Mom overcooked the roast again, Dad won’t keep his eyes off the living room TV, and Grandma just brought up her toe fungus. It’s not perfect, but we’re all here, in one place, at the same time.

Dinner on Sunday is a series of short essays. Two writers, two stories, one completely random topic, once a week for fifty-two of them. That’s enough numbers. Enjoy these words. Enjoy them with a cup of coffee or a goblet of champagne. Escape the world and all its distaste for six minutes every week.

Pull up a chair. This is Dinner on Sunday.


Writer, designer, photographer. Such stiff labels for someone who just wants to make people feel something. For right now we’ll go with creative. It’s less about what I do and more about who I am. Before I was paid to be a branding junkie, I was taking moody self-portraits and writing folk songs in a purple bedroom. Let’s just say Dinner on Sunday is my new purple bedroom.  


I’ve dug ditches. I’ve swung hammers. I’ve pushed caskets. Today, I write words, and for that, I’m lucky. My day-job coincides with my passion: I write advertising. I inject as much human connection into inanimate objects as I can. And I’m pulling off a similar magic trick with this thing we’ve created called Dinner on Sunday. Abracadabra.