I had never thought of it that way.
Back home, my family always made fun of how slow I ate. Dinner was a race in our house—who could clear their plate fastest, who could get seconds first, who had practice, who had a meeting, who had somewhere more important to be.
That moment with Mrs. Winthrop stuck with me. Maybe because it was the first time someone had framed something about me as… interesting.
Special, even.
I’d already developed a habit of sneaking into my mom’s kitchen whenever I could. I’d tie on one of her aprons and mess around with whatever I could find—cutting fruit, whisking sauces, trying to follow recipes I’d printed off the internet.
That usually lasted until my dad got home.
The moment he saw me there, he’d grab the apron strings and yank them loose. “The kitchen’s no place for a man, Ryan,” he’d say. “Leave that to your mother and the help.”
Still, I snuck back in every chance I got. Late at night. Early mornings. Whenever the house was empty.
I studied everything I could find online about gourmet techniques. I wasn’t interested in just being a good cook. I wanted to understand the craft—how top chefs thought, how flavors were layered, why certain textures worked together and others didn’t.
Flavor profiles.
Knife skills.
Sous-vide.
Emulsions.
Fermentation.
I devoured every cooking show in existence. If there was a documentary about a Michelin-starred chef somewhere in the world, I’d watched it twice. Most of them were men, by the way,dad.
Over the years, I got good enough to impress friends and family. Not anywhere near the level of a classically trained chef, but enough that people started requesting things.
Still, the whole journey—the constant hunt for the perfect bite—became something more than just a hobby.
It became an escape.
Because from the outside, my life looks charmed.
Prominent Southern family—my father’s a long-running star in North Carolina politics, currently serving his third term in the U.S. Senate and quietly preparing to launch a presidential campaign in the next couple years.
Mommie dearest is a socialite who could host a charity gala for five hundred people seemingly without breaking a sweat. That’s because she did not, in fact, break a sweat. She hired people for that.
Two successful sisters that run an event planning business together. Honestly, those two were my only lifeline in an otherwise suffocating family.
And me.
The golden boy.
The quarterback.
Perfect American family, right?
Except it’s all plastic. A put-on veneer. A glossy magazine cover version of reality. And I hate it. That’s why I chose Arizona for college.
On purpose.
Three time zones away from the stifling expectations of uber-wealthy Weddington, North Carolina, and the endless parade offundraisers, donors, and political strategists who always seemed to be circling my father like sharks.
When Arizona picked me up in the first-round of the draft, I jumped at the chance to stay. No way in hell I was going back east.
