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we spent the afternoon smoking, getting high, playing golf, and listening to music. At night Cate and I retreated out to her porch and spent hours just gazing at the sky and following the stars.
    The best source for pot in Parkland was Simon’s brother Josh. He was a couple of years older than me and as big as a small elephant. And he had a car. In October, Josh, Cate, and I were driving down Lyon’s Road in Coconut Creek when Josh ran a stop sign and a cop pulled up behind us. On cue, Josh grabbed his stash and stuffed it under his gut. He was so big that he could hide his weed under the thick roll of fat around his middle. I was in the backseat with a pipe and a little bit of pot, which I immediately crammed into my right sock.
    â€œGet out of the car,” the cop ordered. As we got out he asked Josh, “You got any drugs?” He began to search Josh, but even Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have been able to find anything under all that blubber. The cop and his partner let Josh go. Then the police started searching me. I considered confessing, but was too scared. These were county officers, not the rinky-dink cops who’d busted me in the past. The cop found the stash in my sock within two minutes and immediately slapped some plastic cuffs on my wrists.
    â€œSit on the curb and wait there,” he ordered. A couple of minutes later Josh and Cate left. She offered to stay with me, but there was no need for her to make the trip. This was my fucking deal.
    They took me down to the precinct, put me in a cell, and handcuffed me to a pipe. I was freaking out, thinking for sure there’d be serious consequences this time. It was my third arrest in three years, and even my dad couldn’t bail me out of trouble this time because I had a prior record. As it turned out, we had to get a lawyer, and I went before a judge, who handed me a sentence of fifty hours of community service like she was giving out candy. I’d also have to check in with a probation officer once a month.
    Through some friend of a friend, my father found a shelter for battered women that needed help from volunteers. We drove over to the secluded place and met with the woman in charge. At one point my dad asked me to leave the room, and he closed the door behind me; then he emerged a few minutes later, without saying a word. Within a week I received a letter in the mail with all of my community service paperwork already filled out. To this day I have no idea what went on behind that door, but I know I never had to do a day of community service.
    Every time I got arrested my parents took me straight to Alan’s office. It was always the same drill. They had me sit in the therapist’s seat and sat with Alan on the couch; then the three of them grilled me for an hour. It was always intense and emotional as we cried together and came up with a game plan and consequences. But as soon as we got home everything would go back to the status quo.
    Alan was a good therapist. He saw right through my act and knew I needed serious treatment, but my parents didn’t want to hear it.
    At that point the status quo consisted of smoking pot every day, cooking every chance I got, and studying food through cooking shows, restaurant menus, and eventually cookbooks. One day I saw a chef on TV slicing artichokes paper-thin, and I became obsessed with learning how to do that. I convinced my parents to buy me some artichokes, but when they brought the mysterious, thorny vegetables home, I had no idea where to start. Finally, I decided to put the artichokes in the freezer, figuring it would be easier to slice them frozen. It was a spectacular failure, with artichoke pieces flying everywhere, but it was the start of my learning how to manipulate ingredients.
    When I was a young kid, my dad pushed me to try just about every sport imaginable—baseball, flag football, soccer, and one year I even tried basketball. Despite his busy work schedule he found