Sitting around a paper-topped table, forks and knives pushed aside. A sharpie in each hand. Always sitting around a table. I remember… Was it table five or table six? Was I there or do I make the memory?
Making a Journal has got to be easier than writing a book? A spark. A mark. Ink brushed. Ink spilled. Every recipe, evolving. A decade-long dialogue. Morel toast. A haven for typos. Diner Journal was, is.
Diner Journal was, is years of collaboration, inspiration, hesitation, motivation.
Diner Journal was, is co-creation, examination, celebration.
Diner Journal was, is a wild idea, a cassoulet, and how to… company for the lonely.
Diner Journal was, is patience, and fire, and everything between.
Diner Journal was, is a frittata, ramp, and moonlight.
Diner Journal was, is a can of beer with lime and a salt rim.
Diner Journal was, is blooming.
Diner Journal was, is breaking and baking.
Diner Journal was, is bonding and bearing.
Making a Journal for ten years in our spare time between slinging drinks and hotel pans was an unplanned fever pitch. We started with recipes, short essays, block prints, black and white photos. Some design elements, some lasted while others did not.
The journal helped us better understand ourselves and our farmers. This fertile earth. Serving. Cooking. We didn’t gatekeep, at least not the way I understood other magazines did. No pitch that was a no. There was nowhere we were afraid to go. There were long nights, and endless edits, some good and some not so good. Occasionally someone would yell up at the stars, but mostly we would laugh. There was every kind of heavy lifting. Cleaning squid, the dishes, packing up the equipment, standing on the bar. Tossing boxes filled with freshly printed issues up several flights of stairs.
It took us all a while to understand the urgency that comes with living page by page. And will take even longer I imagine to learn to let it go.