A little known fact about professional chefs: they rarely cook for themselves. At the end of a long day in the kitchen, when you strip away the chef whites and fancy tall hats, there is nothing left but an overly exhausted, ravenous being.
After my Sister graduated from culinary school in 2004 and we moved in together, I operated under the assumption that it would be "all gourmet, all the time." Slowly (read: reluctantly) I came to realize that after a twelve or fourteen hour shift in a kitchen, the last thing she wanted to do was come home and cook for me. Any mention of that bubbly girl on TV, and her creation of meals in 30 minutes, would be met with expletives as punctuation and questions regarding the location of my mind and the can opener.
By the time I met my husband-to-be in 2009, I had it figured out. My inventive pick up line I threw at him was, "I get it." Feeling like I had to prove myself further I rambled, "My Sister is a chef, her husband is a chef, and I work in hospitality so long hours are a given." Little did I know that long hours would quickly become the least of my worries.
A few months into our relationship I had gotten into the habit of asking, "What did you eat today?" The answer generally included a taste of this dish or that, a piece of bread, or coffee. Always coffee. The day he told me he was just to busy to have anything that resembled a meal, that was the day. Somewhere in the back of my mind I could hear my Italian Mother's voice, "He didn't eat?! Anything??"
I desperately want to cook for this man. But what? He is a professional. What could I possibly bring to the kitchen that he doesn't have access to or couldn't make himself? Cooking for chef? Sounds like fun.
