Chefs love entertaining at home, right? Yeah, sure. And lawyers like to spend their vacations sitting on a jury.

Don't you know that all chefs ever do is entertain? For some, it is doubtless a calling. But even a James Beard–nominated-rising-star-top-galactic-chef needs a break. Personally, I don't really mind entertaining on a small scale. It's the big affairs that wipe me out. Once a year, we throw a big bash; then, being a consummate over-achieving control freak, I need a week to recover from it.

I don't really mind the cooking, which happens to be of epic proportions. (Yes, I admit it. I tend to overdo it.) It's everything that goes with it. Guests should ideally leave your party feeling well cared for and, as any restaurateur knows, that means making sure every detail they encounter at your home is tip-top, from the shrubs on the curb to the toilet paper. After the party, if the toilet paper ends up on the shrubs by the curb, you know you've done your job right.

While such endeavors are satisfying, I would much rather be entertained by others. But alas, I rarely get invited out. Perhaps people are too intimidated to cook for a chef. I think I speak for all chefs when I urge you to, please, invite us to dinner once in a while. Don't be shy. I, for one, will promise not to refer to your efforts as neophyte or banal. In fact, I am surprisingly easy to please. Sure, I am a classically trained chef. But I'm not snooty about it.

I enjoy Ruffles just as much as truffles, especially when accompanied by California onion dip. I adore a beautifully arranged salade niçoise or a well- made croque monsieur, but I am equally happy with grilled Kraft Singles on Wonder Bread (two slices of cheese, please). You'd expect me to go gaga over crispy sweetbreads and flip for a perfectly executed steak tartare. But I find little on earth as sumptuous as a good tuna casserole topped with crumbled potato chips.

Even with my baking credentials, I cannot produce anything quite as pleasurable as a box of Girl Scout cookies. (Samoas! Oh, yeah! I have been known to sit in the supermarket parking lot and down a whole box.) I may have apprenticed under great European chefs, but I'm still the girl who was raised on Hamburger Helper and Jell-O salad, served on a leaf of iceberg lettuce and topped with a dollop of Miracle Whip.

You can rank the food you eat and assign it social status, but the most important aspect of your meal is the people you are eating it with. True, Hamburger Helper is no Veal Prince Orloff, but serve it to a table full of family and friends, and it's a feast fit for a king.

Because my simple tastes are at odds with my field of expertise, it seems that the only folks inviting me to dinner are related to me. My family does not try to impress, and they do not care what I think. I am expected to clear, dry and keep my opinions to myself. Considering it is one of the few meals prepared for me and not by me, I am happy to do so.

These dinners are made from common ingredients: a smidgeon of drama, a dash of sibling rivalry, a splash of martyrdom and a pinch of...well, just a lot of pinching. At one recent gathering, my sister-in-law revealed that I serve tacos every time she and my brother come over to eat. Funny, it seems like such a clever idea every time I think of it. It would appear that my memory is fading as I become well aged, like a premium porterhouse.

I'll keep making them, though, because I love tacos, especially on a buffet. They're easy, and everyone can create the taco of his or her liking. This is important, as half of my guests are vegans, and the other half are on Atkins. Best of all, the entire thing can be done in advance. This way, I can avoid the kitchen — and spend more time monitoring the pinching.