In honor of Labor Day, I'm re-running this piece I wrote for another blog. Don't judge — it's labor, just not mine.
This morning, I sauntered up to a coworker and said, "My personal chef is at my house right now. Do you think she's in my bed, like under the cover and blankets?"
I could tell he was eaten up with jealously because he said to me, "I'm not sure what you're talking about."
Last Christmas, my brother and sister bought me the services of a personal chef. Certainly I've mentioned it once or twice and once or twice again. "My personal chef." Sounds grand, doesn't it?
Her name is Carol, and her business is called A Thought for Food. The gift certificate got me either 5 entrees or 3 entrees with 3 sides. I was given a selection of meals, and even though my being a vegetarian narrowed this down a bit, the list was pages and pages long.
I opted for the 3/3. I chose 2 and had her surprise me with the third. On the menu: potato gnocchi with spinach and goat cheese sauce with a side of chickpea, artichoke, and romaine salad; farfalle with Shiitake mushrooms and roasted tofu with spicy peanut sauce and garlic ginger greens for the side; and (the surprise) curried lentil burritos with cilantro and scallion-spiced yogurt and a side of butternut squash soup with ginger and jalapeno.
It works like this: She is required by law to prepare food on-site, so she arrived this morning with loads and loads of grocery bags (all reusable — awesome) and at least four rolling suitcases full of equipment. The only things she uses of mine are the stove, microwave, and oven.
When I returned home this evening, the house smelled absolutely heavenly. I can't wait to dig in.