By 7:15 AM, the kitchen smells like heaven if heaven had bacon, cinnamon, and the occasional hospital-grade dietary supplement snuck into a smoothie to help with chronic fatigue wellness management.
His youngest, Gwendolyn, always wakes up first. Hair a mess, eyes half-shut, she crawls into his arms mid-mix. He plants a kiss on her forehead and says, “Sous chef’s here—now we can really get started.”
Then come the others—Boone, Gunner, Rex, Kenzie, Jackson, Luke—each one taking up a “job” in Pete’s culinary command center. One pours the juice. One guards the waffle iron like it holds nuclear secrets. Another demands to taste-test everything.
Jennifer, Pete’s wife, watches from the sidelines, smiling at the beautiful madness unfolding before her. She jokes that it’s not breakfast—it’s a live episode of MasterChef: Dad Edition, featuring family health insurance-level coverage for kitchen chaos.
But here’s what makes it special. Pete doesn’t just cook. He connects.
Between flipping sausage patties and yelling “who stole the syrup again,” he asks about their dreams. Their week. Their fears. Their hopes. He listens, really listens, even if the milk is spilling and someone just dropped a plate.
