My passion for food eclipsed my 36-year career in dentistry. After ongoing health challenges, I rediscovered that the kitchen, the table, and sharing good food now fulfil me. Food doesn’t just feed me – it enriches me. Mind, body, and soul. This is my third chapter in life, shaped by what I’ve learnt along the way. I used to tell people: the sun comes up from the east and sets in the west. There are lots of things we can’t control. Relax, have a cup of chamomile tea – or if you don’t like chamomile, enjoy a peppermint tea.

Food and photography have became my anchors. When I can’t control everything, I can control the temperature of my oven, the composition of a shot, the rise of my sourdough. These aren’t just hobbies – they’re what keep me grounded, purposeful and present.

If you lean in, you learn. Lean back and you fall back.

The Waypoints

Without knowing it, I was surrounded by food memories from my childhood – waypoints in a journey I didn’t realise I was on. Influences that set the fundamentals for what I’m doing now. As a youngster, we spent most holidays on Rottnest Island (Rotto). We caught crayfish, prised abalone off the nearby reef and cooked over open fires on the beach using driftwood. We’d catch fish off the main or Scott’s jetty or from the dinghy using handlines – no fishing rods for us. If we had extra, we’d sell filleted herring to departing day trippers at the ferry jetty. The local police turned a blind eye, and we earned enough for Saturday bakery treats and money for the games room. I learnt sustainable, ethical, local sourcing before I had words for it. These weren’t lessons – they were life.

Hockey and sport came into my world early and became a constant through the first two chapters of my life. Discipline, teamwork and physical commitment shaped how I approached everything that followed. The Army in 1981 brought my eating utensils – a sliding-door moment I didn’t recognise at the time. Thirty-six years in dentistry taught me precision, technique and methodical practice. Both required showing up, adjusting and refining through repetition.

My adult life took me through every mainland capital city. Each taught me something about Australian food – different markets, providores and regional ingredients. Melbourne’s laneway coffee culture. Sydney’s seafood markets. Brisbane’s subtropical produce. Overseas travel, both holiday and work, added more layers – different food cultures, markets and techniques. Each place left its mark.

My life partner came into my life in the early ’90s. Through the remaining years of dentistry, the travels and the sliding-door moments, we navigated it all together. We eventually came back and settled in the Adelaide Hills, finding home together. Here we can celebrate South Australia’s incredible seafood, wine regions and local producers who make this food scene so special. The Adelaide Hills give us space to reflect, cook, bake and photograph without pretence. It’s where everything I’ve learnt across the country – and the world – comes together.

There was the moment Dad commented on how fluid I was in the kitchen – switching from preparation to stove to oven to plating. It was one of our last bonding sessions with a frail Mum in hospital, and with Dad’s brain gradually leaving.

The body that had served me through decades of sport, the Army and my dental career began demanding different terms. Health challenges forced a reckoning – a career change I didn’t plan but needed. What do you do when your body says it’s time to stop? You lean in to what sustains you.

These sliding-door moments – the utensils, the cities, the overseas travels, Dad’s comment and the career change – shaped everything that followed. I’ve never been afraid to ask why, to push boundaries while building on what I’ve learnt previously. I reframe my vulnerabilities. I’m not full of answers, but I learn from my insecurities and grow.

Make mistakes three times. Adjust one component at a time – usually time and temperature. Does it make sense? Yes or no, not a maybe. This is how understanding builds.

What I Believe

Simple food, honestly presented. Supporting local providores isn’t just a choice – it’s part of who I am, learned on Rottnest jetties and reef edges. Providores are equal to the greatest chefs. The story behind the food matters as much as the food itself. From fisher to plate. From farm to table. These connections enrich everything.

Understanding Before Equipment

My Miele kitchen appliances and Canon cameras amplify what I understand, but the understanding comes first. I’d love a combi oven, but not having one hasn’t stopped me producing decent bread. The tools help when you understand how heat works across appliances and changes outcomes, why steam matters, and how moisture affects crust or texture. For me, good cooking isn’t about owning expensive equipment. It’s about understanding heat. The same applies to photography.

I’m interested in more than simply taking a photograph. I look at form, function and beauty – in nature, in objects and in the things we often pass without noticing. I’m asking myself what it is that has caught my attention, and what story I can tell by the way I frame it. The camera becomes a way of seeing. Sometimes the story is obvious. Sometimes it is in the shape of an object, the way light falls across it, its texture, its relationship with what surrounds it, or simply the moment in which I found it.

I saw a long black coffee catching the light while sitting with Dad and I happened to have my camera with me, so I took the photograph. Years later, the image takes me straight back to that place and that moment with Dad. Perhaps when someone else looks at it, they can feel something of what I saw too.

That is what I want from my photography. The technique should be invisible. You shouldn’t see the years of adjustment or the methodical changes. You should simply see the image, pause for a moment, and perhaps wonder about the story behind it.

The Theatre of Food

Ceramics, plating and creative styling – every meal tells a story. The plate is a canvas. The way light falls on a perfectly seared piece of fish, the contrast of colours and the balance of elements – this is where cooking becomes art. Every dish I create is theatre, from the first preparation to the final garnish. Cook. Smell. Taste. Eat. Drink. Share. Repeat if necessary.

For better or worse, those actions are now the definition of who I am.