The confidentiality clause has expired, so I can now talk about a deal — one that never came to fruition -- The Day had five years ago with the Cookin’ More Food TV network.

Specifically, based on some of my dining reviews, the Cookin’ More Food folks reached out to the paper and wanted me to host a food-centric quiz show.

I was going to be a celebrity chef!

The program was going to be called “Dear Chef Rick,” and the first thing the network addressed was the unimportant trifle that I am not, in fact, a chef – unless by “chef” you mean a person who can open a Styrofoam container of seasoned potato wedges from a convenience store food warmer and say, “Bon Appetit!” in a convincing Parisian accent before shoving a clump of taters into my bear-like maw.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Hoke Stoddard, president of the network. “Nobody cares about veracity anymore. Just make it up and be confident.”

Fair enough!

The concept of “Dear Chef Rick” was that three different weekly contestants would assemble on a sound stage designed to replicate an open tropical patio bar/restaurant on a beach — or what I imagine Sammy Hagar’s bedroom to look like.

Each contestant would ask me a foodie question — the format dictated they must preface the inquiry with “Dear Chef Rick” — and whomever stumped me got to advance. Between rounds, the guests were served a meal from Chef Rick’s kitchen — the preparation of which I had nothing to do with, but THEY didn’t know that.

We only taped part of the pilot episode of “Dear Chef Rick” because it was immediately apparent I was out of my league.

The first contestant, a middle aged woman whose clothes and demeanor suggested great wealth, said, “Dear Chef Rick, I have a big cocktail party coming up. How do I make ice cubes?”

ICE CUBES?! This had to be a trick question. “Cup some water in your hand,” I said, aiming for humor, “and go to sleep on the Lambert Glacier!”

A buzzer sounded. Oh, I forgot. For every WRONG answer given by Chef Rick, I had to rub an onion peel in my eye.

While I wept copiously, the next contestant, a large smarmy fellow with a deep Georgia accent, quizzed me: “Dear Chef Rick, me and my bow huntin’ buddies got us a 300-pound razorback boar. Should we dry-rub it and smoke it over pecan wood or cut filets, stuff ’em with crawfish, and broil ‘em?”

“Y’know,” I said, “I believe the tusks of a razorback hog can grow up to 10 inches. Extract the tusk and slice your own throat with it!”

Oddly, that was the correct answer. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.

But there was trouble brewing. I heard rumblings of dissent as the contestants were served Chef Rick’s meal.

“You didn’t make this!” the third contestant said accusingly. She was a thin, pale woman with a crew cut dyed the color of a turning mango. She thrust the dish at me. “It’s a Hungry Man frozen dinner!”

Indeed, it was served in a compartmentalized foil tray and featured Salisbury streak, whipped potatoes and cherry cobbler.

“Well,” I said, “technically, it was ME who shoved it in the oven. And I apologize because maybe it’s a little well done.”

At that point, network CEO Hoke Stoddard strode onto the set. He was accompanied by a posse of recently coronated new celebrity chefs — all of whom I recognized: Bobby Flay’s son Augie, Paula Deen’s cousin Abby, the chauffeur for the guy who hosts “Carnival Eats” and a guy called “Danno” who was discovered singing Sigfried’s parts from The Ring Cycle while he made Blizzards in a Terra Haute Dairy Queen drive thru.

“Get out, Chef Rick,” Augie Flay said in a menacing voice. They closed on me.

“You don’t belong here,” the Carnival Eats driver said.

I looked to Hoke Stoddard for reassurance. He shook his head and offered a grim smile.

“You don’t have what it takes to be a celebrity chef,” he said.

I handed him my chef hat and was led out of the building. I caught a ride with Bow Huntin’ Man and we got drunk. I chicken fried his boar for him. It was delicious. Who said Chef Rick can’t cook?