I’ve grown up among chefs of various talents. My earliest memory of cooking myself is at four years old. I remember standing in the kitchen, staring at my father and uncle in their white chef hats before the oven. My mother ran a private catering business, and most of my relatives were involved in some sort of cooking occupation. When I became a teenager I decided I wanted to head in the same direction. It wasn’t long before I was wearing my own chef hat, in a restaurant I opened with my older sister. She was only four years my elder, but infinitely wiser when it came to the financials and the practicality of opening our store. I dealt with the hiring and firing of staff, and the overall supervision of the kitchen and bar. We moved to Vancouver and opened up a nice sized eatery. It was a partly casual yet partly formal place, perfect for dates, parties, or even hanging out. The community was immensely pleased with the restaurant, and I with the turnout. My sister and I became wealthy almost instantly, and known for it. Within a few years we were the richest members of our family, and proud of it. I still am proud of it, even as I think about that time in my life so long ago.