Why I’m writing this
We push kids toward four-year universities with six-figure debt before they even know what they want to do. Vocational school gets no credit. Nobody glamorizes it. But it’s where I learned not just a skill — I learned work ethic, precision, humility, and what it means to care about a craft. The cost is low. The pathway is real. And the mentors you meet? They stay with you forever.
I learned this in a vocational trade school that changed my life. These are the stories that prove it.
Story 1: The Setup and the Teachers
The structure
Junior year was about learning the basics and getting versed in every station. We did two-week rotations through the year to make sure we actually knew our way around a kitchen. There was a senior restaurant open to the public and staff. Juniors ran the cafeteria line. We also assisted in the senior kitchen as part of the rotation. It was immersive. It was serious. And it had two executive chef instructors, each with a completely different style.
Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants
He taught junior year initially. Short man. Explosive. Screamed constantly and enjoyed every minute of it — guilty pleasure, I’m sure. He made our lives miserable, grilled us constantly, and had the confidence of a king. A master at his craft. But deep down, everyone knew he cared. He pushed us to succeed, not to fail. He loved his job. And he loved slowly torturing his students into being better.
I hated him at first. Everyone did.
Chef Vivienne Vinaigrette Von-Perfection
She also taught junior year. Imagine Julia Child — tall, heavy, intimidating presence. One stern look could scare the life out of you. But she had a soft, loving side underneath. She was firm but fair. She gave you credit when you actually deserved it.
I remember one day getting an A for the day. I’d taken the stem part out of a tomato and cut away the very bottom — the growth spot — before plating. Most people don’t know there are two specific places where a tomato should be cut before service. I did it right. Chef Vivienne Vinaigrette Von-Perfection saw it. And she made sure I knew she saw it.
That matters. When someone who demands excellence actually acknowledges excellence, it lands differently.
The shift
Midway through junior year, we got news: Chef Vivienne Vinaigrette Von-Perfection had to medically retire. Serious health concerns. We were disappointed but understood. You can’t argue with someone’s health.
Chef Darius Dice-’Em-Right took over the junior kitchen.
And Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants moved to senior year.
We were relieved. We thought we were done with the screaming, the intensity, the constant pressure. Then reality hit: we’d be in senior year the next year. We’d have Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants again. Two years in a row.
Some of us tried to prepare ourselves. Most of us just accepted it.
The complication
Within a few months of starting junior year, something unexpected happened. My dad and Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants became fast friends.
My dad was a hard-line guy. Corporal punishment, angry factory worker, the kind of man who punished things heavily. My childhood was rough at times. You can only imagine the dread that washed over me when I realized my abusive father and my screaming, demanding chef instructor had become “besties.”
And it followed me straight into senior year.
My dad would bring in different proteins. Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants would cook them up. They’d eat together in the restaurant, watching me work. And they’d giggle like schoolgirls while I squirmed. Watching me squirm was apparently hilarious to both of them.
Really?
The redemption
I know now that Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants meant well. He enjoyed the torture, yes, but it was a specific kind of torture — the kind designed to make you better. He wasn’t cruel for cruelty’s sake. He just had a method, and his method was: push hard, watch them rise.
I wouldn’t be here without that push. Without him demanding I be my best self, I wouldn’t have built the system I built. I wouldn’t be writing these stories. I wouldn’t have survived the kitchens that came after because I’d already learned what it meant to work under pressure, under scrutiny, under a chef who actually gave a damn about your success.
Years later, I looked him up. He’d retired from the school a year before I finished writing the Violet Wexley system.
I wish he could see what I’ve done. I wish he knew that the system I built — the operations manual, the pricing guides, the strategies for running a baking business — exists partly because he pushed me to care about precision, about excellence, about not settling.
Thank you, Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants. You made me better. And you taught me that the best mentors are sometimes the ones who scare the hell out of you.
Story 2: The Slip
It happened during the wedding cake competition, junior year, during Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants’ class.
We were in groups, competing for spots in a bigger competition. The prize was a Disneyland apprenticeship for first place. Everyone was focused, serious, ready. This mattered.
There was a guy in the class — the one I mentioned before, the one with the ego bigger than his skill. He’d been showing off all year, but this day he showed off harder. He carried his finished wedding cakes into the cooler like a waiter in a fancy restaurant, holding the tray high, making a moment out of it.
Then his feet went out from under him.
He slipped hard. Cakes flew. His feet looked exactly like a cartoon character’s — legs in the air, the whole slapstick performance. It was involuntary, perfect, and hilarious.
I looked at the two girls I was close with. They looked at me. We didn’t mean to laugh. We just… did.
We went straight into the walk-in freezer and lost it. Couldn’t breathe. Every time we tried to stop, one of us would start again. We were gasping, tears streaming, completely gone.
Then Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants found us.
He didn’t yell. He just looked at us — really looked — and scolded the three of us. Not cruel. Just firm. Clear: that’s not who we are. That’s not what this kitchen is about.
We avoided that guy for weeks after. I felt bad. I would have died if that happened to me — the humiliation alone. But I also knew the truth: he needed his ego checked. He needed to learn that confidence without humility is just arrogance.
He wasn’t hurt. Just humbled.
My cake placed first that day. His didn’t place.
And yeah — another moment of comeuppance for laughing at someone. The universe has a sense of humor.
Story 3: The Competition with the Mouse
The school was in the country, in a big field. Mice were a known problem. We had measures in place to keep them at bay, but sometimes they found their way in anyway.
The night of the school-wide competition — the one where they chose the top two teams to advance to the state-level competition — everything was set up. We were nervous, focused, ready.
And then I saw it.
A mouse. Just… there. Unexpected. Right when I was in the middle of my work.
I screamed. I don’t remember screaming, but apparently I did. And I climbed up Chef Darius Dice-’Em-Right like he was a tree. Literally climbed up him. I barely knew the guy, and there I was, using him as a shield against a rodent.
He was surprisingly patient about it.
And I thought: okay, this is it. This is my comeuppance for laughing at the fall guy with the cakes. The universe is evening the score.
Story 4: The Stinky Girl
She was a sweet girl. Really sweet. But she had poor hygiene, and she probably came from a poor family. She always seemed sad. No self-esteem. Down all the time.
Nobody talked to her except me and the two girls — my ride-or-dies from the slip story.
She smelled so bad it was hard to be around her. Other kids were cruel about it. They ripped on her constantly. Me and my friends ripped right back on the kids who did it. We weren’t going to watch someone get torn apart like that.
But we wanted to actually help.
I brought her gifts — toiletries, body spray, feminine products. She told me she didn’t have the money. So me and the other girls started taking her clothes home, washing them, and bringing them back clean.
She was so grateful. It mattered to her. We were the only ones treating her like a person.
Then the school year ended.
The following year, she didn’t come back.
My heart broke. I was hoping she’d return, that things would be different, that she’d found a way to make her situation better. I’ll never know what happened. I just know that those kids were terrible to her, and she didn’t survive it.
That’s the part that stays with me.
Story 5: State Fair Demonstration
We were chosen — the four students who improved the most over the year. Me, the fall guy, another kid, and one of my sidekicks. Late summer, we traveled a few hours to the state fair.
I was excited for so many reasons. My mom lived in the city, and she was mostly absent. But she was going to meet us. We had concert tickets for artists we loved. This was a treat.
We checked into a high-end hotel. Two boys, two girls, Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants.
We got on the elevator.
I have a fear of heights. And elevators. I didn’t know I had a fear of elevators until that moment.
I spun around to talk to the group, my back to the glass. I didn’t notice at first — I was too excited. Then everyone told me to turn around and see the view.
I turned.
It was all glass. All of it. Nothing but air and city stretching out below us.
I stopped breathing. I became one with the wall. No one knew my fear, and suddenly everyone knew my fear.
Comeuppance for laughing at the fall guy. Again.
The next morning came. We went to the fair early to prep. I didn’t know yet that I had another fear: being in front of a crowd.
The demonstration was set up. People started filing in. Lots of people. The fall guy was paired with me — I swear this was intentional torture. He was going to cook. I was going to speak.
As the crowd grew, I felt it. The heat. The dizziness. My face getting paler with each person who walked in. 500 people. Media everywhere.
I was dying.
Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants saw it. He saw the emergency happening in real time. At the last minute, he switched me to cooking and the fall guy to speaking. The fall guy was furious.
It wasn’t intentional cruelty. It was survival.
I focused on the cooking. Didn’t look up once. Just cooked. My face was burning red with fear the entire time, but I didn’t pass out and I didn’t fail.
After the demonstration, we changed and I had another event: a wedding cake competition for judges. I rushed to set up, added fresh florals because of the heat, and spoke to four judges about my design.
I was nervous, but I pushed through again.
Except I was holding a chef knife the whole time. Using it to emphasize my points without realizing what I was doing.
I came in 4th place.
Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants told me later that I would have won if I’d just put the knife down.
Laughing at people gets you back every time. The universe is relentless.
That evening, we went back to the hotel to freshen up for dinner and the concert. My mom was there the whole time, communicating with Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants, getting along with him.
Why? This man knew exactly how to get under my skin.
We ate at the hotel. Then my mom took us back to the fair at 6:30 for the concert. It was fantastic. We had such a good time. After, my mom took us back to the hotel around 10:30 and said she’d be back in the morning to help clean up the cake that was still on display.
We went up to our rooms. I needed something from the first floor and looked over at the bar.
There was Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants and my mom. Drinking together. At the bar.
I immediately went the other direction and forgot what I came down for.
The next day, all Chef Reginald talked about was my mom.
Did they hook up? I will never know. But I have my suspicions.
Story 6: The Ice Sculpture — The Missed Opportunity
The end of senior year. What an amazing time. Especially being a senior.
Back then we didn’t have the tech we do now. Payphones. Walkmans. Your friends. Your ride-or-die friends. We grew strong bonds during those two years together. Even though we had our own groups, we all got along. We all belonged.
Senior year dragged on. More competitions for other students, but I didn’t participate. Just the usual two-week rotations through stations. I was always called to make the compound butter roses. I had it down. Could whip them out in my sleep.
My dad was still lurking in the shadows with Chef Reginald Flambée Fancypants.
Toward the end of the year, excitement ramped up. We were graduating!
The final project for the seniors was making ice sculptures. We paired into twos. I was paired with the girl I’d gone to the concert with. I drew up a dragon template, and we carved it using power tools and chainsaws. It was a blast. Everyone did a great job. All different. All impressive.
Little did we know there were college scouts there watching.
After we finished, I was approached by a school in my state. They offered me a scholarship for culinary.
At that time, I didn’t know anything existed outside the world I knew. I didn’t want to leave home. I was just graduating. I wasn’t thinking about the future. My dad was just happy I made it through high school alive.
If it wasn’t for the trade school program, I wouldn’t have survived my home life. The bullying, the weight of everything — the trade school saved me. When I went there, I accelerated. I found my people. I thrived.
So I turned down the scholarship.
I don’t regret my decision. But I have realized I should have taken it.
Here’s what I know now: if you’re ever in this position, seize the moment. Go for it. Home will always be there waiting. Opportunities like this come once in a lifetime. If you don’t like it, you can always go home. But you can’t get back the moment you didn’t take.
I strongly encourage people to use trade schools if they have them. Not everyone is made for college. The pathway is real, and it works.
But sometimes the pathway opens a door that leads somewhere else. And when it does, you walk through it.
I didn’t. I’ve made peace with that.
We wrapped up the school year shortly after the sculptures were finished. They were wrapped and stored in the freezer for following years’ events.
It was bittersweet knowing the people I held so dear were going separate ways. Some to college. Some to apprenticeships. Some straight to work. We all went to each other’s graduation parties.
I didn’t have one. My dad wasn’t that type of guy.
But I had my people. And that was enough.
Why this matters
Vocational trade school saved my life. It gave me community, mentorship, skills, and a way out of an impossible home situation. The cost was low. The return was everything.
Not everyone is meant for a four-year university. Not everyone should be buried in debt before they’ve even figured out who they are. Trade school is a real pathway. It’s an honest pathway. And it works.
If you have kids, if you’re a kid, if you know someone who’s struggling with the “what’s next” question — look at trade school. It might be exactly what you need.
And if someone offers you an opportunity that changes your life, take it. Home will always be there.