Fourteen years ago, my wife, 10-year-old son, 14-year-old daughter, and I packed up a few suitcases, flew to Sweden, picked up a Volvo at the factory, and set off across Europe. Just the four of us. Six months on the road. Different towns every week. Hotel rooms, VRBOs, ferry stations, and cobblestone streets. I had planned it for two years, but once we got moving, it still felt like we were making it up as we went. New places. New food. New ways of doing things.

It changed how I see the world.

I had already been writing this column every week since 1999—for those who are counting, that’s 1,352 columns and counting, without ever missing a week—and that didn’t change overseas. At the end of that first week abroad, I typed a word at the bottom of the column. Just one. 

Onward.

Didn’t think much of it at the time. Just hit send and moved on. But it felt right. We were always in motion. The next week, I typed it again. And again.

Fourteen years later, it’s still there. Every week.

Back then, it made sense because we were always moving. But looking back, I see now—I’d been living that word long before I ever wrote it.

That trip had its share of worn-out days. I remember one afternoon—bags in hand, everyone tired, nothing open, wandering a little lost. Eventually we found a small place and sat down to eat. The applesauce was excellent—maybe it was the relief, or maybe it was just good apples.

That night, I sent in the column with that same word at the bottom. At the time, it just meant “keep going.” But looking back, it meant: “We’re going to be okay.” Just keep moving. One more step.

That feeling has come back repeatedly—during my years in recovery from alcohol and drug addiction, and especially during the harder seasons in the restaurant business. When nothing clicked. When I tried something and it flopped. Tried again and it still didn’t land. I opened places. Closed places. And kept going.

There wasn’t a blueprint. Just stubbornness.

It wasn’t brave or clever. I just didn’t know what else to do. And looking back, that’s where most of the meaningful things started.

Some years, the ideas didn’t catch. Bills still came. Staff still needed to be paid. The path forward wasn’t clear. But quitting never crossed my mind. Not once. That’s just not how I was raised.

So, I kept showing up. Kept adjusting. Kept working. Eventually, we figured it out. Then we figured it out again.

These days, I wear a cap most places I go. A dad hat. One word stitched across the front: Onward.

People ask. I just say, “It’s how I try to live.” If they persist, I’ll tell them more.

To me, onward means you don’t quit. When something doesn’t work, you try again. You don’t wait on perfect conditions—they rarely show up. You work with what you have. You do what you can. Then you do it again tomorrow.

I used to think forward motion meant pushing harder. These days, I know it can mean standing still long enough to learn the lesson. Sometimes it means shutting something down. Starting over. Saying, “I was wrong.”

I’ve hired the wrong people. Opened too soon. Closed too late. Said the wrong thing. Stayed quiet when I should’ve spoken up.

But I’ve also been lucky. I’ve had good people around me. A team that believed, even when I almost didn’t. Family that never left. Friends who showed up. And a whole lot of grace I didn’t deserve.

Outside of my family and friends, most of the meaningful things in my life came from showing up, doing the work, and grace that came through people who cared.

Most of what matters doesn’t wind up on a balance sheet. It happens in the little things. A server remembering a guest’s name. A cook pulling through a short-handed shift without complaining. A quiet “thank you” at the end of a long day.

That’s where the work is.

After 44 years in this business, I still don’t have it all figured out. Still learning. Still trying. Still messing things up and doing my best to make it right.

Now, I’m starting a new venture. It’s called Onward Hospitality.

The name isn’t a brand strategy. It’s just the truest thing I could call what we’re building.

We’re going to open restaurants that feel like home. Create travel experiences. Explore food retail. Maybe even hotels. Whatever makes sense—if it’s rooted in real hospitality. The kind that feels honest. Where the food’s good, the people care, and the culture runs deep.

We’ll train young people. We’ll continue to treat guests like neighbors. We’ll do it the right way, even if it takes longer. That’s the plan. No gimmicks. No shortcuts.

Most folks who walk through our doors—or buy something we made—may never ask what the name means. And that’s okay.

But the people who work with us? They’ll know. They’ll feel it.

The goal is to build something solid. Something rooted. A place where the values don’t shift with trends. Where the purpose runs deeper than the menu.

Most mornings, I put on that hat with Onward stitched across the front. Not for show. Just as a reminder.

Doesn’t matter how good or bad the day before was—there’s still work to do today. Still people to serve. Still a team to care for. Still something meaningful to build, even if it’s something small.

I think back to that trip through Europe. We covered a lot of ground. Some days were picture-perfect. Some were long and uncertain. But we kept moving, one step at a time. We learned as we went. We adjusted.

And even when it got hard, we made a choice—to live in the solution.

I didn’t know it then, but I was laying the groundwork—not just for this word, or this column, or this next chapter—but for how I want to live.

That word stuck with me. It followed me through long nights in restaurant kitchens, quiet mornings in empty dining rooms, the hard seasons when nothing seemed to work, and the sweet ones when everything finally did. It carried me through failure and grace and reminded me—repeatedly—to just take the next right step.

I’ve been given more second chances than I deserve. But if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: none of it happened alone.

The lasting things in my life—outside of family—have come from showing up, doing the work, and the steady kindness of people who believed in what we were building.

That hat I wear every day isn’t about toughness. It’s about gratitude. It’s about living in the solution.

Gratitude for the people who helped carry the load. Gratitude for the lessons that came, even when I didn’t want them. Gratitude for the work—because the work itself is the blessing.

So, I keep going. Slowly sometimes. Imperfectly, always. But forward.

One step at a time.

That’s enough.

Banana Nut French Toast

Ingredients:

1 large loaf French bread, sliced on a diagonal into 1 ½ inch thick pieces.

Batter

6                 Eggs

2 cups                  Half and half

½ cup                  Sugar

2 tsp.          Cinnamon

2 tsp.          Orange zest, fresh

1 tsp.          Vanilla

1 stick                 Butter

Topping

1 stick                 Butter

4 cups                  Bananas, sliced

¾ cup                  Pecan pieces

2 Tbl.                  Dark rum

1 ½ cups    Butter pecan or maple syrup

Preheat oven to 200 degrees. Combine all of the ingredients for the batter and stir well. Soak the French bread slices for about 5 minutes. Heat the butter over a medium heat in a large skillet. Brown the soaked bread on each side and place them on a baking dish. When you have browned all of the pieces, place the French toast in the oven. To make the topping; use the same pan and add in the butter and bananas, Cook for 4-5 minutes and add in the rum. Allow the alcohol to burn off then stir in the pecans, and syrup. Remove the French toast from the oven and top. Serve immediately.

Yield:                  6-8 servings