I got me a chef, ladies. Eat that.

Oh you may say wow, that went fast! You may think, gee, it hardly seems like ten minutes have passed since you announced Nate was starting culinary school, or taking on an all-hours internship or giving up every waking moment (short of Sundays - because those are sacred and reserved for the Redskins) to devote his life to a new dream of working the line for $11 an hour.

But to me? This was a long-ass ten months.

This week, Nate graduated.

He has a fancy diploma to show for it, a uniform that's far less crisp and far less white than the way it started, some new friends who scare me only a little bit, and a photo with Jacques Pepin. Also, excellent tournage skills and three fancypants Manhattan restaurants battling over his future employ.

But as my mom put it, "If all he learned to do was make half the mess in the kitchen he normally makes when he cooks, then it was time and money well spent."

Indeed.

Though there's a little more to it than that.

He's happy. And he's proud. But he'd never say it. So I'll say it for him.