9 am Sunday: butter and babies

One night last week—after five glasses of wine, a deep-fried breaded soft-boiled egg, and a Freudian slip about a man who once fed me a meal consisting only of sprouts—my former employer Rebecca invited me to a breakfast of Dutch babies with her gay husband Jimmy. Knowing a good thing when I hear it, I accepted immediately. After all, I like nothing so much as a Dutch baby pancake, hot and puffy