Sixteen or seventeen, going on twenty-five. I grew up quick.
 
It was hard picking music for this. In 1979 there was Message in a Bottle, Money for Nothing, Highway to Hell, My Sharona, Heart of Glass, Rock the Casbah...and there was The Cars.
 
Jeanette was like the sister I never had. Her mom loved me. Most especially because I ate all my vegetables, that was the sweetest.  
 
This is us at a party—I have no idea what we are playing. The way we're holding our Player's Light cigarettes—I miss smoking the most. 
 
Nothing dates you like a pile of empty stubbies. I smile when I see a Molson Golden label—mostly we drank Canadian.
 
I loved beer.
 
***
 
She had a couple of good men. They always played lots of sports, so there was time for us. 
 
We met at a department store lunch counter. I was working the grill, and she was serving—in our orange polyester uniforms. Sometimes on Saturday mornings, we were sweating out a hangover. I think we clocked in a few times directly from an all-nighter.
 
Laughter was hard and easy between us.
 
In the wee hours of one Sunday morning, we outran the cops in her Toyota Celica. Don't ask me how we did it. I was too busy trying to sober up quickly. Skidded into a driveway with the lights off and cut the engine. We would have been in royal shit if caught.
 
Our style was similar, and we shared clothes. 

​The only time I was a bridesmaid was for her. The dresses didn't suck or cost a fortune. I have a hilarious picture of us from that day. I was going to use it and let you caption it for fun.
 
Jeanette was the kind of friend who told hard truths and then stuck around.
 
***
 
There were some life hardships then—my parents busting up being one of them.
 
We had a beautiful family home—nice landscaping, a pool—then the whole thing imploded. It felt like strangers lived there.
 
To find a place to go where there was laughter and love was everything. It means more now than ever.
 
Some friendships don't go the distance, but they're damn good in their time.

For too long, I put a lot of weight in the opinion of students who didn’t like me.
 
I’m not saying they don’t count.
 
Just that there are as many—may be more—who I had a real connection with.

And their opinions matter as much.
 
***
 
I taught a lot of young people—thousands in twenty years.
 
In numbers, they would almost fill the CNE coliseum.
 
When a former student approaches me, I’ve started asking:
 
What was your experience of me as a teacher? 

Then I listen. I open to the conversation. 

***

Time has not worn my passion and curiosity down.

Those qualities are invaluable. I'd even say precious.

They carry the best lessons.

I was a good teacher.
 
***
 
It’s beyond me to please everyone.
 
There’s lightness in letting that go.
 
The fact is I failed some.
 
But on the whole, I did my best (sometimes under incredible duress).

I always felt I answered to chefs and restaurateurs more than any institution.
 
***
 
I’ve just spent ten days with two former George Brown students—each with a unique talent—both on the cusp of change.
 
Watching them grow into who they are is a privilege.
 
I’m grateful they still care what I think.
 
And are happy to see me.
 
***
 
Thank you, Alyssa and Blake, for your beautiful hospitality.

​You too are my teachers. I am your student. 
 
Wasan Island is a magical place.

Ai Monasteri in Rome.
 
That's where I bought Joyce Goldstein's bubble bath. 
 
1997 celebrity chef in residence.
 
San Francisco's Square One restaurant in snowy Stratford, Ontario.
 
Vivid Mediterranean flavours and a bright mind.

Having her run the kitchen for a week was delicious—and affirmative
 
***
 
Rome had been her home as a young woman on an art scholarship.
 
She'd sent me a list of classic restaurants and food shops. I still have it.
 
Pasta e fagioli at Costanza, cacio e pepe at La Campana, carciofi alla giudia everywhere, crema gelato from Giolitti. 
 
I spent four days following her lead. It was perfect.
 
Something nice for the bath was a small gesture of thanks. 
 
***
 
Claudia Roden and Paula Wolfert were her peers. So were Alice Waters, Peggy Smith, Lindsey Shere, Judy Rodgers. 
 
The chefs who shaped California cooking.  
 
There are recipes in The Mediterranean Kitchen I adore—it's a classic in my collection.
 
***
 
On the Saturday evening before her flight home, we had dinner at Avalon in Toronto. Chris McDonald's cooking—I stopped writing for a bit to recall his genius. 
 
The most beautiful thing was the respect he paid her. He knew the full measure of her talent.

Lovely courses kept coming through the kitchen doors—wines to match. 
 
I was a young woman. She was a great conversationalist.
 
Sharing that meal was something I'll never forget.

A recipe should only take you to the end of the runway.
 
I have conversations with the cooks who write books—in the margins.
 
Scribble notes about directions, change measurements, shift the timing.

Am an active participant.  
 
I’ve made some masterful adjustments to Christine Ferber’s strawberry jam.
 
And when I eat it I think of something new to tweak.
 
Fine-tuning it to my frequency.
 
I don't feel a sliver of dissatisfaction.
 
The jam and the learning are good.

***
 
I'm also in the process of letting go of the bitchy perfectionist in me.
 
Searching for new ways to get soft—because it’s time.

Just like the jam, I'm a work in progress.

Sacramento 2010.
 
First day of the Tour of California.
 
Andy Schleck, my favourite rider—on the far right in red.
 
So much world-class cycling talent sprinting to the finish.
 
I watched them in the rain a few days later.
 
Standing on the side of Oakville Crossroad and CA-29.

Between Yountville and St. Helena.
 
The only person around.
 
***
 
In my last two years in Stratford, I cycled with a club.
 
Bought a custom second-hand road bike.
 
Perfect size. Like it had been waiting for me.
 
Got doored by a cab my second ride in Toronto.
 
Hung it up in the garage—then sold it.
 
***
 
So many steep learning curves riding in a peloton.
 
The agony of bridging the gap on early rides.
 
Out on jet-black paved rural roads first thing on a summer morning.
 
Grateful to be alive.
 
***
 
I wish I’d been put on a road bike as a young girl.

Because I could fly.
 
Did a few triathlons—won my age division once.
 
Took a few women out on a big incline.

The sweet feeling as I passed them. 
 
***
 
I love city cycling. 
 
The training with the club gave me confidence. 
 
I’ve been off my bike for two years because of my knee.
 
I missed it a lot.
 
Building strength now.
 
The spirit of it is still strong in me.

Childless.
 
That’s a fact of me.
 
I’m sure some people thought.
 
Because she’s broken.
 
The kind of woman who chooses to ignore her biology.
 
***
 
Fulfilled.
 
That’s a fact of me.
 
Without children.
 
Still so many have found their way to me.
 
Wiggled into my heart. 
 
***
 
I went to every midwife appointment.
 
Ghaithaa let me hear her tiny heart beating. 
 
Through the stethoscope.
 
Tear burst.
 
***
 
This is the first time we met. She'd been in the world five minutes.
 
Can you see the hearts shooting from my eyes?
 
Ran from my apartment the minute I got the call—hair a mess, no makeup.

Paced the hall with Val and the kids.
 
At the beautiful Toronto Birth Centre.
 
Indigenous care.
 
***
 
When I staged with Lydia Shire.
 
Her four-year-old son was with us in the kitchen. 
 
We took great care.
 
Cooked his dinner—the lovely little prince.
 
One of the most beautiful things I learned from her.
 
Having a family and being a chef takes work. For both parents.
 
And it’s worth it.

​Because children are everything.

I had a standing desk for fucking years. 

Working at stainless steel counters in kitchens.
 
Listening to vigilantes talk about the dangers of sitting.
 
I think of my knees.
 
A lot of you have tattoos that tell your cooking stories. 
 
These two scars are mine.

A cook's old knees.
 
***
 
I was 46 the first time I saw an orthopedic surgeon.
 
He put my x-rays up on the lightbox behind his desk.
 
The back of his leather office chair facing me.
 
Shaking his head.
 
Told me they both needed replacing. 
 
But I was too young. 
 
***
 
I waited seven years before I had my first knee done.
 
Expensive gel injection…Traumeel lotion…Epsom salt…electroacupuncture…cortisone shots.
 
Needles in the knee. 
 
Let’s talk about the pain of ink.
 
***
 
I’m not going to bore you with the details.

​But I’m always up for knee talk. 

***

From 2009 to 2021, I lived with pain.

Twelve years. The last two were the worst.

Going up and down stairs was murder.

***

Being free of it has been a big relief. My spirit's lifted.

The only drawback.

The metal in my knees triggers the security sensors.

I have to go through a double check at the airport.

​Good things take time.

It’s what I learned as an apprentice.

What I tell myself about writing.

And about ageing.

***

Strawberry jam needs three days.

Exactly.

Not less.

Or a day more. 

***

I’m fussy.

I want fruit before sweet.

Strawberries are summer’s first kiss.

Chanel Rouge Allure lips.

***

Ed Behr says, 

“ripeness is fleeting.”

Calls the best berries,

“smaller, softer, more vulnerable.”

*** 

There’s so much going on with the fruit.

Seasonal variables.

Fruit varietals.

A recipe should only take you so far.

***
​
Some bottles are labelled.

A kindness returned.

For the beautiful people.

Who showed up with full arms and hearts.

When I was recovering in January.

2019

I dreamed about it in technicolour.

The visions began at L'Escargot. Beside Gage Park. Hamilton.

Sent André Donnet a postcard from Le Royal Gray.

Dreams do come true, I wrote. 

Because he always believed.

In me. 

***

There are so many good men in the photo.

Assembled at my request. 

Spent six weeks with them—April 30 to June 13.  

1993. 

Jacques Chibois Gault Millau chef of the year.

I made having their backs my business. 

***

The man with the moustache behind me was chef de cuisine. 

Full on class act.  

The respect he showed me I will never forget.

Having a woman in the mix this long was an adventure.

He was up for it.

***

I had a tan and was foreign. 

In short, gorgeous. 

***

Catherine Deneuve, the master of ceremony at Festival de Cannes. 

Her Rolls Royce parked out front of the hotel.

She had dinner in the restaurant opening night.

Chef Chibois in a stylish Bragard jacket—luxurious Egyptian cotton.

Coming back from her table. Flushed.

All of us hoping for a word.

***

I was in Europe on scholarship.

Three months. Six weeks near Padova and six on the Côte d'Azur.

***

On the train journey south.

A stranger lured me into a bit of night adventure in Nice.

For an hour I was scared. Then I realized I'd been had.

***

I rented a studio apartment facing the Mediterranean. I was so lucky.

The night before my first day, I called Jim in Stratford.

Relax, and enjoy yourself.

I didn't always take his advice.

But I knew it was solid. Made everything magic.

***

Gerard to my right. So funny. 

Found out first thing I didn't know Roch Voisine. Shook his head at me for half a day.

Taught me white asparagus is the right size when it makes a young girl blush. The way he said it in French.

All of us laughing. 

03/10/95
​
For Deborah,

With many thanks for all your help.

Paul Bertolli.

***

The Stratford Chefs School was extraordinary. A magic impossible to replicate. 

Neil Baxter's dream come true. He went to the airport to pick him up.

Paul Bertolli in the passenger seat for a whole two hours. 

California sunshine in our midst. 

***

We talked about writing—his recipe headnotes read like poetry.

My cookbook's first edition. The binding busted from use.

I've cooked every page.

If my house were burning, I would flee with it under my arm.

Stuffed with scraps of paper, pressed flowers, thank you notes. 

Ink scribbles on chestnut honey ice cream.

Sea bass grilled over charcoal with shaved artichokes. A lash of canary yellow agrumato on the way to the table.

***

Dinner Friday March 10, 1995

Vegetable Salads
Central Coast Chardonnay '92, Calera

Bouillaibaisse
Central Coast Pinot Noir '92, Calera

Almond Cake with Apricot Sauce
Muscat, Saint-Jean-de-Minervois

***

Gail Skoff's hand-coloured photographs.

Gnarled bare fruit tree. Grey limbs stretched out to worship a cerulean sky.

Golden apples scattered in the grass. 

Rotting into the roots.