In fifth grade my son stopped playing four square on playgrounds and got serious about soccer. At the time he was more interested in the robotics club than the World Cup. With competitive tryouts a few months away we signed him up for extra training, placed him on an indoor team to get more playtime, and after work I shagged soccer balls until the sun went down.
The first night of tryouts a throng of kids showed up sporting nifty haircuts and expensive cleats. After the third night, he sat sullenly on the car ride home. “There’s nothing wrong with making C-team,” we told him, trying to tamp down his expectations.
During dinner he got the phone call he’d been hoping for. Coach Marvin, a popular coach who had played professionally, offered him a spot on a top team.
My wife and I were thrilled. “We’re so proud of you. Remember when we’d twist your arm to go to practice?"
“Actually it’s the uniforms I really care about.”
My wife and I, in unison: “Huh?”
“That’s why I wanted to make Marvin’s team. Their jerseys are really cool.”
In a nutshell, that’s why I fell in love with writing. The first time I saw my name in print, I was hooked. It wasn’t about creating a dialogue or telling a compelling story - it was the thrill of being recognized. Never mind most readers never made it to the end of my columns to see my byline in the Cornell Daily Sun, the campus paper. I saw it, and that’s what I really cared about.
It wasn’t long before I realized my dream of becoming the next J.D. Salinger was a far-fetched illusion. As my father remarked after skimming one of my newspaper stories, “It’s real good, son. Good for kindling.”
Despite my bubble bursting, I kept writing. I discovered an author whose style I would forever emulate: E. B. White. Best known for “Charlotte’s Web” and “Elements of Style,” White wrote essays for The New Yorker for over fifty years. I stumbled upon compilations of his work in a used book store and devoured his wry, unvarnished prose leavened with urbane wit and a folksy manner.
I was smitten with E.B. White’s style, but instead of using a yellow marker to highlight favorite passages, I literally put tracing paper over the words and proceeded to…oh no, I wasn’t copying! That would be sacrilege. I just wanted to know how it felt to write such masterful sentences.
It’s like this: as a kid playing baseball, I often imitated Willie Stargell, the All-Star outfielder for the 1970s Pittsburgh Pirates. When Stargell stepped into the batter’s box he pumped his bat around like a windmill, intimidating the pitcher. It didn’t matter what color his jersey was or what number was on his back, even the fans sitting in the nosebleed section could tell when Stargell was up at bat.
My twelve-year-old self stood in front of a mirror for hours whirling a baseball bat around like a nunchuck, mimicking Stargell's swagger in the batter’s box. Did that make me a better hitter? Maybe, maybe not, but it sure felt good.
The same can be said about my obsession with E.B. White. I envied his succinct and clever writing style and inimitable ability to tell a story. I aspired to pen insightful essays about long walks down by the lake or the epiphany I had while eating a cheeseburger with a fried egg on top. Words would flow onto the paper like the rapids rushing down a river.
Unfortunately, a 90 mile-an-hour knuckleball hit me right in the chops, simultaneously breaking my nose and ending my baseball career. And while my college friends said they enjoyed reading my literary riffs in the college paper, The New Yorker hadn’t returned any of my query letters,
“Don’t quit your day job,” my father counseled me, which was curious advice given that at the time I didn’t have a job.
A few years after graduating from Cornell’s Hotel School I found my true calling and opened a small restaurant in the basement of a revitalized historical building. I channeled my creative energies into becoming a chef. Turned out to be good timing — in the mid-1980s the country was on the cusp of a culinary revolution, and young adventurous chefs were at the vanguard of forging a new “fusion cuisine” rooted in ethnic flavors and exotic ingredients.
Like many businesses in a collegetown, my restaurant had boom-and-bust cycles. During the downtimes, the muse would reappear over my shoulder and utter sweet nothings like WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW. I sat in front of my jalopy of a typewriter and typed up a story about my latest culinary obsession: chutneys (not exactly a mainstream topic.)
The Grapevine, Ithaca’s weekly newspaper, was around the corner from my restaurant. When I finished my micro-dissertation (“The Chutney Intrigue”) I walked it over to their office and dropped it on the editor’s desk. A couple of hours later she called me.
“You wrote this?” she asked.
“I sure did,” I replied.
“It’s good. We’d like to run it in this week’s paper. Do you have a photo?”
“Of chutney? Sure, I can take one.”
“Actually we’d like a photo of you, preferably in the kitchen.”
“Absolutely, “ I replied. A byline - plus a photo? La-dee-da. That was pure gold.
This was the beginning of a beautiful relationship, my dual affinity for words and cooking. Every few weeks I zeroed in on an interesting recipe or ingredient and waxed poetic for The Grapevine. (My father referred to it as “a Pennysaver.” As in “It’s all ads. Who writes for a Pennysaver??”)
Well, it turns out one of my regular customers owned a feminist bookstore ‘round the corner — in Ithaca, everything is ‘round the corner’. She was friends with a publisher in California and recommended that I send them a portfolio of my work. One thing led to another, and before long I was working on my first cookbook (“Chutneys, Relishes and Table Sauces” —sort of a graduate thesis on condiments.)
Over the next ten years, I spent my spare time writing about every culinary topic imaginable —from searching for the perfect chocolate chip cookie to expounding upon the thrill of the grill, a flurry of curry, the keys to making a great soup, the secret to maximizing flavor without piling on salt and fat. I explored the world of cuisines - the Caribbean, Asian, Indian, Cajun, Southwestern, Mexican, Middle Eastern, Israeli, Italian, and so on. When I wasn’t cooking at my restaurant I was testing (and writing about) new recipes.
By 1996 I had written over a dozen cookbooks and hundreds of food stories for national magazines and newspapers. My restaurant in Ithaca was doing well, my cookbook income was gravy - but I wasn’t cracking the NY Times bestseller list. The prevailing wisdom was if I wanted to get noticed by the major networks and publishers, I needed to move to New York City, the media capital of the country.
Long story short, I wasn’t moving to New York. Newly married and ready to start a family and a new life together, my wife and I packed up a 17-foot rental truck and moved to Denver. The call of Colorado, the allure of sunshine and mountains, the prospect of hiking, skiing, and discovering an energized city, all together it was an easy tradeoff.
Since relocating in 1997 I opened up gourmet soup-and-sandwich shops throughout Denver while keeping my nights free for kids’ soccer, little league, and trips to the theatre. The writing gig was confined to emails to friends, love letters to my wife on her birthday, and occasional outbursts on blogging platforms.
Turns out, living one’s best life is more meaningful than making the bestseller list. My last cookbook came out twenty-four years ago - the year we moved to Denver.
Around 2016 - after nearly twenty years of serving meals to Denverites - I needed a new challenge. I rented a commissary kitchen and launched JAYS2GO, a dinner delivery business. This was a novel concept, sort of like a hyper-local Blue Apron, only the meals were fully prepared (zero prep and clean-up) and easily reheated. A new menu would post online every Saturday, and dinners arrived on Wednesday (perfect for hump day). I marketed JAYS2GO as an alternative to pizza delivery and Chinese take-out.
Starting with twenty-five of my wife’s dear friends and Lowry neighbors, JAYS2GO grew steadily and feedback was great. But, looking back at those early years, I’d say the menu was conservative, the variety was good, not great. The learning curve for the dinner delivery business was steep.
Five years ago the long-term prospects of JAYS2GO was akin to an underrated team playing in the Super Bowl. The underdog may have a slow start, but if they kept the game close, they would learn, adapt, and thrive. By the fourth quarter, you wouldn’t want to bet against them.
We all know what happend on March 19, 2020 when every store, gym, school, office, and movie theatre closed. Grocery stores were open but their shelves were cleaned out. The restaurant industry - where I spent my entire career- was devastated. Live theatre - specifically the Denver Center for Performing Arts where I spent thirteen years running the Hot Ticket Cafe - went completely dark.
The only businesses with a pulse were meal prep and dinner delivery businesses. My JAYS2GO phone was ringing off the hook…emails, texts, FB messages, sign-ups for our subscriber list, you name it, every customer engagement metric was off the charts. JAYS2GO would have to ramp up food production, menu selections, delivery logistics, not to mention deal with supply and staffing shortages. My modest neighborhood business was about to explode.
On the morning of March 20, I woke up at 4:30 am in a cold sweat. Jumping out of bed, I took my temperature: 97.6. Relieved, but still stressed, I needed a pep talk, but waking up my wife was not an option. I stepped into the office and gazed up at the bookshelf. Twelve of my cookbooks were lined up, representing thirty years of writing, learning, and developing recipes — essentially a lifetime spent in the kitchen. I could do this.
Although I never made the NY Times bestseller list, all those years spent researching recipes and writing about what I know - FOOD- were not in vain. My treasure trove of culinary knowledge was about to pay out huge dividends. Since March, 2020, JAYS2GO business grew by over 300% - and we’re not letting up.
For what it’s worth, my son continued to play soccer until he graduated high school. He stopped caring about uniforms a long time ago - and played for the love of the game. In a nutshell, that’s how I feel about writing.
Great article and still loving the great deliveries and food. Thank you!!
Very nice and great to know you a little better. As with your admiration of EB White, I grew up wanting to be the next JP Donleavy. Alas, there is only one Ginger Man.