Vacations weren’t part of my childhood the way they were for most kids I knew. While my friends packed up for the coast or flew off on ski trips, my mother, who taught art to other people’s children, was too busy stretching her meager paycheck to dream of beaches or mountain slopes. We made one trip to New York to visit her parents, and every so often kind friends would invite us to tag along on their beach vacations. Those moments felt like winning the lottery. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, I carried the memory for years.
In 1971 my mother made one of the best decisions of her life. She bought a small lot a couple of blocks off the Pascagoula River and set a mobile home there with a little boat tied up at the marina. It became our fish camp. By today’s standards, with high-rise condos stacked like Lego blocks along the coast, it wouldn’t look like much. But for us, it was paradise. Summers in the 1970s were spent water skiing, crabbing, fishing, and being with family and friends. For a boy who didn’t have the means to take the kinds of trips other kids enjoyed, that fish camp was better than any resort. That was vacation.
By the next decade, the fish camp gave way to borrowed beach houses, and the cast of characters grew larger.
In the 1980s, our getaways shifted to Gulf Shores. My mother had a friend who let us borrow her beach house for a week at a time. Those weeks usually included my mother, my grandmother, my brother, his wife, their children, and eventually my girlfriend who became my fiancée and then my wife. They weren’t restful. My mother, brother, and I were all cut from the same cloth—Type A to the core. We could never agree on what to do, and it often ended in arguments. It was exhausting at the time, though now I’d give anything to argue like that again.
Back then, I was trying to keep a restaurant afloat while working ninety-hour weeks. Rest has always felt like one of those hobbies other people are good at, like golf or meditation, while I sit there wondering what I’m supposed to be doing with my hands. For me, a change of scenery has always meant a different set of restaurant menus to evaluate.
As the years wore on and the restaurants found steadier footing, I finally had a little breathing room and a little pocket change to travel.
In the 1990s, I finally started making a little money. My wife and I began traveling on our own—a ski trip in the winter, a week on the beach in the summer, and the occasional New York trip built almost entirely around restaurant reservations. I’d sit in a New York dining room, notebook out, sketching ideas and writing down menus while my wife tried to enjoy dinner, but that’s always been my version of romance: less candlelight, more menu analysis.
Our daughter was born in 1997, and with her came the classic parental mistake: taking a two-year-old to Disney World. She had no clue what was going on, and we were hemorrhaging money at a rate that could have funded NASA, bought the moon, and installed a waterslide on it. Four years later our son arrived, and we made the mistake again—and again. Looking back, I probably could have paid off the mortgage if I’d skipped Disney and built a roller coaster in the backyard. But the kids loved it, and in those years that was enough. By the time they were in elementary school, though, we traded in the theme parks for something better: one week every summer at the beach.
Those trips to the Florida Panhandle were rooted in my own history with the coast. I had lived there twice in my single days—once in 1983 when I was still drinking, and again in 1987 when I was four years clean and sober, just before opening the first restaurant. Returning with my kids was different. It meant something deeper. I wanted them to have the kind of vacations I never had. I always made sure they could bring friends along. That was my way of paying forward the kindness other families had once shown me.
As the kids became teenagers, those vacations took on a new flavor. My daughter’s friends were always sweet and easygoing. My son’s friends, on the other hand, could eat more food than I thought humanly possible. After a day in the hot sun, those boys could consume an entire refrigerator, the contents, the shelves, and possibly part of the light bulb. And that’s coming from someone who once weighed 285 pounds and knew his way around a refrigerator.
When the friend groups faded and it was just family, my wife still packed like we had a half-dozen hungry teenage boys in tow. She shopped as if we were preparing to open a small Costco on the Gulf Coast, complete with free samples and a forklift. It might have made sense to eat what we brought, but of course we didn’t. Nothing says vacation like ignoring your groceries to overpay for hush puppies. We always ended up making daily runs to the grocery store, which by midweek had its own checkout line labeled “St. John Family.” And being a restaurant guy through and through, we were going out to eat most nights, no matter what.
No trip was ever perfect. I griped about the cost, worried about the work piling up, and sometimes missed the joy right in front of me. But in hindsight, those things don’t matter. What I remember most isn’t the hassle—it’s the time together. If I could go back, I’d tell my younger self to slow down, to appreciate the moments more, to stop worrying so much. The value was there all along, whether I recognized it or not.
Now, I sit here with my son, my daughter, her husband, and my wife, and I see it clearly. We’re still making memories. I may not love the sand and the heat anymore. I get enough heat back home, and I’m not looking to add more sand to my life. But I do love this place. This is where I learned the language of a kitchen, in the clang of iron pans and the bite of hot grease, long before I ever had the nerve to think I could own one. This is where I lived before I straightened up and got clean and sober. And this is where I’ve shared more out-of-town hours of family time than anywhere else.
I’ve come to see that vacations don’t have to be far-flung or fancy to matter. What makes them lasting is the time spent with the people we love. For a boy who didn’t take many vacations, it feels like a blessing to have shared so many with my own family. Looking back, it wasn’t the beaches or the food that stayed with me, but the sound of people I love, laughing in the dark, their voices carrying like hymns over the water. That’s what endures, and that’s what I’m most grateful for.
Onward.
Baked Potato Quiche
Serves 6 to 8
I call this recipe “Comfort quiche.” It’s perfect for a cold December evening. The great thing about quiche is that it can be prepared in advance and held cold in the refrigerator or frozen up to a couple of weeks. When the holidays are hectic and the house is crowded, this quiche is perfect as a lap meal in front of the fireplace served alongside a light salad.
1 recipe pie dough (or a store-bought version)
3/4 pound red potatoes, 1/2-inch dice
4 ounces thick-cut bacon, 1/4-inch dice
4 green onions, sliced thin
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves, chopped
8 large eggs
3/4 cup heavy whipping cream
3 tablespoons + 1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh ground black pepper
4 green onions, sliced thin
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves, chopped
4 ounces sharp Cheddar cheese, shredded
4 ounces Havarti cheese, shredded
1 cup sour cream
1 tablespoon fresh chives, chopped
Remove the prepared pie dough from the refrigerator. Lightly flour a clean working surface and place the dough in the center of the floured surface. Lightly dust the top of the dough as well. Begin in the center of the dough and roll upwards towards 12 o’clock, then downwards towards six o’clock. Rotate the dough 90 degrees and repeat the process. Apply more flour as needed to prevent the dough from sticking to the surface or the rolling pin. As your dough begins to resemble a circle, use the rolling pin to define the shape. Roll the dough into a 16-inch circle. Use the rolling pin to transfer the dough to your pie dish. Press the dough firmly on the bottom and up the sides of the pie dish. Using your fingers, crimp the dough along the top of the sides and trim off any excess dough. Chill in the refrigerator while making the filling.
Preheat oven to 375° F
Place the potatoes in a small saucepot with three tablespoons of salt and enough water to cover them by two inches. Bring to a simmer over medium-high heat. Cook until slightly tender, about 12 to 14 minutes. Drain the potatoes and set aside.
In a medium-sized skillet, cook the bacon over medium heat until crispy. Drain the grease and set aside.
Whisk together the eggs, whipping cream, remaining salt, pepper, green onions, and thyme. Remove the pie shell from the refrigerator. Place the potatoes and bacon in the prepared pie shell. Whisk the cheese into the egg mixture and pour over the potatoes and bacon.
Bake for 40 minutes then remove the quiche from the oven. Using aluminum foil, tent the sides of the crust and return the quiche to the oven for an additional 10 to 15 minutes. The center will jiggle just slightly when the edge is tapped when done.
Allow the quiche to rest for 20 minutes before serving.
