I bent my head over a stove in my early 20s and picked it up in my 30s.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
When I was 13 or 14, my parents had a bit of a windfall so bought a lovely new kitchen, but I burnt it down. I was making cheese on toast when flames escaped from the grill. My father stopped the fire with blind panic and excessive water. I was forgiven, but it put me off cooking for years.
In the early Seventies, I had shoulder-length hair, bell-bottom pants, love beads and shirts that laced up at the front. But then I smartened up.
For me, my 20s were all about reaching for the brass ring of work in theater, television, and film, surviving in between by waiting tables, painting houses, serving coffee, and temping.
I became an adult in an extreme way. I was recently sorting some old photographs and I found another.
Had I been older - maybe 25 or 30 - I would have never tried half the things I did because I would have rationalized everything and never did it.
My mother fed me with a spoon until I was 6 years old.
When I was a kid I got busted for throwing a rock through a car window and egging a house on halloween.
I was about five years old when I was eating soup in our kitchen, and as I was lifting the spoon towards my mouth, it bent and broke in half.
I went through a wood-chopping phase when I was nine or 10.
I used to get on a stove wood pile at 5-6 years old and I would have a piece of stove wood and kindling bark as a pick, and I was a star.