I am a freelance chef.  What that means, at least in how it applies to me, is that I prepare a variety of foods for a variety of clients, at various locations. It keeps things interesting and forces me to be adaptable.

Many of my clients lead lives that allow, and in some cases, require them to travel a great deal. Some call Connecticut their home, others have primary residences in large cities and refer to their Connecticut manse as "the country house". They often call me upon arrival, hungry and jet-lagged, because I understand what they need; fresh, simple food that will restore their weary bodies. I go into their homes to prepare their dinner, and stock the refrigerator with meals for the following days. When they have settled in, they call again, this time it is to request menus for entertaining. This is where I shine, and they know it, and hand over the carte blanche.

One of my clients is a restaurant. I established a solid, working relationship with the owner a few years ago, when he began to hire me as an on-site chef for his catering operation. I understood his clients, they had the same needs as mine. When I first got on board, he had just lost his chef and was single-handedly cooking for the restaurant and filling the catering orders. Most days, when I arrived to pick up my order before going out to  location, I would find him fixing a toilet, or dealing with customers, while my orders waited to be filled. I consistently offered to come in earlier to help, but he was smack-dab in the midst of a chest-thumping, "I-am-superman-and I-can-do-everything" mid-life crisis. I had to respect him for that…he was doing it all. Gradually, he came to his senses. Now, there is a new chef running the kitchen, one that I had worked with and recommended for the position, and on most weekends you can find me working at his side. I arrive in the morning to prepare the foods that I will be serving that evening. The time that I put in at the restaurant pays only a fraction of what I make on location. I do it because it keeps me connected to a larger food scene than the one that I find in private homes. I do it because this relationship with a restaurant, an owner, and a chef…it works for me…and that is something new.

Before freelancing, I worked full time in a restaurant that had an identity crisis; it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. It must have rubbed off on me…I soon found myself in the same crisis. For the first time in my life, I had lost interest in food. I couldn’t find my mojo, and the love and passion was MIA. I was bored (shame on me) and was considering a departure from cooking. I am fortunate to have other options; things to fall back on. I call this my "brown period", because at one point, I realized that every plate that I put out had a gratuitous drizzle of balsamic. It is tragic to witness your imagination and creativity disengage, and allow body muscle to take over, in auto-pilot mode, with senseless actions.

It was at this time that I read an article about a chef in Spain that was creating ripples in the food world with his science-driven approach to food. I have to admit, my gut reaction was not good…I aligned it to the evils of genetic modification, and why was he putting chemicals back in our food? But there was something about it that stirred me, and I found myself reading it over and over, each time peeling away the layers of my predisposition, to reveal it’s true intent, and what I found was revolutionary. I still remember the day that I sat down in front of my computer, and typed his name, Ferran Adria, into an empty box. A rabbit hole opened up under my feet, into which I fell; am falling still. The only other reference that I have to this life-altering effect was the day that I came face-to-face with Les Demoiselles d’Avignon on a class trip to MOMA. Picasso’s  brutal depiction of women rocked me to my core, and held me, transfixed, until my mind bent, and changed forever the way that I define beauty. (What is it about Spain?)

Inspired by a new approach to food, I felt reborn in the kitchen, but I had no outlet. I needed a place to experiment with, document, and share ideas. I needed a playground. That was, and still is the intent of this blog.

When I decided to start blogging, I made a conscious decision to not reveal the names of those that I work for. My reasons form a long and tangled list, but in their complexity, there is simplicity:

Paramount on the list is discretion. In the small, tightly-knit community of high-profile people that I work in , discretion is the unmentioned code that is established with the initial greeting at the door and  sealed, at the end of the evening, with ink on a check. Once lost, it cannot be regained.

Self-preservation is wrapped up in there, too. I have worked long and hard to establish a relationship of trust with my clients and the restaurant. I would not want what happened to Shuna, to happen to me. I read her blog, as do many others, because it is a window into the collective soul of a chef, and an acutely raw account of what it means to be a woman chef working in the exhilarating, sometimes hostile environment of a restaurant. I rejoice in her triumphs, share in her passions, rail at the injustices, and when she slits open a vein and bleeds all over my monitor, I feel it like a stigmata. I know what it is to give all, then be shown the door; it is a path that I don’t ever want to walk again.

When I dream about giving birth to live snakes, as I have done lately, I recognize that it is also about fear; the fear of losing control and creating monsters. As a mother, I understand the importance of choosing my battles; knowing what lines to draw, what to give up to the universe.

As for my name, it is Linda. That is my given name, the rest I took from my husband, who prefers to keep it private. Even if I were to disclose it, and you were to Google it, believe me, you would find nothing of interest. There would be no Michelin stars, or illustrious resume, just people who are not me.