Fig jam hand pies for the hesitant host

Every host has a cautionary tale. Mine starts with me brushing cornmeal onto a batch of English muffins at 4 a.m. and ends with me swearing off brunch for at least six years. I was 21, barely old enough to buy the champagne for mimosas, but somehow old enough to think I could pull off homemade biscuits, jam, cinnamon rolls and quiche for twelve.

I had just started my MFA program and moved into a former seminary that had been converted into student housing. “Formerly classrooms or dorm rooms?” I’d asked when touring. It was hard to tell — each unit had the same gray, featureless quality that made you feel like you might still be in trouble for something. The building sat on a slope; one direction led to campus by way of a hibachi joint whose owner always slipped me extra tubs of yum yum sa