
And when I did, everything shifted.
Father’s Day doesn’t always come with pancakes or presents. Sometimes it’s a missed call or a seat left open. But it’s never been about the day—it’s about the life around it.
I’m not handing out wisdom here. I don’t have a sermon. Just perspective, and a little gratitude. It’s a few days after Father’s Day and I’m looking around and feeling thankful.
I’ve messed things up. I’ve had moments I wish I could rewind. But I’ve tried to show up. I’ve tried to be steady. I’ve tried to make sure they never had to wonder if they mattered.
That’s what counts.
That’s enough for me.
So, to every father out there who’s showing up—quietly, steadily, without fanfare—I see you.
To the new dads, the tired dads, the empty-nest dads, the stepdads, the solo dads, the uncles, the across-the-street neighbors, and the ones who stepped in when no one else would, you matter. You’re needed. And even if no one says it—thank you.
Father’s Day comes once a year. But being a dad? That’s every day.
And I’m thankful for all of it.
Back then, that little boutonniere felt like a quiet way of saying what everybody already knew—we didn’t have what the other boys had. Nobody said it out loud, but there it was, pinned to our shirts like a label.
What we didn’t know, couldn’t have known, was that one day we’d get to wear a different kind of badge—we’d get to be the dads.
And that changed everything.
Onward.
