A Cornue-copia of Riches.

I've always said that as long as someone has a flame and a pot, they can cook a meal fit for a king. And I believe that. I fell in love with cooking during my early days in New York City, when I shared a studio apartment with four other people and had a countertop the size of a baking sheet, and a stove that wasn't much larger. I cooked a six course meal for 10 in that tiny kitchen, on that tiny stove, for my 27th birthday, washing the same set of mismatched dishes over and over again between courses because I didn't have enough.

Years later, when we bought the Beekman, I was surprised to find the exact same inexpensive half-sized range in the beautifully restored Beekman Mansion as I had in that studio apartment. Two of them actually. Side by side. Even though the mansion itself had been lovingly refurbished using all of the best materials and craftsmanship, I assumed that the previous owners believed, as I did, that as long as there was a flame, there could be thousands of delicious gourmet meals cooked over it. The inexpensive stoves got just as hot as a five star restaurant oven did.

But I do admit to having a secret culinary crush. Ever since I first walked into a Williams-Sonoma store and saw their colorful La Cornue CornuFé stoves, I wanted one. I tried to convince myself that I didn't really need one. That they were overkill for an untrained cook like myself. Their shiny trim, precise heating, and solid hardware were simply not meant for me.

But I still ran my finger over them every time I went to William-Sonoma, always with "I'm just looking" on the tip of my tongue in case a salesperson happened to notice my infatuation. I imagined entire kitchens designed around the different colors. I would one day have a burgundy one in my imaginary country lodge, a light blue one in my fantasy Provence getaway, and a shiny steel one in my New York City penthouse that I would purchase with lottery winnings. Brent doesn't know this, but while many spouses could probably be seduced to stray with diamonds and furs, I might have cuckolded him for a romantic dinner cooked on my own La Cornue. I'm only human.

Speaking of cooking, recently Brent and I sold our idea for a Beekman 1802 cookbook to a publisher. It was a frightening thought for someone who loves and respects cookbooks as much as I do. Could we really fill up an entire book with recipes that other people would want to make? Brent and I grow or raise over 80% of our food. We render our own lard, bake our own bread, can our own produce, and sauté, fry, braise, broil, brown, toast, simmer and boil every edible object the Beekman can put out. And most of it turns out pretty damn good. (If not the first time, always by the third try.)

I think by now Brent and I have learned more than most cooking schools could teach about living and eating seasonally. I'm still not going to call myself a chef. But I think somewhere along the way I became a pretty decent cook. Even Jean-Georges gave me a thumbs up…not once, but three times.

But I really wasn't looking forward to testing out dozens of cookbook recipes on a relatively short deadline on the rickety, tilting, drafty old ranges at the Beekman. So I complained. A lot. Brent doesn't like when I complain. As you know, he's more of a buckle-down-chin-up kinda guy. We don't really have the funds for a new oven, he reminded me. The money we earn from Beekman 1802 goes right back into the business and community that we're building together.

But last Friday, when I arrived at the Beekman from the city, with a fresh batch of complaints filling my lungs, I didn't even have the chance for one to boil over before Brent took my hand and led me into the kitchen.

"Merry early Christmas," he said smiling, flipping on the light. "Now quit bitching."

There in the corner was a newly installed black La Cornue CornuFé stove, looking like it belonged there more than William Beekman himself. It has steel trim, with copper accents to match the hood over the fireplace. It's simply beautiful. And there are dials on it that I don't even know what they do. Yet.

Now we might not be able to afford heat this winter, but I don't care. I doubt I'll stray more than a few feet away from our new La Cornue anyway. I've got a cookbook to fill.

I still believe that all one needs is a flame and a pot to cook a meal fit for royalty. But you know what?  Cooking for a king might be nice, but cooking like one is even better.

Thank you, Brent.