My dad never needed to say much—he showed me.

How to lose with grace, and win without gloating. He would say, “Paddy, there is always a winner and always a loser.”
How to lace up my cleats and face the day, even when it didn’t feel fair.
How to work hard, be kind, and get back up when life knocks me down.

He was my coach in baseball and life.
He literally handed me the steering wheel and watched with one hand on the dashboard and the other over his eyes.
He still shakes his head wondering how I ever got a license. And I still laugh… because I wouldn’t be where I am without him riding shotgun.

He gave me the Red Sox. He gave me the Patriots. He gave me his time—over and over again.
And in the quiet moments, in the way he cheered, the way he listened, the way he never gave up on me—I learned what love looks like.

Then there’s Larry—Jackie’s dad.
He’s the kind of guy who fixes your car without being asked, takes down a palm tree like it’s nothing, and helps anyone who needs it—no hesitation, no fuss.

He built A&H Rentals in Chicago from the ground up with his dad, and he still shows up early, works hard, and makes one hell of a pulled pork.
He doesn’t brag. He doesn’t need to. But when he fires up the grill, or grabs a wrench, or moves through the world with that quiet strength—you know exactly what kind of man you’re looking at.

Watching him taught me that legacy isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s measured in consistency, in presence, in feeding people right, and never letting anyone fall behind.

And I’ve been lucky.
Not just one dad, but many.

Bill Green. Tommy White. Mr. Masterson. Mr. Cronin. Paul. Roger.
All the uncles who played wiffleball, golf, and box hockey. Who made the trip to Florida. Who reminded me, in big ways and small, that I mattered.

The kind of men who didn’t just shape my life—they made it better.

And I’d be leaving something out if I didn’t mention the ones who came before.

Ganka—I only had him for a few years, but I remember sitting on his lap steering the car, or riding the lawn mower on the way to the social club where he played cards. Quiet moments that stuck.

And Grandpa Frank—a proud Navy man with Popeye forearms and a deep love for history and newspapers. He carried himself like the past still mattered, and it did.

They didn’t just pass things down. They passed things forward.

I carry all of them with me in this kitchen. In the food. In the work. In the way I try to build something that lasts.

This isn’t just a recipe collection.
It’s a thank you.
A tribute.
A table set with intention.

If you’ve had a man in your life who showed up—quietly, consistently, imperfectly—then this table is for you too.

Pull up a chair. There’s room for you here.