My red toolbox.
Bought in the late 80s. At Canadian Tire.
Not a lot of women in that aisle.
Needing it felt exhilarating.
I wanted everyone to see me. Walking to the restaurant with it as a young apprentice.
Knives and kitchen stuff clattering. Ready to work.
It sat under my station at Rundles. Where I worked to the edge of insanity, 1991 to 1995. Like in a Michelin Two-Star kitchen. Which it was.
The pride in being a skilled tradeswoman. May all your beautiful daughters know joy at work.
It sits in the top of my closet now. I still keep things in it.
My uncle David's roast beef slicer—baron of beef blade. First chef in the family.
Larding needles. One ounce sauce ladle. Die for fine grinding. Cured fish/ham slicer.
An adorable mini multi-bit screwdriver. Very girly. Like I could fix a busted compressor with it.
I remember the good stuff that went missing too. Grew legs. Walked away.
A set of melon ballers for different size pearls—bought in France.
My first fish slice, when they were impossible to get in Canada. I associate that theft with the all-male crew around one Canadian celebrity chef. Band of fucking thieves.
The toolbox is unadorned. Bears no physical record of my travels. I'm not big on bumper stickers.
I'd like a car that colour. A '67 Camaro. A guy I liked in Goderich drove one. Nice back seat.
If I were buried like an Egyptian Queen, they'd find the toolbox in my sarcophagus. Something practical for the road to the afterlife.
It stirs up all the feelings. Memories of a younger me.
Full of verve.
A knife roll came after. Not the same.
Like talking to a hipster right after the plumber.
I haven't got much time to waste, it's time to make my way
I'm not afraid of what I'll face, but I'm afraid to stay