Chef and I trying to come up with a menu for y’all…
Flying back to New York tomorrow–back to the land of take-out sushi and overpriced cocktails…

What is Jamie working on?…

Fifth Avenue at the base of Central Park–within arm’s reach of the gargoyles of the Plaza Hotel–is the place to be rich. I always think of this. Possibility and a brilliant future loom large when you walk past the row of Hansom cabs, tuck into a warm bowl of minestrone soup in the elegant, low-ceilinged confines of “Cipriani’s,” admire the silks and cashmeres in the window of “Bergdorf Goodman.” I walk these beautiful blocks alone in the summer and wintertime thinking about the gold watches I want to buy, the roof-top terraces I will own, the vacations I must take and then describe in letters back home. When the July heat beats down, I step into a store perfumed with retail extravagance, cooled down to the temperature of my local Cineplex back home. In the bitter February snow, I warm up by the fires of street vendors roasting chestnuts or on the dark, velvet banquet of the St. Regis. I’ve always been able to go anywhere and do anything because I’m young and just pretty enough. But, now all that is changing.

Ever-present in my mind: Granddaddy, Jamie, babies. It’s not just me anymore. I know that Pappy is now somewhere watching, praying that I don’t miscalculate my future. Jamie is cooking and struggling and hoping that I don’t expect too much. The babies, well, just thinking about a little one makes my heart swell and my throat close up.

There is something beyond money and Fifth Avenue and my original New York City dream. This hits me hard.

Granddaddy and I used to tango on the back porch. It was nothing like the dance I learned in Buenos Aires (or like they practice at “Belle Epoque” on Broadway) but, it made the cousins laugh and Grandmother smile that gorgeous smile of hers. Cheek-to-cheek, arms extended, we stared down the long, sun-filled room out to the lake and then the lake beyond. This is what he liked to do when the sun tucked behind his tall, strong pines–right before the deer came up to feed. “If I go down like this, with a beautiful blonde in my arms, I’ll die a happy man.” my Pappy told me more than once. His life was rich. Our life together was rich. We were leagues away from Fifth Avenue and the Plaza Hotel…

Dear Mamma,

It’s your birthday and I’m writing you this little card (that I’ll tuck beneath your butter cream frosted sheet cake) to let you know that everything was worth it–everything that you sacrificed and gave me was for a purpose. I love you for all your encouragement… and for the things that I’ve never told you…

I love your beautiful, slender fingers, your thick, messy hair. I love the way you would rock me to sleep when I was eight and too tall and too old to still be in your lap, smelling the sweet perfume of your neck. I love that we used to look for flying saucers at the base of the bay bridge, staring up into the cloudless night, praying for an errant light or sound. With the hatch back of your silver van raised high like the wins of a beetle, we’d eat our picnic dinner (chicken salad-stuffed tomatoes, 6 1/2 oz Coca-Colas, mocha brownies–remember?) and talk about spelling tests, my tennis game, Granddaddy. Finally, we’d make it around to life on other planets. “Really, could it be?” I’d ask.

I love all that is you and different than the other mothers. You’re an earnest, energetic, kind little soul–Mamma, how did you get to be mine?

I clean the burnt pieces of roast chicken from the oven and think of you. I look out at the bleak branches of Central Park and think of the warm of our home down South, the comfort of our mountain house in the Carolinas. The happiness and simple pleasures of life are YOU, Mamma.

Happy birthday to the lady, mother and best friend that has made me who I am.

All my love,
B

When Mamma was searching the closets of our farmhouse for pictures of Pappy, she found some of my old scribblings. Here is a letter–written at the wee, tender age of 18–to Ruth Reichl, the Editor-in-Chief of “Gourmet” Magazine. I suppose Chef’s big, brown eyes and long, muscled arms aren’t the only reason I’m into this food thing…

Ms. Ruth Reichl
Editor-in-Chief
“Gourmet” Magazine
4 Times Square
New York, NY 10036

Dear Ms. Reichl,
You were weaned on Gerber strained English peas and I was raised on Granddaddy’s organically-grown carrots, apples and collard greens…

It was going to be a feast. Seven courses, wine pairings, waiters in black tie, speeches—it couldn’t have been any bigger, really…

Before I walked back in to the building I forced myself to look up and out at the new expanse I’d call home. At that moment, I saw it as neighborhood—concentrate…

In the paper, on the page, on T.V.,
Last year’s headshot when I wasn’t sure what I wanted to be…

(In the end, love–and a little luck–pushed me in the right direction.)