My favourite food lyrics are "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie" (That's Amore), "I eat antipasta twice, just because she is so nice" (Angelina) and "Spray the whipped cream for at least an hour, pile it as high as the Eiffel Tower" (Banana Split for My Baby).

My father was a fisherman and away a lot, so we often lived with my ma's ma and ma's grandma – who, as a child, I'd watch cook. I never measure out ingredients, because she didn't. Her hand would grab flour and throw it in, then chuck in rosemary and… oh boy, everything was so instinctual and salty and savoury. Look at me, I'm salivating, just talking about it.

Beetroot is disgusting. When I was about 10 we went next door to the Cartwrights for Thanksgiving and Mrs Cartwright served beets with the turkey. My mother said: "Don't be rude, Michael – you will eat the beetroot." So I did, then vomited over everything on the table. I've avoided beetroot since.

I started as a professional fisherman at 14, going up the coast from Vancouver for two months in summer, working 20-hour days with my father. It was dangerous work, but it taught me common respect. We'd kiss the first salmon that came on board, on the lips, for luck. And I tell you, I've kissed worse things since.

From 17 or 18, to 20 I was also the cook on the boat, making meals on the stove in a little galley – lasagnes, roasts and spaghetti bolognese. Any time fish came on board I'd have to go and work, praying my five chickens wouldn't burn.

I spent 10 years playing restaurants and bars where people cared more about their food – or talking, or trying to get laid – than my singing. So I'd use humour. I'd sing a couple of songs, then say: "Stop loving me so much! I know you people couldn't wait to see me, but please, stop! Mmm, your turkey looks good, lady."

I'm married to this beautiful Italian-Argentinian girl [the model Luisana Lopilato] and attend asados [South American barbecues]. Of course now I'm making roll-it-out gnocchi with my mother-in-law. Great chorizo, great asado – I'll freaking make everything. I just love to cook.

My grandfather recently had his heart valve replaced with a cow's valve. So now he says he has the heart of a bull, although really he has the heart of a bullshitter. He's OK but grumpy, because he can't eat what he loves – like the beautiful salt of the pasta vongole. I make sure I never eat beautiful things in front of him. I sit with him and munch on a plain salad, going "Mmm, this is delicious''.

Michael Bublé's Christmas is out now on 143 Records/Reprise