Once a Chef . . .

Danny hauled up the lid from the barbecue and peered inside. He prodded the coals speculatively, “We’re about there. Whenever you’re ready.”

It was the eleventh hour before my July 4th feast. The guests had arrived, the booze was disappearing at a healthy pace, and I was—as usual—dashing about the kitchen like the proverbial, decapitated chicken. No matter how I strategize, no matter how I meticulously prepare all ingredients, I never manage to evade that frantic 20 minutes before dinner. In a matter of moments the organized calm of the kitchen morphs into a war zone. Everything demands attention; the carrots are in danger of burning and the beets need more heat. The burgers must hit the grill and where is the wretched corn?

Given my state of delirium, Danny’s help was wholly welcome. I forgot to be self conscious around this seasoned chef and instead pointed to a platter. “Corn,” I muttered. He nodded, grabbed the pile of husked ears, and strode out to the grill.

That is the joy of having a chef in your kitchen. Amateurs, bless them, are often helpful, but generally require detailed direction and constant vigilance. Battle worn chefs however, magically find your knives and uncover your roasting pans. They pull your carrots off the heat before the delectably charred exteriors turn to inedible crusts. They monitor the grill and gently remind you when the burgers are hitting that juicy pinnacle of pink-singed perfection. I am jealous of the ease with which they move about the kitchen; their perfectly programmed sense of timing; and their ability to fix what I would consider hopelessly destroyed sauces.

I wondered out to the grill where Danny stood, tongs in one hand, a glass of red in the other. “It’s funny,” he mused, looking down at the grill, “wherever I go I always find myself cooking. . . No matter whose house I’m at, I always end up doing something.”

I nodded comprehendingly, his words confirming my suspicions that love of food, fire, and kitchens is a hard habit to kick. “I suppose it’s a case of once a chef, always a chef.”

“I guess so,” he answered and then prodded a burger with the tip of the tongs. “They’re getting there,” he remarked.

I smiled inwardly. I was good to have a chef in my kitchen. Even if I would always be just a little awestruck, just a little bit jealous of their competence and the grace with which they dance that wild kitchen dance.