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episode, two three-minute, one six-minute, and one eight-minute, which leaves room for an anecdote or two. Nearly clockwork. Crazy to some, but it frees Patrick up to run the restaurants and do personal appearances and work on the books and show planning six months a year, and for us both to have the full month of August off to recharge our batteries. No one can work effectively in Chicago’s August heat and humidity anyway; it makes us all mush-brained.
    It became clear early on in our working relationship that the usual vacation schedule does not apply to Patrick’s personal team, and while other employees can grab a week here or there for trips with family, or plan ahead for getaways with friends or lovers, I am only on vacation when Patrick is onvacation. Sometimes I get lucky and he gets a bee in his bonnet about a mini trip, and makes the time for himself (or the Legs of the moment) and I get a spontaneous bit of freedom. I have become adept at snagging last-minute deals for spa getaways with Bennie, cheapo airfare for long weekends in wine country or Montreal with the girls or Barry, or quick zips into New York to see friends and play with Bruce and eat expansively. But usually it is just a day or two of freedom, which I will spend holed up in the little cabin I bought a couple of years ago just over the border in Wisconsin. Just a ninety-minute drive, so close enough to get home quickly if there is a Patrick-related emergency, but far enough away to relax and breathe fresh air. It is Dumpling’s favorite place on the planet, where he can run around in the woods, chase chipmunks and rabbits that he never catches, and laze around being a warm puppy in the sun while I swing in a hammock or float in the Lilliputian pool, an in-ground so small that no more than four people can float in it at any one time. Emily, who often borrows the cabin to write the last few chapters of her books, calls it the Puddle.
    August is when I can really decompress. Whole weeks at the cabin, where I can host barbecues with friends, spend quality time with the family, catch a Cubs game, sleep in, and take luxurious afternoon naps. Go to the farmer’s markets and get excited about canning, pickling, and making jam. Unfortunately, as today is the eleventh of October, I have 312 days to slog through before my next long break.
    I meet Patrick in his dressing room-slash-office as I always do after taping.
    “That was okay, right?” he asks, while taking off his makeup with cold cream and a hand towel like some 1930s film diva. I tried to turn him on to the new makeup removerwipes, but he insists they goop him up so much for the camera that if he doesn’t really “deep down clean up” he gets foundation all over his eight-hundred-thread-count Italian linen pillowcases. Poor baby. So hard to be him. But even someone as pretty as Patrick can’t get away without makeup these days; HD is a bitch. Look at poor Bill Maher. I know he’s smart and funny, but when I watch his show all I can think is that the man needs spackle. In regular definition? Not a bad-looking guy. In high-def? He looks like his face caught fire and someone tried to put it out with a golf shoe. I’m not saying, I’m just saying. Lucky for Patrick, his skin is smooth enough, and he usually just needs to hide the dark circles under his eyes or the occasional blemish.
    “It was great, as usual, Margot Channing. I think it will be your best season ever.” Patrick hates it when I use old movie references, as he is allergic to black-and-white. But watching him take his makeup off is so very
All About Eve
, I just can’t help it.
    “And I’m not going bobblehead yet, right?” Patrick is very aware of what we call the bobblehead phenomenon when it comes to food television. The networks hire people with real, genuine personalities, endearing quirks, and charming ways about them to host shows. And somehow, the more time they spend doing their various projects, the more