Sometimes I catch flak from my daughter. My wife gives me a hard time, too. They say I overshare on social media—pictures of sandwiches, sentimental nonsense, folksy food memories no one asked for. And I do. But they keep reading. They keep watching.
If I ever disappear, I assume it’s because they finally staged an intervention over my food posts.
This past Friday night, I made myself a BLT. A simple sandwich, the classic, and the kind that tastes better when made in the middle of a hot Mississippi summer. I posted a photo of it, naturally.
Before the mayonnaise had dried on the bread, my daughter texted me. “Will you make me one of those sandwiches?” she wrote. All of a sudden those food posts she ribs me about had purpose.
That’s the payday. That’s the currency of fatherhood—not praise, not plaques, not perfect posts—just a daughter asking for a sandwich.
The answer was yes. The answer will always be yes.
I told both my kids long ago: if you want to go to the bookstore, the record store, catch a movie, a ballgame, or just talk—the answer is yes. Always. You want a sandwich? If I have two slices of bread and anything to put between them, the answer is yes. Every time.
The next day, July 4th, she came to the lake house, and I made her that BLT.
I used fresh tomatoes from the farmer’s market—purchased by my mother-in-law the day before. I used bibb lettuce from Salad Days, the hydroponic farm in Flora, Mississippi, that supplies all our restaurants. That living lettuce is something special. Still growing when you bring it home.
I didn’t have any of Alan Benton’s bacon in the freezer—need to fix that—so I used what we had, and it still did the job. Crisp. Always crisp for a BLT. The bread came from our own Loblolly Bakery. We bake sourdough loaves every day—used to be just three days a week, but demand kept climbing. We’d sell out in the first hour. We added days, still sold out. Then we doubled production and can finally keep up.
That sourdough changed everything in my kitchen. I spent years making sandwiches with grocery store bread. Once you’ve had real bread, you realize everything else is just edible packing material. Anytime I traveled and found a bakery, I’d stock up on artisan bread and freeze it at home. For years, we just didn’t have a local bakery making quality bread at scale. Now we do.
And of course, the sandwich got a generous slather of Blue Plate mayonnaise. That’s non-negotiable. It’s what my mother used. What my grandmother used. What I use. Add a heavy sprinkle of salt and pepper. Simple. Basic. Perfect.
While my daughter was eating her BLT, I made myself a roast beef sandwich. She watched me build it, still chewing on hers. She didn’t ask for it. She just looked at it long enough that I knew she would. And then gave me a look like it had no business being on my plate instead of hers.
When I was about to finish the first half of mine, she asked, “Can I have a bite?”
I handed her the second half.
She ate it all. I finished her BLT.
She’s always been good at sharing.
There are moments in parenting that rise above the others. Milestones stick out, of course—but sometimes it’s the quiet ones that hit hardest. For me, those moments with my daughter come when she seeks me out for advice. That’s when I know something’s serious.
She and her mama talk every day. All day. Before she was born, I heard all the stories from friends about “Daddy’s girl, Daddy’s girl.” But in our case, she’s always been a mama’s girl. And that’s just fine with me. I wouldn’t trade the bond those two have for anything.
My wife and her late sister were closer than most siblings. They were best friends—inseparable. That same kind of bond exists between my wife and our daughter. It’s not something I could ever replace, nor would I want to. But when something’s weighing heavy and my daughter comes to me for counsel, it feels like the highest form of trust. The greatest compliment.
Just as she shows me love in moments like that, her brother—less quiet, less reserved—has his own way of saying it.
My son and I have something similar. He’s close to his mother too—always has been. But he and I connect on a different wavelength. Our conversations are shorter. More to the point. Usually about the restaurant business, career advice (almost all one-sided from me), movies, podcasts, or health stuff.
One of the greatest moments of my life came when he was about ten. My mother-in-law had taken him to lunch while she was visiting. When they came back, he ran upstairs. She walked into the study where my wife and I were sitting, and somewhere in the middle of the conversation she dropped a line that still resonates stronger than most.
She said, “That boy sure loves and respects his dad.”
It wasn’t dramatic. Just a simple sentence. A one-off. She might not even remember saying it. But I remember.
Because you don’t say something like that unless the child’s been saying a whole lot of good things when you weren’t in the room. He must’ve been talking me up—maybe even bragging on me. Not to my face, not for show, but when I wasn’t around.
That’s the kind of love that doesn’t need to be seen. Love that looks up and respects.
And I’ll tell you the truth. I’ve made a little money, chased down some dreams, stacked up a few titles, plaques, and trophies they like to mention in introductions and bios. But none of that means a thing compared to hearing, even secondhand, that my boy respects me. Period. End of story.
That’s the good stuff. It’s the one thing I crave more than money, accolades, or status— The respect of my family.
That moment lit something up inside of me that no award or business milestone ever could.
Over the years, I’ve collected a lot of titles—restaurateur, entrepreneur, producer, writer, and a dozen other things that sound good on paper. But none of them come close to “Dad.” That’s the one that matters. That’s the one that stays.
And now, as my daughter carves out her own life—building a home, growing a career, learning the rhythms of adulthood—I think back on that sandwich.
I think about how it wasn’t just a BLT. It was time. It was intention. It was a quiet offering that said, “I’m still here. I’m still yours. I always will be.”
So yeah, the answer is yes.
It’s always yes.
Come to the lake. Sit at the counter. Let me toast the bread and stack the layers. Let me use the good lettuce and the tomatoes from the market.
Let me make you a sandwich.
Because even when the world feels loud and busy, even when it spins faster than it used to—
A sandwich made with love can still say more than a thousand words ever could.
Onward.
Pork Tenderloin Po Boy
1 tsp Paprika
1 tsp brown Sugar
1 Tsp Kosher Salt
1 tsp Chili Powder
1 tsp Dry Mustard
1 tsp Black Pepper, freshly ground
1/4 tsp Ground Cinnamon
1 tsp Ground Coriander
1-2 Tbl Olive Oil
2 Pork Tenderloins, approximately one-pound each, cleaned and trimmed
6 8-inch French bread or Sourdough Roll, split down the middle
2 cups Green Leaf Lettuce, shredded
3 Roma Tomatoes, slice thinly
1/2 cup Red Onion, shaved paper thin
1 Recipe Chutney Mayonnaise
Combine the dry spices in a small mixing bowl, blend well.
Lightly brush the tenderloins with the olive oil and spread the dry spice mixture over the pork. Press the spice mixture firmly into the pork.
Prepare the grill and cook over direct medium heat until the pork is barely pink in the center, about 15-20 minutes (155 degrees). Turn the pork 2-3 times while cooking.
Remove the pork from the grill and allow to rest 5-10 minutes. While the pork is resting, grill the po boy bread for 1-2 minutes on each side.
Spread the chutney mayonnaise on the toasted bread. Slice the pork into one-eighth inch thick slices. Place several slices of pork on each roll and top with shredded lettuce, tomato and red onion.
Yield: 6 sandwiches
Chutney Mayo
1 Tbl Olive Oil
2 Tbl Yellow Onion, minced
1/4 tsp Salt
2 tsp Garlic, minced
1/2 tsp Curry Powder
2 Tbl Sherry
3/4 cup Chutney
3/4 cup Mayonnaise
In a small sauté pan, heat olive oil over low heat. Place the onion, garlic, salt and curry powder and cook for 1 minute. Add sherry and cook until almost dry. Remove from heat and cool completely.
Once the cooked mixture is cooled, combine with the remaining ingredients. Store covered and refrigerated until ready to serve.
Yield:
1 1/2 cups
