Going two for two in play festivals is a pretty good run. We could have stopped there—framed the certificates, updated the ol’ resume, and basked in our brief theatrical glory. Or we could have just kept cranking out short plays—perhaps The Spoon, then The Spatula, maybe The Whisk if we were feeling ambitious. We had an entire kitchen drawer at our disposal.

We got another request to do the show in another city. While we appreciated being asked, eventually we had to ask: what’s the endgame? How far can you ride the 10-minute play gig? At some point, you bail, write another one or take the plunge into something bigger.

And that’s when we asked the big, slightly terrifying question: could The Fork work as a full-length play?

Ken, ever the optimist, shared some thoughts on characters and plot. I, ever the procrastinator, did some mulling. And in my mulling, I arrived at a troubling conclusion: we might be looking at a farce. A genre that, at the time, I had precisely zero experience in writing.

Now, farces are a different beast. They are one continuous, escalating scene—a glorious mess of mistaken identities, small lies snowballing into spectacularly bad decisions, and doors. Lots and lots of doors. The trick is, they must be fast, tightly choreographed, and—oh yes—actually funny.

One unexpected benefit of all these rewrites was discovering what this story meant to me. That realization helped us refine the script, particularly a change at the end…

So, where to begin? I did what any reasonable person would do: I went to see some farces and hoped that osmosis would do its thing. I caught Rumors in Orange County while visiting my parents, What the Butler Saw at the Hale in Orem, See How They Run in the Valley Center Playhouse, and Noises Off (pretty much the Citizen Kane of its genre) at the Echo. I read more. And the more I read and watched, the more intimidated I became. So that worked out nicely.

I spent a couple of weeks attempting to outline the thing, but how does one outline mayhem? How does one carefully plan for chaos? Eventually, I gave up and returned to the method that had gotten us this far: just start writing and see what happens.

Every 10 pages, I sent my latest batch to Ken. He would say encouraging things like, “I like it! No idea where it’s going!” And I’d reply, “Me neither!” But miraculously, page by page, the first draft got written.

Then came the real challenge—rewriting. We spent weeks breaking each scene down, testing out different ways to make them precisely 26-27% funnier (see, you don’t want to go too funny, on account of liability concerns—should an audience actually split their sides laughing, we could be sued, and let’s be honest, we are not financially prepared for that kind of responsibility).

Draft 2 came in at 24% funnier. Slightly off the mark, but in the ballpark.

One unexpected benefit of all these rewrites was discovering what this story meant to me. That realization helped us refine the script, particularly a change at the end—the vital yet under-appreciated role food plays in drawing families together for the big meal. That, I decided, was the heart of the story. And that’s when the whole thing started to feel worthwhile.

One more pass to tweak the jokes, tighten the pacing, and squeeze out another 2-3% funny, and then—well, then what?

We gathered a group of friends, rehearsed a few evenings, and workshopped the play. No props, no costumes, no sets—just script in hand and certain key pieces of movement in front of a small, invited audience. We took notes, made some adjustments, and then, like a fine wine or that gym membership you keep meaning to use, The Fork went into the drawer.

And there it stayed. For a decade. And a bit. More on that in a bit.

A few takeaways on this chapter of The Fork.

Sometimes, the best way forward is just to start. Outlining a farce felt impossible, but writing one page at a time somehow got the job done.

Not everything happens on your timeline. Sometimes an idea is ready, but you’re not. And that’s okay.

Creative detours aren’t failures—they’re just pit stops. The Fork took a long pause, but that doesn’t mean the journey was over.

It helps to have a creative partner who encourages your madness. Ken didn’t know where the play was going either, but he kept saying, “Keep going.” And sometimes, that’s all you need.

Sometimes, you discover what a story is really about halfway through writing it. The big family meal wasn’t in the original plan—but it turned out to be the heart of the whole thing.

At the end of the day, the best stories to me are about connection. Whether it’s a play, a meal, or a conversation over chips and salsa and a vat of Diet Coke, it’s all about bringing people together.