This Work Was in Me Long Before I Was a Chef

What’s up, my Eaters! I hope you all are doing well.

Recently, I was recognized by Slow Food Atlanta with their Snail of Approval Award.

Slow Food is an international nonprofit organization committed to preserving local food cultures, supporting small producers, and promoting food that is good, clean, and fair.

Each year, this award recognizes culinary and food professionals who have demonstrated a commitment to those values through their work.

The award came after an exhaustive selection process that took about two months.

When I received the notice that I had been selected, I didn’t quite know what to think.

All sorts of thoughts and feelings began to surface—some good, and some not so good.

I started thinking about a few of the previous recipients—widely respected and successful Atlanta establishments such as Miller Union, Evergreen Butcher and Baker, and Gunshow, to name a few.

And if I’m being honest, a little bit of impostor syndrome started to creep in.

Even after making it through the same selection process and being officially notified, I found myself questioning how—and why—I had been chosen.

Over the next couple of weeks, I sat with that designation and thought about it deeply.

And slowly, that impostor syndrome began to fade.

I began to see—and recognize—precisely why I had been chosen.

See, this designation wasn’t just the result of a lengthy application, a vigorous interview, or a selection process that took place over the last couple of months.

My designation process started decades ago.

My grandfather owned markets in Jamaica that he stocked from his own farm in the early 1900s.

I grew up in New Jersey—the Garden State—and, true to its name, every year we helped my dad plant and maintain a huge garden.

What else would you expect from the son of a farmer?

I started thinking about the countless hours I spent during the spring, summer, and fall—sometimes alone with my dad, sometimes together as a family—fishing and crabbing.

There’s something special about growing up in a place where you can go out and catch or harvest your own food in abundance whenever you want.

I also thought about the first time my parents took us to a farm to purchase animals that would eventually feed our family.

I know now it wasn’t a farm I would source from today, but I remember the overwhelming sense of gratitude that came from watching those animals be harvested—and again later, each time we ate that meat.

Whether we were fishing, crabbing, or sourcing from the farm, I also remember appreciating the freshness and seasonality of whatever the harvest was.

So when I think about this award now—and as I walked into the ceremony—there was no longer any impostor syndrome.

I now know exactly how and why I had been selected.

It was clear: the pillars of Slow Food—preserving local food cultures, supporting small producers, and promoting food that is good, clean, and fair—have been a part of me my entire life… and even before.

I was excited to see who the other recipients were.

I was proud of myself for the recognition.

The other chefs came with a level of notoriety earned through years of hard work and dedication.

And while I, too, have put in a tremendous amount of work and dedication, what I may lack in notoriety, I now realize I make up for in heritage and legacy.

But most importantly, I was confident that I belonged.

Not because of the exhaustive selection process—

but because this work has been in me for a long time.

Long before I ever knew I was going to be a chef.

So, my Eaters, as I close this week, I want to encourage you with this:

Wherever you are.
Whoever you are that needs to hear this—

Don’t let comparison steal your joy.

You are worthy.
You do deserve it.

Your story is your story.
And it’s not over.

You can.
You will.
And you have. It is in you.

It’s okay to be proud of yourself.

I’m proud of you too.