Yesterday, I tried—in vain—to recreate a Sunday from childhood passed. I woke up in time to choose a proper outfit for the Episcopals and drink my cup of coffee (2% milk, sugar) and listen to the Top 40 Radio Countdown. Ryan Seacrest has replaced Casey Cassum. No surprise. I already knew such. But, somehow, I resent the change on this particular Sunday morning.

“I refuse to arrive after the first hymn, young lady, let’s go!” Mamma should have said, urging me to put down the mascara wand and totter out the door in my kitten heels. But, she’s not there so I leave late and blister my feet as I run past W. 3rd Street, through the arch of Washington Square and onto Lower 5th.

The service: lovely choral pieces, the priest admits he’s gay, heads shake in disapproval, smiles tweak the lips of the younger set, I’m asked to tithe (“10% of what income?” I wonder). Ninety minutes later I’m back outside in the city air. I decide that the coffee hour in the Parish Hall would just be too much. Back home, that’s where I would gossip with friends, whisper in my sister’s ear about someone’s tacky outfit, ask Mamma to take us to an expensive restaurant instead of back to Granddaddy’s house for the usual repast of oxtail soup and collard greens.

I take myself out to Sunday lunch on Clinton Street. The line wraps around the little bakery/cafe so I’m forced to stand outside and look at the couples and the strollers and the men that parade their Maltipoos around on pink leashes. I pull out Carole Radzwill’s memoir, “What Remains” and lose myself in her story of cancer, frustration, love and loss.

When I’m finally ushered inside (“Table for ONE,” the waitress says, as if I’m a waste of space) and the plate of roast pork arrives, I don’t care anymore. Nothing has been recreated. Sunday memories are sullied. I learn the lesson of never going back. I wish that I had never complained all those years. I wish that I had left the house on time. I wish that I had enjoyed my collard greens and asked for more. Please.

Big and blonde. Lithe and fair. Dark and thinking.

We were a sight.

Three writers in the night, in the big, bad city, talking our way out of Thursday and into the next glass of wine.

Wade through the talk of approaching winter, misspent money, boyfriends and millionaires, Southern surrender and Northern sensibility and you have conversation about the important things. Smiles broaden and fingers dance in the air as one glass turns into two and then three. We’re animated and earnest, very serious about this writing thing… and each other.

Not like that, darling.

Like this: we rattle off random sentences and turns of phrase on the computer screen to make the waking hours more bearable. We wish each other the best of luck. When the writing thing happens to turn a dime or two we promise to sail off into the sunset.

Dreams. Yeah. But, “Mimi,” “Opinionista” and I will make it one of these days.

An important day lies ahead of me. I know that it’s a day of consequence because it requires traveling north of 14th Street and remaining there for hours and hours— longer than my usual two-martini cocktail rendezvous at the Algonquin or the St. Regis. After all the meetings, I’ll be fatigued and in need of a taxi and glass of wine. I wish I had saved a good bottle for a day like today.

“I think it is a matter of having both ignorance and the confidence to take on the task of undeveloped paths.” (Tom Ford)

Today, I am ignorant and confident and wearing a chic, little fall suit. I’m even wearing nice shoes that Mamma would approve of. Y’all wish me luck and hope that I make it back down South—south of 14th Street—with a smile on my face.

Question of the day: Why can’t I write like Tennessee Williams and lead the life of Capote?

“This is Zeola,” the deep, soulful voice greeted me on the other end of the telephone line.

“Hey, there, it’s Belle. Can I speak to Mamma?” I had exactly twenty minutes to unload on Mamma before I had to be at Housing Works Book Store for Jonathan Lethem’s reading. I wasn’t quite sure how I could be both tactful and timely in recounting to her my work woes…

A bracing wind off the Hudson. The rattle of a broken radiator. Lentils and sausage at the corner of Mercer and Prince. Night falls before the office door is closed. No more lovely dinners on the sidewalk.

Not AL FRESCO.

AL FREDDO.

WINTER.