Threads

Late last summer, my friend Robert died of pancreatic cancer.

I suppose that’s an odd place to start a first blog post for a brand-new business, but once in a while a story needs to start in the middle. So I’ll start with the present and then deal with past and future.

Yesterday, I had tasked myself with writing this post. I’m a better chef than I am a writer, so I was procrastinating a bit and found myself thumbing through my cookbook collection, looking at old-school Thanksgiving recipes. I reached for a vintage copy of James Beard’s Theory & Practice of Good Cooking, printed in 1979, and on page 89, I found “Roast Turkey with Two Stuffings.”

It was tidily annotated in pencil in Robert’s handwriting.

I stopped and took a breath. At his last birthday party, days before he passed, Robert gave gifts to his friends and loved ones rather than receiving them — cherished items that reflected elements of his life that he wanted to pass on. These were so much more than just things. They were embodied memories, skills, and experiences that he offered each of us to carry forward.

I received a handmade teapot and cups from his pottery studio, and a stack of well-worn cookbooks whose chef-authors — James Beard, Alton Brown, Jacques Pépin — reflected his own sensibilities: precision, refined technique, deceptive simplicity. The Theory & Practice of Good Cooking was one of those books.

Gently leafing through it, the pages were soft, favorite recipes marked, Post-it notes and clippings from newspapers and magazines tucked in here and there. I could almost hear his voice, speaking from the living room as I worked in his kitchen.

I first started thinking about launching my own business as a family and private chef a couple of years ago, but I wasn’t sure where to begin or how to take the leap. I knew how to cook — I’ve been a working chef for years. I’d filed all the necessary paperwork, talked with friends and mentors… and still had no idea how to find those first few clients.

Then Robert let his friends know he was seriously ill. When I asked how I could help, he and his partner wondered if I might be willing to do some cooking for them while he went through chemotherapy and prepared for surgery.

I said yes. I was glad for the chance to do something concrete to help.

It wasn’t a business arrangement — it was just me doing the thing I do to support people I care about. But it also turned out to be my first opportunity to cook as a chef inside someone else’s home.

He was more than a friend. His generosity made him my first private client.

In the beginning, I floundered a bit. I think I brought almost every piece of kitchen equipment I own with me on the first couple of visits. And after years in commercial catering, I seemed incapable of cooking less than twenty portions of anything. With time, I learned. Robert, in his inimitable way, made gentle suggestions and observations that I took to heart.

The quiet hours in his kitchen were special. We moved in an easy rhythm — he would rest, text friends, or watch TV while I cooked, and now and then we’d pause to talk. In the evenings, when his partner came home and I’d finished cleaning up, I often stayed for a glass of wine and conversation. Sometimes about food, sometimes about mutual friends, sometimes about everything else under the sun.

In between, I threw myself into research — learning about chemotherapy diets, experimenting with foods that might still be appealing despite the changes in his sense of taste, finding meals that were protein-rich, digestible, and comforting for them both.

And, in his generous way, he connected me with someone who would become my next client. My first private dinner party is coming up soon. It happens to be a Thanksgiving dinner — and the reason why I was browsing Thanksgiving recipes.

There will be tarragon in the stuffing I make for the client’s family, inspired by Robert’s notes in that old cookbook.

Not long ago, I stood at a crossroads in my career. The safe choice would have been to continue in the path I’d been on for years — maybe even take over the company when the owner retired. It was familiar, I was good at it, and I was proud of what I had helped build.

But when I pictured the kind of chef I wanted to be — the kind of life I wanted to build — I realized my heart wasn’t in large-scale catering anymore. What fed my soul were moments like those in Robert’s kitchen: the conversations, the quiet problem-solving, the deep satisfaction of creating meals that truly served the individuals and families I was cooking for.

So I chose the path that felt true to me. I wanted to work with people, not crowds. In homes, not banquet halls. Create stories, not orders.

I’m genuinely excited now — for the households I’ll cook for, the people I’ll come to know, and the meals I’ll create in their kitchens. It feels like beginning again as a chef, but this time with intention.

Good cooking is never just about the food. It’s about weaving all the threads of our lives — memories, hopes, and dreams — together on our tables. And I’m grateful, truly grateful, to begin this new chapter carrying Robert’s threads forward.