Much of my free time passes in the kitchen at home.  For a professional chef and restauranteur there is little that is remarkable about this kitchen, except perhaps it’s simplicity.

The stove has four gas burners, an oven with a broiler and convection fan, a double compartment sink, lots of granite counter top and a refrigerator.  No microwave, no bread warmer, no double electric oven, there is no second dishwasher for glassware, actually not much else.

I do have a modest set of hand-tools- collected over the years – a Cuisinart of ancient age, an electric mixer even older, two mandolins: one French, one Japanese, a wooden cutting board a friend made, and cook ware of every description, except any made of aluminum.  There are iron-handled tin-lined copper pots, a set of iron skillets, some cold rolled steel pans and a set of enameled Cruset casseroles, an old copper stockpot.  Of course, a set of knives kept to razor sharpness, some German, some French and the ones I use most, Japanese steel. All crafted to perform for years or lifetimes.

It is a working kitchen, for a working chef.  Meals for 50 have passed through, though dinner for 6 to 10 is more it’s fashion.  It is my laboratory, my place of meditation, my “home entertainment center”. It is the place where my children have grown up and gotten to know their father.

The house is filled with the fragrance of cooking – toasty notes, smoke & fire, heady chocolate, spice, citrus.  As I write this, the rich aroma of roasted chicken; a simmering stock makes it way into my study.

I have no desire for anything more complicated.  It is a great place to work, entertain and create.

What I like most, it is a place where I can work with my hands.  It is here that I “write” my food “poems” – mincing bits of vegetable, blending in the punctuation of spice.  I can choreograph a ragout: directing bean, root vegetable, sculptured meat to dance in the casserole, simmering together in synchrony, sharing nuance of self blending into greater whole.  As my hands are occupied, my mind can unravel the stress of the day or marvel at the mystery of the world around.  Or I can let go and just be.

I take great pleasure in practicing the art of cutting.  There are so many drills – lightning speed, careful; mindful mince, regularity of shape, cutting things so they cook well, behave and follow recipe. Perfecting rhythm of work, tapping out a beat; steel against wood, I loose myself, become the knife.

My cooking is sensual, not intellectual, intuitive, not rational.

I control the cooking process more by how it feels to the touch, what it looks like, what it smells like as it cooks.  Certainly, thermometers and timers and scales all have their (necessary) place.  I can mange more on the stove if I can see the flame.  I know when something is cooked by how it yields the point of knife or press of finger.  Bread is done when it is dark, golden brown; almost burnt.  My senses are the instruments of the process.

I do not like being cooked for by a computer, a piece of software, or eating something from a plastic bag dropped into a pot of simmering water.  I want a soul behind the food I eat.  Cooking is like music, or painting – I want something from the maker’s hand.  I want to know the person who has grown my food, the vintner who has made my wine.

I cook by hand.