🎨 How Picking Up a Catering Gig Scored Me a Rembrandt. Sort of...

When I was 19 years old, I picked up a catering gig working the front-of-house service for a wedding of two artists inside a barn in Woodstock, New York. The guests were all creatives, and somehow, I went home with a very special painting.

But before we get there—let’s rewind.

As soon as I was old enough to work—14 years old—I’ve been gainfully employed. Freshman year of high school, I started working at Carvel, our town’s beloved ice cream shop. I loved being the victory stop after little league games or the weekend hotspot packed with families on hot summer afternoons. I loved making ice cream cakes and, obviously, consuming the free-flowing soft serve. It was a dream first job. It sparked something within me.

I worked hard for $5 an hour, saving up with a goal of purchasing my first car. I mopped the floors with grit, and got my first taste of independence, —especially in the snowy off-season, when I held down the fort solo and eventually became a key holder.

In the winter months, I also worked at a pottery studio down the street, where I led kids’ birthday parties. They came in to paint ceramics, eat pizza, and giggle through glazing. My favorite part? After they left, I’d quietly add eyes and eyelashes to their figurines before they went into the kiln.

When the kids came back to pick up their now shiny creations, they’d squeal—“Mommy, look!”—as their once-blobby unicorns suddenly looked alive. I lived for that moment. That quiet, secret magic of helping bring something to life. No applause needed, no credit, it was simply my joy to observe the magical moment.

After school, I couldn’t wait to come home to watch the Food Network: Emeril Live, Gale Gand’s Sweet Dreams, I was transfixed. I baked constantly. I experimented with hosting dinner parties for my friends. Senior year, I landed a job at a New Jersey staple, the iconic Italian Calandra’s Bakery , where fresh bread was gaurenteed to emerged on the hour and the smell of biscotti lingered in your hair. I knew then I needed to go to culinary school.

I had the blessing of certainty.

I had the blessing of certainty while I watched my friends struggle to decide on their selected major or school direction. I applied (and was accepted) into the Culinary Institute of America—the “world’s premier culinary college,” or so the brochure said.

I adored my time there. The strict, high-pressure environment. The discipline. The friendships. The foundation it gave me. If you can’t spot me already in the photo above, i’m the self appointed leader raising my hand whilst giving some sort of instructions. They say leaders are born and education, like most things in life, You get what you put into it. Simply said, you get what you give; A lesson I’ve carried ever since and continue to learn.

So when the opportunity came to work a paying gig of $200 to cater a wedding a few towns over, I happily say yes.

The wedding itself was unlike any I’d worked before. The guests all seemed to be artists—The tables were strewn with bottles of wine, mason jars of rinse water, and pages of thick textured paper lined down the long tables at the center of this charming barn. As the ceremony unfolded, the guests all began painting, some mixing wine with color, all having the most joyous time.

I was supposed to be pouring wine and clearing plates—but I kept sneaking glances at the art unfolding. I was completely, full-heartedly inspired.

As the night ended and clean-up began, I noticed one painting left behind.

A peacock. Delicate, regal, alive with layered color. It’s shadow slightly stained with wine. I couldn’t believe someone had just… left it.

So I kept it. Quietly. Carefully. It became my treasure.

That painting followed me for years. From my dorm room wall to three apartment moves. Then across the Pacific to Hawai‘i. I didn’t frame it for a long time—maybe out of reverence or perhaps my own avoidant youth lingering within. Still, I always kept it close, my treasure.

It wasn’t until I moved into my current home on O‘ahu—that I finally framed the painting where I placed it on top of my dresser and I felt I finally truly honored it. A sigh a relief, I thought to myself, I’ve preserved it from my own reckless tendencies. It was then, standing back to admire it, that I finally noticed the signature: Van Rijn. I am not an art history person, so these letters did not register as much to me, but I thought, let me google it and see what comes up. Maybe I can connect with this artist and tell them how much I’ve treasured this wine tinted wedding commemoration after all of these years.

A quick search showed me the humor of it all. The signatured was a well-known forged Rembrandt signature.

This discovery sent me into spirals of delight. This wasn’t just a painting—it was a JOKE. A wink, a message in a bottle, a time-capsule giggle from a stranger who’d gifted a painting by intentionally leaving it behind and signing it with the name of one of the most revered artists in history. No Ego. No need for applause, no hope for credit. Just a whimsical offering for a passerby—me—to one day find and squeal with delight.

And here’s the magic of it all: it already meant so much to me. It represented creativity, movement, growth, beauty, working hard and freedom. But now? Now it means even more. What a gift.

To me, it shows me that Art lives beyond the artist and that humor is its own kind of legacy. That a single act of beauty—eyelashes on a ceramic cat, or a watercolor peacock in a barn—can echo for years.

This framed painting has become a metaphor for me now. How we impact the world around us, even silently. It’s about working hard, paying attention, and cherishing the joyful moments

It’s about honoring the joke, the joy and of course the journey.

…consider it your own message in a bottle. A reminder to create, to share, to leave something behind—not for recognition, but for connection.

Mahalo for reading 🤍

With love and a playful giggle

Abi Rose