Chapter 1 The summer that changes my life begins with a bright orange molded Jell-O salad. "A Jell-O salad just feels perfect for June, don''t you think?" I chatter breezily to my roommate and cohost Drew as I set out grated carrots, crushed pineapple, and a big box of lemon Jell-O on the kitchen counter of our apartment, arranging all the ingredients in a pleasingly photogenic way. "Now that we''re finally getting some sunshine, I think a molded gelatin salad is just the thing for this last segment." Only this week did it finally feel like summer in Seattle after months of gray drizzle. Drew adjusts the lights and recording equipment, fine-tuning before we start shooting. It''s late afternoon on a Sunday in mid-June, and we''re getting ready to record the last of the short cooking show segments we release each week on Instagram. We''re using our day off to film an entire month''s worth of segments for our show The Bygone Kitchen, just as we have once a month for the past five years. "I just don''t get the appeal of Jell-O salad," Drew admits.

"It feels like old lady at a church potluck type of food." He shoots me a wry, dimpled grin. "I''d go for a craft brew IPA and some cheese curds over Jell-O any day." (Drew is from Wisconsin, a state in which cheese features prominently in the comfort food category.) "Scandalous!" I gasp in mock outrage, rearranging a few ingredients on the counter so I can grab everything easily as we are filming. "Clearly, you don''t understand the positive power of Jell-O salad. I''m convinced any sadness or disappointment in life can be helped by a nice big scoop. And there are so many to choose from.

Sunshine Salad, cherry cola Salad, strawberry pretzel Salad, orange sherbet Salad, broken glass Salad ." Drew pulls a face. "Nothing people eat should be named ''broken glass,''" he says, giving me a playful smirk. He fiddles with the sound levels, his sandy blond head bent over our fancy new recording equipment. "Okay, you might be right. But our followers are going to love this, you watch. Ethel especially," I promise, brushing a wisp of dark hair from my cheek, smoothing it back into my short, wavy bob and untying my flour sack apron-red polka dots with a bluebird on the front, made from an actual Blue Bird Flour sack. I wore it for the episode we just shot where I made a peach pandowdy.

Now I''m doing a quick costume change. Underneath the apron I''m wearing a 1960s orange, yellow, and green floral polyester shift with a white Peter Pan collar, my outfit for the Sunshine Salad segment. Usually, I thrift my outfits for the show, but this one came from my own closet. I love everything with a ''60s vibe. "Did you see the comment Ethel left on the johnnycake recipe segment from last week?" Drew asks with a raised eyebrow and a grin. Ethel is one of our most ardent followers, a spunky eighty-nine-year-old great-grandmother from Pennsylvania who leaves detailed comments in all capitals on every segment we post but hasn''t quite mastered the nuances of emojis. "You mean when she posted heart eyes and three eggplant emojis after the word ''tasty'' in all caps?" I smooth the Peter Pan collar. "That''s the one.

" Drew laughs. "She''s lethal with those emojis. Okay, we''re all set. Give me a sec and I''ll go get changed." He disappears down the hall toward his room. I slick on a little Burt''s Bees lip balm over my orangey-red lipstick and take a deep breath. I always feel a touch nervous before we start shooting, wanting everything to go to plan. I like things to go according to plan.

I try to tamp down my anxiety, then remember the advice of Dr. Dana, the therapist I started seeing after the accident that claimed my dad''s life. Acknowledge, embrace, release. "It''s okay to feel anxious," I murmur to myself, naming the emotion. "Just remember, if something gets messed up, we can always rerecord it." I take a second deep breath, hold it for four beats, breathe out through my nose. Right now the kitchen smells deliciously like freshly baked peach pandowdy. That could definitely be worse.

Last month we made liver mush for an episode and the rank smell lingered for days. I still sometimes catch a ghostly whiff of it wafting from the stiff brown carpet near the kitchen doorway. I take another deep breath, hold it, then exhale slowly. Better. I still feel a flutter of anxiety in the center of my chest, but as soon as the camera clicks on and I read the first ingredient aloud, I know from experience that my nerves will dissipate and I''ll be in my happy place once more. I glance around in satisfaction. I love this basic little kitchen in the apartment we''ve called home for the past five years. The plain oak cupboards are brimming with my vintage kitchen gadgets and bakeware-glass-lidded pastel Pyrex dishes with their pretty snowflake pattern, a tall stack of aluminum Jell-O molds in pleasing shapes.

In this simple little space I take such delight in sharing vintage recipes with viewers. These recipes helped me make it through the very darkest days of my life and helped me navigate overwhelming loss and grief. Now I want to share their strength with others. People like Ethel are the reason I keep making these fifteen-minute segments each week. I do it for Ethel-who is widowed and can no longer drive-and many others who are disabled, retired, lonely, or simply needing an escape for a few minutes from the hard things in life. I love knowing that, for those few minutes, I''m giving our followers something useful and happy, filling people''s lives with encouraging, informative, and hopefully entertaining content to make their day a little brighter. This show is the most valuable thing in my life, the reason I get up every day. Which is why the thought of the meeting scheduled for later tonight causes my stomach to flip over with a new wave of anxiety mixed with a wild dash of hope.

Tonight could change everything in the best way possible. "Ready to roll?" Drew pops back into the kitchen wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and slim black tie and matching fedora he found at Goodwill. It''s a very Frank Sinatra vibe. He doffs the fedora, a quick little trick of the wrist as he rolls it down his toned arm and flips it back onto his head. "Do you fancy the Twist, the Mashed Potato, or the Swim to go with your Jell-O salad?" He pushes a button on his phone, and the unmistakable notes of a doo-wop song swell through the kitchen. He demonstrates the dance steps, his movements quick and lively. I''ve never known someone who could move their body like Drew. He was born dancing, his mother told me once.

"Um . how about the Swim?" I pick one at random, not entirely sure what the dance move is. Jell-O salads shot to popularity in the 1950s and ''60s, so Drew is leaning into the era with a little song-and-dance routine for the segment. It''s the special sauce that he brings to the show. When I first began filming the cooking segments during the long, monotonous early days of the pandemic lockdowns in Seattle, Drew was solely behind the camera. He was a good friend and supportive roommate who generously helped me record my little hobby. It was a way to connect with other people and break up the stifling boredom and anxiety of those seemingly endless months, and we thought it was fun. Then one day after a few months of filming a new segment every week, on a whim Drew popped on-screen and performed a little soft-shoe dance routine wearing a straw boater while I was cleaning up an accidental soup spill.

Viewer numbers spiked noticeably. Realizing we''d stumbled upon a good thing, we capitalized on it. In the ensuing five years, I''ve remained the mainstay of the cooking segments, giving a little history of the dish and showing step-by-step instructions on how to make each vintage recipe, but Drew has become my invaluable sidekick, the goofy show-off that makes the segments funny and fun. By day Drew is a music teacher at an exclusive private school in Seattle, but he''s always loved to dance, and his big dream is to move to LA someday and try to make a career in the entertainment industry. I''m trying as hard as I can to keep him here. Without him, I''m pretty sure I won''t have a show worth watching. Realistically, I figure at least half of our viewers tune in each episode just to see Drew. Maybe more if I''m honest.

He''s charming and cute and a little zany, a good counterpoint to my more calm and studious on-screen presence. Together we make the magic that keeps this show going. If I lose him, I''m afraid it will spell the end of everything. Which is why I have to convince Drew to stay. He''s been getting restless lately, talking about possibly doing a scouting trip to LA. Hopefully, the meeting tonight will provide just the right incentive for him to stick around. I''ve managed to cobble together a life again after losing almost everything fifteen years ago. I honestly don''t know what I''ll do if he leaves.

I don''t think I could handle losing him and the show both. They''re the two most important parts of my life now. "The Swim it is." Drew claps his hands together. "You ready?" I nod, glancing at the clock. The meeting starts at nine. Plenty of time to film the segment and walk over to Needle & Thread, the trendy speakeasy near our apartment in the Capitol Hill neighborhood where Keith has arranged to meet us. Keith Garvey is a TV series developer who stumbled upon our show on Instagram a few months ago and contacted us, saying he was interested in potentially helping us turn our segments into something far bigger.

We''ve been in conversation since then about possibilities, and tonight he''s meeting us because he says he has.