It’s finale week on Project Runway. I’ve watched all six seasons, and the theme that jumps out at me this year is copycatting. Logan copied Althea’s zipper collar. Althea copied Irina’s slouchy sweater sleeves. Irina copied some Coney Island artwork. (Carol Hannah hasn’t copied, but she just makes boring dress-dresses anyway.) I understand when you spend all day every day in the same room with people they’re going to rub off on you, but you have to do a little self-editing. If you repeat what the person next to you did last week, you have to expect to be called on it. Personally, I was rooting hard for Gordana. She may not have had that “wow” edge, but her clothes were all so beautifully constructed. She never sent anyone down the runway not looking their best. I thought her final piece looked like a Georgia O’Keeffe.

What's the deal with vodka sauce? I certainly get the whole tomato-cream-parmesan idea, but I never understood what adding vodka is supposed to do for an already deliciously balanced combo. (Not that Patsy’s in midtown doesn’t pull off a pretty mean sauce.) Vodka trades in subtleties. Why waste it on a saucepan? You could be making a martini with that. A little research reveals that vodka sauce first entered our culinary consciousness in the 1980s. More cause for skepticism. Although the kids today may not know it, that whole decade was fraught with bad style choices and overindulgence. It's no surprise that some Reagan-era genius thought it was a good idea to dump half a bottle of vodka into red sauce. Have another line, chef. I've got a recipe and a bottle of Grey Goose and a quest to illuminate a waste of good hooch. I'll make two batches and we'll have ourselves a little taste test.

Last weekend I got a hankering for Thai food. I easily convinced my boyfriend to make the trek to Woodside for the ultimate: Sripraphai. Too bad everyone else in the whole damn city had the same idea. There were a hundred people outside. Hipsters, Thai families, locals in the know. Too hungry to wait, we headed up Roosevelt Avenue and had an amazingly flavorful meal at Zabb Zabb that quenched my thirst for Thai fire. Or maybe not completely quenched, because I’m still thinking about those beautiful steamed mussels with chili and herbs. And the crispy duck salad. Oh man, the crispy duck salad.

Reading over BlackBook’s "Top 10 Meals for Nursing a Hangover" got me thinking of my absolute favorite post-imbibing brunch dish: mini quiche. It may sound like something you'd daintily sup on in madras shorts and a blue Oxford with pinkie finger extended beyond the handle of a porcelain tea cup, but make no mistake. This is a full-on belly bomb, and you can up the ante by adding your choice of tasty mixin's.

It’s not September already. It can’t be. The summer flew by like it always does, and now, despite my best efforts to ignore the signs, fall is just around the corner. The days are shorter and cooler. Baseball is winding down, and football is gearing up. My boyfriend and I are bickering about where to spend Labor Day weekend, and I might capitulate because his team is losing and I feel bad for the poor guy. I’m not a sports-fan kind of girl, but I try to be supportive. When he can’t find anyone better than me to watch the game with, I’ll sit and parrot what the announcers are saying in an attempt to sound like I know what I’m talking about. “He’s really seeing the ball well right now, isn’t he, honey.” We’ve got tickets to watch the Yankees slaughter my sweetie’s team, and strangely, I’m looking forward to it. Mostly I’m excited to see the new stadium; I want to know what all the hullabaloo is about. Are the beers really $10? What kind of snacks do they have?

Farmer’s markets: they’re not just for unbathed hippies and granolas anymore. Uma Thurman shops at the Union Square Greenmarket. So does Adrian Grenier. The city’s top kitchens serve up the bounty as well, thanks to the likes of Alex Guarnaschelli (Butter), Mo Batista and Michael Anthony (Gramercy Tavern), and Wylie Dufresne (wd-50). Right now is the best time of year to be a Greenmarket forager. Harvest is coming in, and celebrity and home chefs alike are taking advantage. I’m hosting a Greenmarket party and asking six guests to bring one item each from their closest farmer’s market. I included a list of the best markets around the city on my Evite, along with categorical guidelines like “protein,” “green vegetable,” “starch,” and “grains.” When everyone arrives, we’ll look at what we’ve got, come up with a menu, and start cooking. And cole slaw is definitely going on the menu.

Only another week until Mad Men returns to AMC, and I am so ready. Cable bill is all paid up, liquor cabinet is freshly stocked, and I even managed to pick up a 60s-style cocktail set at a stoop sale, complete with swizzle stick. I can’t wait to mix up some hooch and kick back with Don Draper as he drinks, smokes, and womanizes his way through season 3. And seriously, how much is Betty Draper going to take before she goes bat-shit insane? AMC’s über-promotion of Mad Men is as stylish and decadent as the show itself; you’ve seen the titillating ads all over the subways and bus stops. You can keep tabs on the cast and watch clips using the Mad Men iPhone app, or create a Mad Men-styled version of yourself on the website and upload it to your Facebook or Twitter. Christina Hendricks, a.k.a. sexpot-cum-secretary Joan Holloway, is doing her promotional part with a recent Esquire shoot that borders on soft porn. If you’re not a fan yet, you will be.

No one's arguing the superiority of our beloved New York, but pockets of coolness are also speckled from coast to coast. Take Austin, for example. Even amid the honkeytonk wasteland of the Lone Star State, interesting things are going on. Award-winning mixologist Bill Norris, who can be found behind the bar at local fave Fino, takes inspiration from his surroundings. He shares some thoughts and a favorite recipe with us, featuring Zirbenz Stone Pine Liqueur of the Alps, an artisanal liqueur derived from the fruit of the arolla pine.

How did you come up with this drink?
When I first tasted the Zirbenz, it reminded me of the way the Hill Country outside Austin smells. We call the cedar allergy season here "Cedar Fever," and I was looking to come up with a drink that brought the sense memory of the Hill Country to life in a glass.

Amy Adams likes butter -- she recently confessed to having reintroduced it to her diet. She swears cooking eggs in butter makes them “really, really good.” Duh. If being a celebrity means not knowing that butter makes everything better, then I’m happy to be a nobody. Sure, there’s a little issue with weight. Both Adams and Meryl Streep are making no secret of how they put on the poundage during filming of Julie & Julia. Streep jokingly blamed the gain on director Nora Ephron, who encouraged a lot of eating on the set. If you’re going to do a movie about a woman determined to make every single recipe in a Julia Child cookbook, porking out is natural collateral damage. This is the kind of celebrity news I can use. I don’t care how Valerie Bertinelli managed to get herself back into a bikini. I want to see celebrities eating and drinking and being normal-sized. Hey Amy, this just in. Butter is also really good on pancakes. Especially decadent, golden-browned lemon popup pancakes.

I love hating on The Real Housewives of New York. I've seen every episode. Even the reunion show. My viewing started off as an innocent diversion before spiraling quickly into a dark habit. I'd DVR the new episode and watch it fast so I could erase it before my boyfriend came over. My best friend, a reality show addict herself, advised me to get out before I got too deep. "I can handle it," I told her. And myself. But I just couldn't stop chasing that dragon. It's too much fun disapproving of the Housewives' extravagant lifestyles, marveling at the intricacy of their bitchiness. I like to play a game as I watch: who is the most spoiled? The stupidest? The relatively least-stupidest? I began wagers with myself, whether someone was going to finally bitch-slap Kelly Bensimon, or if anyone would call child services on Alex and Simon Van Kempen for endangering the lives of their children by turning their house into a construction zone. But despite my best loathing, I discovered a sensation strange for reality TV had begun to seep in. Fondness. I was starting to really root for Bethenny Frankel.