I add the finishing garnish to my client’s cranberry and orange glazed chicken thighs. A mountain of dirty dishes leers at me from the sink — the second mountain for this personal chef client, fourth mountain for the day — when her adorable, trumpet-toting middle schooler saunters into the palatial kitchen from the equally palacial three-car garage. 

“I’ve decided I want to be a chef,” they proclaim, plopping onto a seat at the island, their bags and instrument clattering to the counter.