On the humid, sticky Miami morning of November 23, 2000, I raced anxiously through my grandmother Georgia Bell’s kitchen, gathering ingredients for my special dish. It was Thanksgiving Day, and I’d promised my mom, Sandra, I would make the best sweet potato pie she’d ever tasted, if she would just give me the chance. The pressure was on and I was determined to solidify my spot as an annual contributor to my family’s holiday dinners. As I scrambled, my mom watched, patiently offering advice on the small things along the way.

Even as we celebrated touchdowns on the living room television, laughed as loud as we could in the dining room, and dived into the turkey my dad made, I had butterflies in the pit of my stomach the entire day. This was, after all, a make or break moment for me: I could end this day as the crowned king of sweet potato pies, with bragging rights to last a lifetime, or I could be forever banned from the kitchen during holidays for the rest of my life. Granted, in retrospect, my thought process was a little dramatic, but, in my thirteen-year-old mind, this was my reality. My hands trembled as I brought the first piece up to my mouth….and it was AMAZING! Then I thought, it was amazing to me, but what was everyone else thinking? As I continued to devour my slice, I slyly began to survey the room. There is a science to testing your success as a kid chef. My family has always been supportive, so I couldn’t gauge their satisfaction based on just compliments or clean plates. I patiently awaited that one action confirming my holiday dessert spot was secure, then it happened. I knew for sure I was successful the moment my dad got a second slice. That day is still one of my favorite memories, everyone was so happy and pleasantly surprised, and it was one of the first times I felt truly accomplished. At that moment, I learned that cooking was my passion.

As the years passed, I continued to fall more and more in love with baking and used those bragging rights I had earned every chance I got. When I became a high school student, I decided it was time to step it up a notch. My dad had been a firehouse chef for the City of Miami my entire life, and I felt ready to soak up all his knowledge. By my sophomore year, I had graduated to the meats, and cooking quickly became bonding time with my dad. Whether it was in the kitchen or outside on the grill, I was with him, taking note of every detail he was willing to offer.  Not only was I learning recipes, but I was also learning life lessons from him. My dad had mastered the balance between superhero and loving family man. He fascinated me, so much so, that I decided to follow in his footsteps by becoming a firefighter. I wasn’t sure if I’d come even remotely close to being the man he was, but I knew it’d be my biggest regret if I didn’t try.

In 2007, I became a proud member of the City of Orlando Fire Department in Orlando, FL. All twenty-one of the guys at Fire House No. 1 welcomed me with open arms, and our friendships became family ties in no time. Turns out, they even trusted me to cook, and they loved it! Dinner at the firehouse echoed dinner with my dad: it was a time to bond, laugh, and relax. Those firehouse experiences are the inspiration behind why I cook: I want to help you create those same memories. Trust me, there’s nothing better than good food and loud laughter. From the family chef to the rookie, don’t worry, Chef Manny is in your house today and I’ve got something for everybody. Let’s put some flames on ‘em!