Two years ago, I had recently moved into my first apartment and wanted to host a couple of friends for an intimate Friendsgiving. We hadn’t seen each other often since graduating college and in that time, I had a stint as a line cook in a French restaurant and was now working for Martha Stewart. All of my family and friends saw me as the professional chef in their lives, and therefore believed I knew everything there was to know about cooking. (“Are these chicken thighs still good?” to “How do I clean my cutting board?” to “What should I order for dinner tonight?). For the record, I knew some things but certainly not everything. But I took a lot of pride in the knowledge that I learned first-hand in the kitchen and took even greater pride in delivering a restaurant-quality meal to my parents and partner night after night.
Since I started working in a restaurant, a regular Tuesday night couldn’t consist of takeout or penne with jarred red sauce. I had to make homemade potato gnocchi broiled in individual porcelain gratins sourced from Williams-Sonoma or Crate and Barrel with homemade marinara sauce, from-scratch ricotta, and the best quality fresh mozzarella I could score. I once cried over homemade lobster ravioli after it fell apart in the pot of boiling water. (My family and friends insisted it was delicious and that the only thing ruining the meal was my tears.)
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