Speak Up

Saturday, July 31, 2010


Vote for Maverik!

I promise not to flood this blog with my baby's pictures, but just this once...I need your help!

I entered this picture of Maverik in a photo contest and it ends tomorrow. There are over 1500 entries and Maverik debuted at number 6! But over the week he's dropped a bit. Please vote for him on any and all computers you can get ahold of!

Here is the link: Maverik!

By the way, the prize is $250-not bad, right? Remember, the voting ends tomorrow!

Thanks in advance!

Food is Love,


Saturday, July 24, 2010

This Lonely Life

Today, and this whole week really, is one of those times when I feel as if I've been kidding myself every time I say that I'm used to being married to a chef. Who am I trying to convince anyway? Yes, I have come a long way from a whinny, complaining, glass-half-empty person, but I'm not living in some deranged stepford wife bubble. I'm lonely and I'm bored.

Erik has been working 6 or 7 day weeks putting in nearly 90 hours a week to open a new restaurant in the Financial District. I was lucky enough to get out of the house yesterday, sans Baby, and treat my friend to a "friends and family" lunch at the restaurant. But that was really just a sliver of normalcy.

I got back from visiting my family in Ohio a couple weeks ago. I spent two weeks there, and it was great. I was able to introduce Maverik to most of my family and enjoy all the benefits of grandparents. My mom put him down for his naps everyday and watched him so I could go to the gym with my sisters, lay out and otherwise not be tethered to the baby. It was fantastic. But now I'm home again and due to the heat wave here I haven't even been able to get Maverik out of the house much. Erik leaves for work before the baby and I get up and he's home much later than we've gone to bed. I'm still on maternity leave, so I don't even have the stress and responsibilities of work to distract me from my absent husband. I secretly wish he would come home one day and say that he's taken a job working nine to five as an All-Clad cookware tester or something. He'd scoop up Maverik in his arms, grab me close and say that he'd never open a restaurant again, that he'd never travel again and that being close to his family means more to him than anything else in the world....

As reality has it though- I married a chef. A chef who loves what he does. A chef who usually works Monday to Friday, so I really can't complain. I hope I don't seem ungrateful, although I know I do. I just needed to vent about how rough the last two weeks were.

Food is Love,

Monday, July 12, 2010

My Version of...

The Chef and I met years ago and food brought us together. I had never met anyone as interested in all things culinary like myself, as my future husband. This mutual passion has been a constant in our relationship and I must admit I feel a little trashy.

You see, the chef became a professional gourmet but I just remained obsessed.

One might use the term “foodie” to describe my pursuits. I now shake my head in disapproval, as I have always shied away from the term, “foodie”. Somehow I associate it with the whore at the rock show who rolls up on the band just hopping to get a piece. A groupie, who can't play an instrument but loves to going to the show.

Food might as well be the sexy lead singer and wine, the shirt less drummer because I throw myself at them each and every time I get the chance. No reserve, just smutty abandon. It is out of control. I want to know the details - the how, the who, the what and why. And like any good groupie, I don't stop until I get what I want.
Maybe one day I'll write about my lecherous escapades and late night romps with the dynamic duo. A seedy memoir of sorts. Until then I’ll simply continue to ponder my own perverse psychology, wondering why I can never say no and why I always want more….


Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Living in a Laboratory

From my friend, BK:

The chef and I moved into Brooklyn for more space. We knew this would be an easy task considering our first apartment was no larger than a furniture display at IKEA. Before moving, I dreamed of small dinner parties at an actual kitchen table and room on the counter top for things like a coffee maker.
I know, I know it’s the little things that make me happy….

The chef, however, had different plans. Room for the chef meant he could start a new food inspired hobby. I now live in a beta test kitchen for the chef’s microbrewery. My quirky yet adorable apartment smells like an unclean sports bar after a Big Ten football game. I spend my mornings tiptoeing around copper coils, bags of grain and carboys.

This might not be a problem for most people, but I am not graceful. I am not the girl that glides beautifully across the room. I am a100 pound bull in a china shop, smacking into everything on the floor.

Typically, I am overwhelmed by the chef’s enthusiasm for his career and his activities. Most of the time, I am a pretty awesome wife. However, the laboratory he has created now dominates my once clean kitchen. I love beer as much as the chef does but It’s difficult to throw a dinner party when the IPA is fermenting on the table. The process ends up looking like a dirty snow globe….exactly. Try and picture that.

Is it too much to ask for certain chef hobbies to be left at work? Do most chefs test their skills in their personal space? I need to know if this behavior is normal because I am about a 12oz. bottle of beer away from losing. my. mind.

Monday, July 5, 2010

Fresh Look On Things

As you know I'm in the process of giving CPR to my blog that is in need of some new life . I've teamed up with a fabulous chef wife who will be helping me keep it fresh and fabulous here. Before you read some great posts by my co-host, here is her introduction. Like I did in the infancy of this blog- she'll remain anonymous- you know how those chefs can be about their name being out there.

Meet my new pal:

I have been an avid reader of Desperate Chef Wives for some time now. I discovered Hilary and her blog shortly after she began writing. At the time, I had just moved across country with my husband in order for him to begin his professional career as a chef. Needless to say there were moments of loneliness. However, when I began to read Hilary's posts, that feeling dissipated.
Two years later and another move back across the country, I have learned an exceptional amount about the industry - for all it's faults and wonder. Now, Hilary is gracious enough to give me the opportunity to provide comfort, humor and fortitude in the same manner she provided me.
But who am I? Well first and foremost, I'm terrible at introductions. So rather than attempt to complete a clever and well-written description, I thought it would be best to unload a list of labels that give you a brief glimpse into my crazy little world....

Designer. City Dweller. Cocktail lover. Useless furniture collector. Lousy dinner cook. Wanna-be baker. Makeup obsessed. Beer advocator. Morning hater. High heel accumulator. Flea market shopper. Workout dodger. Roof top gardener. Wisecracker. Poor spelling skilled. Food captivated. Chef wife.

Again, I'm thrilled for the chance Hilary is giving all of us to connect and support one another. It takes a unique individual to live a life less ordinary and us wives, girlfriends and partners in this industry have quite a perspective. It's exciting to have a place to share the stories and anecdotes of our everyday experiences....all thanks to the first Desperate Chef Wife and happy new mother.....

Friday, July 2, 2010

It's Written On Her Face

Albrecht Durer painted "A Chef and his Wife". I absolutely LOVE the look on her face. What do you think? There has got to be a great story behind their relationship. She's thinking, "Why is there a live bird in my house? I clean and clean all day just for my chef to come home and make a mess in the kitchen. And look at his shirt! He's bursting at the seams, he hasn't shaved in days, well- he's making me a delicious meal and making enough money for me to buy this amazing head dress for my bad hair days...oh, I do love him so...

Food is Love,