In high school, when I was convinced I’d be newspaper man, I worked for a teen newspaper run by the Parks and Recs Dept. of San Franscisco. It was a great gig - I got paid to write a column, which kind of became a little cult hit in the city. I was even called a “local columnist” on the radio one day. It was my first taste of fame.

As is often the case with these city and country funded programs, we were always strapped for cash. So to raise money, we sold this little cookbook called “Recipes With An Attitude,” which was a compilation of tried and true recipes that we “rewrote to have attitude”. We were writers, see? Journalists. A bake sale just wouldn’t do. Each one of these spiral bound comedic culinary masterpieces went for $5.00.

We were sort of the feel good story of the time and the real newspapers even interviewed us to help us out. There’s a clipping somewhere where I am asked whether or not I even liked cooking and I answer, “No,” with zero follow-up.

About five years later, I was “slinging hash” at this place and helped the owners open their second restaurant in Cambridge. And in New York, I got jobs with him and him but foolishly turned them down by sitting on Conrad Connecticut’s couch on my start days.

Now years later, my hankering to cook professionally is back. And we kinda have this kooky little dream to open up a cozy little eatery. So every week or so, Mary Milan spruces up the apartment and I don my apron and whip up a little meal for a couple of our friends. While we’d love to say that we’re reviving salon culture by spending these evenings talking about Spinoza’s theory of psychology or the impact of the Nouvelle Vague on modern American filmmakers, it’s really just reminder to clean our apartment, an opportunity for me to play in the kitchen, and an excuse drink a couple bottles of wine and eat great food with friends. And since we usually like doing it on school nights, it feels especially naughty.

It’s kind of like Ghetto Gourmet, except the price of admission is simply pleasant company and a couple bottles of wine (check out this article on GG as well).

I keep meaning to post the recipes here but recipe writing has never been a strong suit, which is why I still haven’t revived “Date Plate” for this space. “Date Plate” was a weekly email to my bachelor friends arming them with a recipe and “witty banter” for the “Let Me Cook Dinner For You At My Place, wink, wink, wink…” date. From the “Ceviche a trios” recipe: