Rule #91: Enjoy the Meal
I just left a wonderful Italian restaurant after a long, lingering dinner with friends. The place was called Italian Cucina in New Hope—no printed menu, just course after course presented to us. The owner, Joe, sat with us and told the story of how past failures and even a heart attack led him to create this unique experience of food and friendship.
It struck me: it took me almost 57 years to truly relax and enjoy a meal. To sit long enough to hear an owner’s story, to know his name, and to savor each moment instead of rushing off to the next thing.
For most of my life, I treated food the same way I treated everything else—fast. Food was fuel, nothing more. I was always in a hurry to get somewhere else. In my 20s, I graduated college in three years, doubled up on courses, and plowed through grad school at Drexel and St. Joe’s. I got my CPCU in two years when most take four. I wasn’t enjoying the learning; I was consuming it, barely tasting the experience.
By 26 I had my first house, by 29 my third—each one bigger and better, but I barely remember living in them. Life was a race, with mile markers I checked off at full speed. From the outside it probably looked like I was winning, but in reality, I wasn’t enjoying any of it.
I made my first million in my early 30s—around the time my third child, Stephen, was born. To get there, I worked two or three jobs at a time: nights at a tennis club, setting up new Toys R Us stores, traveling constantly. I was moving fast, but I didn’t know where it was leading. In fact, the faster I went, the more lost I became.
Thank God for my kids. You slowed me down. Around the dinner table, you forced me into the moment, made me realize that relationships mattered more than accomplishments. That’s why I treasure family meals so much today—they saved me from the “drive-through window” version of life.
My regrets at 56 mostly come from missed opportunities to build deeper relationships. I brushed off offers of friendship because I couldn’t see them for what they were. With people like Mike, God has graciously given me second chances, and this time I try to listen and connect. My business partner Greg has invited me to his lake house for years—I’ve yet to go. That needs to change. (Greg, warm up the pizza oven—Bobbi and I are coming this summer.)
Looking back, I realize I chased accomplishments because they made me feel validated. But the validation never lasted. I didn’t even attend my MBA or CPCU graduations—I just picked up the certificates and ran. No matter how many businesses I started or raises I got, it was never enough, because I wasn’t tasting life as it came.
God, in His wisdom, gave me Bobbi. She’s not one to sit quietly in a corner—she pushes me to slow down, to chew my food, to savor people and experiences. Without her and you kids, I might never have found happiness.
And then came Abby. Being born with Asperger’s has given her a unique lens on the world, and through it, I’ve learned to see differently too. She reminds me that sometimes a meal isn’t about eating—it’s about the sauce, the story, the moment. Every morning I drive her to school, and in those short trips, she teaches me how to be happy.
As a restaurant review, Italian Cucina gets five stars. But as a consumer of life, I’d only give myself three. I’ve rushed through too many meals without tasting them. My hope for you, my children, is that you accomplish great things—slay dragons, build, achieve—but also take the time to celebrate your victories with the people who believe in you. Share long meals, tell stories, open wine, laugh.
I recommend the scallops. And don’t forget—it’s BYOB.
Love, Dad