A Boy’s Journey to Becoming a Chef

Introduction

A combination of childhood events, places and southern food influenced my decision to become a chef. I grew up in Mississippi and some of my favorite stories are about times when food and life experiences crossed paths to create an impression, attitude and beliefs that are still with me today.

Excerpt from later chapters...

My great grandfather had placed a box of his famous tomatoes in the truck the previous weekend. My dad ordered me to climb from the front to the back seat of his Bronco and “fetch” him one of the giant tomatoes from the box. With a big grin on his face, dad managed to hold the steering wheel and tomato in one hand while holding a saltshaker in the other hand. I watched in amazement as dad ate the tomato as if it were an apple, lightly salting and savoringeach bite as we drove along the Trace.

Excerpt from later chapters...

Two men with razor sharp buck knives went to work on her, as I looked on in full attention. As they split open the chest cavity and stomach, a man pushed me towards the deer and shouted, “Grab that, don’t let it fall.” As I stood holding the inners of the deer, I felt a vomit sensation coming over me, but I knew I had to hold down previously eaten food. A large man with bloody hands told me to put the inners in the “gutbucket”, a large tin bucket designated for the guts of deer. Only later did I find that the whole process of holding the inners was unnecessary. After the deer was cleaned down to its smallest parts, I noticed that the men standing around me were whispering to each other. Nervousness over came me as I began to shutter and slowly began backing away from the hunters. At this point I clearly heard one of the men say, “Boy, where you think you going?” I was already in a full sprint towards my father’s Bronco with ten or so men following on my heals. As they gained on me, I had no alternative other than to hopelessly dive under the barbwire fence in front of me. As the men grabbed my ankles and dragged me across the gravel, true fear ran through my veins. Kicking and screaming the men returned me to the gutbucket, ripped off my shirt and performed the traditional blood ritual. They poured the blood in my mouth, rubbed the blood all over my body, and shoved the inners down my camouflage pants. After the attack was over I rolled over, lifted myself from the blood soaked ground, picked the guts from my pants and slowly gained my composure, as I knew my initiation was over.

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