It’s Sunday evening, dishes are done, kids are down, and Mr. Chef is deep into prepping for Monday’s service list. I’m on the sofa, laptop open, doing what I always do at this hour: writing it all down.
I run corporate strategy by day. He runs a kitchen. Different clocks entirely, and somehow we’ve built a whole life around the mismatch. Here’s the bit that surprises people when I tell them: I don’t cook. Not because I can’t, but because I don’t have to. Mr. Chef does it, most nights, because he wants to, because the kids ask for it, because it’s the one part of his day nobody’s shouting orders at him. When I’m not in the mood, we order in. No guilt about it. Ask any other chef’s wife and they’ll tell you that’s not usually how it goes.
This isn’t a food blog, not anymore anyway. Somewhere between corporate ladders, sleepless toddlers, and figuring out who’s doing the school run tomorrow, it turned into something else: an honest account of what this particular life actually looks like. Not the tidy version.
If you’re chasing a big career, married to someone whose world runs nothing like yours, or just trying to raise decent humans while doing both, pull up a seat. You already know how this goes.