Okay, so, remember what I wrote about summer? All my gushing and carrying on, with a scoop of sorbet on top? Well, scratch that. I’ve changed my mind. Call me fickle, but now I’m feeling sort of smitten with fall. Oh sweet, sweet, slate-colored autumn, I think I love you. For now, at least. Only a few weeks ago, when August gave way to September, I wasn’t sure that I was ready. With the exception of one—okay, maybe two—heat waves, Seattle had a pretty mild summer, and though I did whine a bit about the heat when it actually came, I wasn’t convinced that I’d gotten my fill. But apparently, bossy Mother Nature had gotten hers, and so while Brandon…

I had been needing a change of scenery, and this weekend, boy, did I ever get one. I also got a steak and a soufflé; an engagement party with fifty longtime family friends, a few pork tenderloins with pistachio chutney, and an enormous mocha fudge cake; a ring that once belonged to my great-grandmother Millicent; and a four-and-a-half-day weekend with family old and new. Oklahoma, you may be flatter than a pancake, but you sure know how to throw a party. From now on, I’m going to get engaged a lot more often. Last Thursday, while most of North America was sleeping—at 3:30 am, to be precise—Brandon and I hopped a shuttle to SeaTac. A few hours later, we arrived…

I love to cook. But if there’s one thing that I like even more, it’s having someone else cook for me. Playing hostess is very nice, but it has nothing on the sheer luxury of sitting (or heck, even standing) in someone else’s kitchen, sipping a glass of wine (or, in a pinch, a cold Pabst), and watching that someone whip up a meal for me. Just tell me where to show up and when, and I’ll be right over. I’ll also reward you with a prompt thank-you note. I don’t care if it’s a cheeseburger or a four-course country-French hoop-dee-doo: it’s all pretty wonderful to me. And as luck would have it—which is also pretty wonderful—I have, over the…

The call came last Thursday. “Molly.” Rebecca said sternly. “Sunday morning. Jimmy’s.” I wasn’t sure if this was a command or a question. “He’s doing baked eggs. Don’t eat after three o’clock on Saturday.” In only a few words, there it was: the return of the Jimmy. Longtime readers of this site will remember Jimmy, my former employer Rebecca’s gay husband and the crowned king of Sunday mornings, the man whose bold, fearless conquests of the kitchen have clogged many an artery, spawned Dutch babies across the land, and won countless full-bellied followers. For a while there, I had the honor of spending nearly one Sunday out of four in Jimmy’s petite, astoundingly productive kitchen, and astounded I was by…