Spring passing into summer, Pappy and I traveled to Spain. He wanted me to taste a country; I wanted to meet handsome Spanish men. Seventeen years-old and clearly my priorities were out of line. Food always takes precedence.

(Pictured: Brookey, junior year in high school, and grandfather at Casa Botin in Madrid. I’ve attempted to enlarge the photo a half dozen times and my darn computer isn’t allowing me. I’ll keep at it.)

The scene is simple, something like this: A round of Epoisses, a sliver of Humboldt Fog, crumbles of Parmiggiano snug against a hill of crusty baguette slices. A bottle of pinot noir and a smattering of wine glasses decorate the table. There. I just described this weekend’s patio party with friends and my last supper. 

Cheese… fabulous fromage…I can’t get enough…It lifts my spirits, works overtime fancying up my Crate & Barrel plates and looks perfectly in place on Mamma’s wedding silver.

I’ve always loved the stuff but moving to New York City really did me in. You know how some women want to be let loose inside of Bergdorf’s for a night of retail madness? Well, then there’s me. My first month in the city, I discovered Murray’s Cheese on Bleeker Street. Ever since, I’ve wanted a night alone to explore their caves, maybe crawl inside the front-of-house display case, snuggle up next to a nice Tomme de Savoie, a leg of Jamon Serrano. Let Anthony Bourdain have his “death row meal” of roasted marrow bones with Fergus Henderson. My “last supper” (that just sounds more ladylike than “death row meal”) will be a cheese platter dreamed up by Rob Kaufelt, owner of the cheese Mecca.

And though they’ve yet to give me the keys to the joint—and free reign over their caves— they have made a Murray’s partner. Imagine my joy!

Ladies, if you’ve never visited Murray’s, run to the Bleeker Street or Grand Central Station stores. You live far from the Big Apple? Murray’s By Mail ships everywhere. Whew. I feel a little better knowing that when I leave New York–be it in 6 months of 6 years–I can always have my fabulous fromage…

It began with boiled peanuts in Memphis.

Then, in Oxford, our nourishment shape-shifted into books.

Dad and I made a bee-line for Square Books—the bookstore of the South, mind you—no matter how many handsome blonde co-eds tried to drive me to distraction. Ol’ Miss boys don’t have anything on my Willie Morris or on the town’s other literary son, Faulkner.

Arms groaning with books, Dad and I hustle to the car to make our way deep into the heart of Dixie—Greenwood, Mississippi to be precise. The speakeasy-cum-restaurant, Lusco’s, awaits us. So does a perfectly mid-rare filet topped with jumbo lump crabmeat. And spinach soufflé. And golden-fried onion rings.

Oh, and it’ll also be nice to see Mamma, my 3 year-old niece and the rest of the family. Right, then there’s the bride and groom…

It’s just so hard to prioritize, focus my energies when faced with a weekend of deep-fried, catfish-heavy, cream cheese-laden, bourbon-soaked, unapologetically southern food.

Even my niece cleaned her plate—and she’s one tough critic. After driving to the wedding day brunch (all you do in Mississippi is drive, drive, drive), she was cranky, hungry, in need of some Southern sustenance. I understood her plight. We filled our bellies with creamy goat cheese grits, bacon and eggs. And, then, utterly content, Shelby and I played in the cotton fields.

Played in the cotton fields?

Yep, it’s a different world down there. And I think the only way to bring that slow, Southern heat to New York City is through my stove…