Moving Day

A lot has happened since the last post, which is the reason there has been such a delay between entries. Namely, the Chef and I moved. Not a big move, we’re still in the same area, just a change of apartments. Moving is hard work, I should know, we do it every year. Every new place we move to ends up having something significantly wrong with it. A lot of planning and organizing needs to happen when you move. You can’t just throw things in a box. First you must organize things you want to get rid of, then the actual packing of boxes, which also needs to be highly organized. There is also hiring the movers, changing addresses, switching utilities, making phone calls, emails, etc. etc. etc. It’s a lot.

Let’s reflect back to my first blog entry and the whole, “not seeing your chef boyfriend because he works so much.” While that can be a total bummer in regular, ordinary life, it becomes especially stressful in situations like this, picking up your life and moving. On the plus side, he has access to a large stash of boxes which can really come in handy in the moving process. But the benefits end there.

In the week and a half or so leading up to the big move I found myself responsible for the bulk of the work. That’s a lot of stress. Granted, I am the one that handles the everyday tasks of running the household, however, moving puts my responsibilities at an all time high. I am the one who went out apartment hunting. I am the one to organize our stuff. I am the one who packed boxes. I am the one who organized the logistics of moving day. I had to do it all. Now, I don’t want to make this sound too negative. I’m not bitter about this. And it’s not that I couldn’t handle the job. It’s just that I am one person, I am 50% of a partnership who at times must take on 100% of the responsibility.

On the actual moving day, the chef really came through. In fact, he used to work as a mover so delegating the job to the hired help was his time to shine. I couldn’t have done it without him. However, once the possessions were safely transported his ability to assist was once again non-existent. Of course it’s not his fault, he’s not choosing to slack on helping, but his work and long hours comes first. In fact, his hours were so long in the days following the move that he would come home nearly incoherent.

It’s not the physical work that is frustrating, it’s making the decisions of where things should go, how to decorate, how to make your house a home, and having to do it solo. Once unpacking is complete it’s time to make yourself comfortable. However, it’s supposed to be OUR space, not MY space. But how can I do that when I’m the only one home, cooking dinner for one, sitting on the couch by myself, going to bed alone?

And how long will this place last? What are the chances he’ll get an offer somewhere else, maybe in another city all together? I work for myself, and work is slow. Our lives are currently dependent on his career. Our first apartment together didn’t last long. The moment we got comfortable we had to pick up and move half way across the country. Who’s to say that won’t happen again, and happen quickly.

For the time being, I’m plugging away, trying to make things cozy, trying to make it a home. But no matter what, a part of my mind will remain antsy, wondering when the restaurant business will once again turn my life upside down.

Dinner Party

It happens every time. A friend or a family member invites us over to eat. Something simple, a dinner party maybe, or just a casual get together with a few friends. And then it occurs to them, “Oh no, we’re making dinner for a Chef!” Immediately, the host panics, okay, maybe not a full on panic, but a fear sets in. “What is he going to think of my cooking? He’s going to think it’s horrible.” It doesn’t matter if you’re actually a good cook; you get self-conscious anyway. So maybe you scramble a little, scour your kitchen for extra spices, dig through old cookbooks, throw some parsley on the plate for a little garnish, try to fancy things up a little bit…

I recall a dinner party my friend threw years ago. A few of my friends and I would alternate houses and throw some kind of theme night. Tea parties, wine gatherings, cheese bingeing (I may have to go into more detail on the cheese binge night another time). But this particular night was hot dog night. And I don’t mean some Oscar Meyers and mustard. These were more than just hot dogs, they were HOT DOGS! Big, meaty, juice dripping down your chin when you bite into it kind of hot dogs. And the spread, oh, the spread of vegetables and condiments varying enough that even a Chicagoan would approve of the smorgasbord present that night.

When I very enthusiastically accepted the invitation to that night’s festivities I inquired about bringing along my new chef friend, who I had only known for a couple weeks at that time. My friends, of course, were very open to new guests. But then it sets in, the realization that someone who cooks at one of the best restaurants in the city is coming over, it’s the first time you’re meeting him…and you’re feeding him hot dogs. Then doubt sets in, maybe you should renege on the invitation; invite him on a night when you’ll prepare something a little fancier. But no, it’s too late, he’s accepted. What do you do now? The answer is that you don’t do anything. You sit back, you enjoy the evening because once everyone has arrived you nervously watch as the chef opens his mouth and throws more hot dogs down the hatch than you could ever imagine one person doing. Result: your evening as a host is a great success.

Here’s the secret. You invite people over for dinner, the chef included. The menu for the night is steaks on the grill, veggies dripping in delicious butter sauce, a home made chocolate cake for dessert, and you’re scared he’s going to think its awful. Let me tell you why it’s not. Aside from the fact that a good steak on the grill is pure ecstasy, the reason that he’ll love the meal is because HE DIDN’T COOK IT! He cooks for people all day and yes he enjoys it but you gave him the opportunity to put the knife down, sit back with a beer in one hand and a fork in the other and enjoy that rare occurrence of someone else cooking, which is probably the best night you could give him.

So, now you know; now you can relax. Go ahead, plan those dinner parties, take a deep breath, and stop worrying, because we’ll be there, alcohol in hand, ready to enjoy a home cooked meal.