Liam's hash brown casserole can only be described as so over-the-top ridiculous I fear Paula Deen is sitting somewhere cackling about it. I can tell that there is cheese, butter, and sour cream in there, and do not want to know what else. It is delicious, as are the perfectly dried eggs, crispy bacon, buttery toast, and juicy sausages. The muffins are banana chocolate chip, otherwise known as breakfast cake.

Naomi at TipsyCake is doing the cake, and it should be amazing."
"Mmm, cake. What kind of cake?"
"Almond cake with a layer of fresh apricot puree, white-chocolate-mousse filling, and vanilla buttercream."
"Oh. My."
"I know. Should be a killer party.

Between culinary school, a year and a half of apprentice stages all over the world in amazing restaurants, ten years as the personal chef of talk show phenom Maria De Costa, and six years as Patrick's culinary slave, I am nothing if not efficient in the kitchen. I grab eggs, butter, chives, a packet of prosciutto, my favorite nonstick skillet. I crack four eggs, whip them quickly with a bit of cold water, and then use my Microplane grater to grate a flurry of butter into them. I heat my pan, add just a tiny bit more butter to coat the bottom, and let it sizzle while I slice two generous slices off the rustic sourdough loaf I have on the counter and drop them in the toaster. I dump the eggs in the pan, stirring constantly over medium-low heat, making sure they cook slowly and stay in fluffy curds. The toast pops, and I put them on a plate, give them a schmear of butter, and lay two whisper-thin slices of prosciutto on top. The eggs are ready, set perfectly; dry but still soft and succulent, and I slide them out of the pan on top of the toast, and quickly mince some chives to confetti on top. A sprinkle of gray fleur de sel sea salt, a quick grinding of grains of paradise, my favorite African pepper, and I hand the plate to Patrick, who rises from the loveseat to receive it, grabs a fork from the rack on my counter, and heads out of my kitchen toward the dining room. Dumpling followed him, tail wagging, like a small furry acolyte.

Chicken and vegetable pakoras, chickpea fritters with delicate spices. Aloo samosas filled with spicy potatoes, peas, and cilantro, with a fiery green sauce. Goat curry. Tandoori chicken. Mutton biryani. White lentil dal with onions and spices, potatoes and eggplant fried with onions and tomatoes, and four kinds of bread, naan, tandoor roti, chapati, and paratha.

Yep," I say, cutting a large slice of the Dutch Baby pancake and sliding it onto her plate along with two pieces of thick-sliced bacon. Then I serve myself, the fluffy pancake, doused in butter and lemon and confectioners' sugar, the bacon perfectly crispy and salty.
"What happened? 'Cause that is some full-service lawyering; I'm clearly with the wrong firm. Damn this thing is delicious," she says in a rush, forking a large piece of pancake into her mouth and rolling her eyes.
"I know, right?" I take a small bite, letting the flavors mingle, the light pancake, the tart lemon, the sweet sugar. Perfection.

The nice thing about this menu is that it will keep fine for tomorrow. I decide to finish the potatoes, cutting the top off and scooping out the fluffy interiors, leaving a quarter-inch-thick shell. I mix the scoopings with butter, sour cream, cheddar cheese and chives, add a splash of milk to keep smooth, and restuff the potato shells, sprinkling a mixture of shredded cheddar and fried shallots on top, and pop them in the fridge. All I will have to do tomorrow is cook the beef, reheat the spinach, and bake the potatoes.