Not Making Stock on Weekends: What Chefs Really Do at Home
According to the internet — and a few well-meaning friends — chefs should spend Saturdays in quiet reverence at the stock pot. Boiling bones. Kneading pasta. Churning butter in a beam of filtered sunlight while jazz plays softly in the background.
Meanwhile, the rest of the world is at brunch sipping bottomless Bloody Marys, assuming we’re home rendering duck fat like it’s a sacred ritual.
Let me be clear: I am not making stock on weekends, and neither are most chefs I know.
What I’m Actually Doing
There’s a nice fantasy that chefs spend their days off stirring rich broths and perfecting pasta dough. It’s flattering, but it’s not real life.
Here’s what I’m actually doing on the weekends—
First stop: my three-shot latte. Non-negotiable. A small, beautiful ritual I look forward to every week.
Then I’m zipping around Tampa with my other half—Apollo Meats, Detwiler’s, Mazzaro’s.
Picking up cheeses to eat on crackers with chutneys and jams. Scouting wine at Costco. And of course, grabbing Angus beef hot dogs for our now-infamous Hot Dog Date Night. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.
Misa’s not with us. He’s not exactly a model grocery companion. But he knows a butcher shop treat is coming his way, and he’s already circling the kitchen like he pays the mortgage.
Reality: Grocery Runs, Lattes, and Hot Dogs
There’s a linen shirt draped over a dining chair because it air-dries best. It fits perfectly and I’m not letting the dryer mess that up again.
There’s a place for handmade pasta. I respect it. I’ve made butter, too.
But that rich, golden Amish butter from Detwiler’s? It’ll do just fine.
And no, I’m not home watching Gordon Ramsay or bingeing the Food Network. Just like I don’t assume nurses go home and fire up Grey’s Anatomy, or that cops unwind with back-to-back reruns of Cops. (And if they do, I have questions.)
The Real Weekend Cooking
This idea that chefs live inside some never-ending food montage is just that—an idea. A nice one. A flattering one. But not real.
At home, I’m just cooking to eat. Sometimes that means vinaigrette tossed on greens like my iceberg salad with vinegar. Other times it’s garlic confit on toasted bread. And yes, plenty of hot dogs with extra mustard, mayo and maybe even ketchup.
That still counts.
