I haven’t written in a while because I’ve been wondering what to call this blog. It seems that over the past few years the need to label ourselves has become stronger and stronger. We are bloggers, we are foodies, we eat raw things we are ovolactarians, bactarians, germiphites, phobes and gluten free carnivores. We think more about what category we can or shouldn’t fit into. We’re hipsters we’re anti-hipsters and funny enough but the very hipsters we speak of probably call themselves cowboys. A man can’t even don a purple shirt and slim pants without being labeled Metrosexual.
And what, exactly does that mean? A metropolitan dresser that is sexual? A guy who wants to have sex on the metro? A guy who wants to have sex with the metro?
My blogs are usually fairly passive as I don’t subscribe to any party or belief with radical fanaticism. I do have beliefs, but they are something I keep in a small box, not to be blasted over social media or heaven forbid, labeled.
With the opening of our new kitchen we had to make a decision about the sign and awning. Lots of folks recommended the now typical buzz words like, “farm to table”, “market to your plate,” and other random concoctions that made me scratch the small box in my pocket and keep quiet. It wasn’t until last night–I was awoken abruptly at One Something a.m. and couldn’t fall back asleep for the better part of an hour–that I had a thought.
We are Maison Prive.
Chefs. Just Chefs.
My ancestors were farmers, and proud to have dirty hands as they toasted the end of the day with some sort of fermented corn concoction that only Germans can love. Jim’s ancestors were butchers, and had the same gnarled hands that the farmers did. At the end of the day they celebrated together: celebrated life as they were brothers and sisters in their own right sharing the same wine, the same food, the same table…
never really concerned with what to call each other.