If you and I are ever on a deserted island and you're waiting for me to kill something so that we can eat, you’ve got a problem. I can cook and eat it, just don’t ask me to kill it. This stems from a childhood experience of befriending “Chester the Rabbit”, and then a couple of weeks later seeing him get killed for Sunday dinner. Although that didn’t turn me into a vegetarian, it put me off from the desire to kill my own meat.
Every time I put on that white double-breasted chef’s jacket, checkered pants, crisp white bib apron and touque (chef’s hat) – I feel like a chef. I’m tempted to wander the streets of TO in my full uniform with my toolbox of equipment, in case - god forbid - there’s a culinary emergency, and I’m called to action. Give me a moment while I dream….