I put a lot of thought into the format of Menus, and Menu No 1 would set the template for subsequent cookbooklets. The recipes were a given, of course, and I knew I wanted to start each one with a little essay on some such that was on my mind.

But because Menus was catalyzed by the passing of my father, I wanted to include something to memorialize him. What I didn’t want, though, was a dedication, in part because I didn’t want to have to dedicate each booklet to a different person; that would quickly become insincere. But also, I thought I could do better than “For Dad.”

That’s when I came up with the idea to bookend each booklet with an essay in the front and something a little more personal in the back. And that’s when I started drinking. Heavily.

That’s because the first draft started “My dad was great.” My thirty-five years and that’s the best I could come up with. I was saddened all over again that the distillation of such an important relationship to me was so uninspired. Insipid, even.

After several days’ thinking, I don’t recall exactly the a-ha moment, but I remembered a memory I had of Dad eating cantaloupe and ice cream for breakfast. And that’s when I decided to end each booklet with a story. Stories give me near-infinite flexibility. They can be sad, they can be sweet, they can be funny. They can be all of those things. They can be food related. Or not.

But importantly, they encompass a crucial component to a good dinner party: we share a meal, for sure, but we sit around the table telling stories. Typically what you recall about a dinner party is what you ate. But what you remember is how you felt, and was it fun.