Last night, Jamie and I returned from our “Grand Tour.” For the first time in months, I had no appetite. And let’s not think about the phrase, “Grand Tour” in the conventional sense, my dears. This was no fabulous European adventure filled with fine wine, Caravaggios and Italian beauties astride Vespas– I’m talking about my and Jamie’s spin around the maternity ward at NYU Hospital.

The eager, bright faces of the expectant mothers were, well, eager and bright because they weren’t due until, oh, September. (I asked.) As our well-versed though somewhat unsympathetic tour guide glided backward on the shiny linoleum floors, she kept repeating, “There will be so much blood. There will be SO MUCH BLOOD. You should consider sleeping in the hospital-provided nighties so you won’t have to throw away your blood-stained pj’s.” I loathe the expression “pj’s.”

She reminded me that in exactly one month’s time, I face the imminent challenge of foisting my leg in stirrups, pushing out 8 pounds of baby, forgetting about sleep as I know it (“You and your coach will feed the baby every two hours…”) and feasting on cafeteria-style chipped beef and jello.

And, wait, wait, wait–back up. Who’s my “coach?”

If the nausea hadn’t been overwhelming, I would have started humming John Fogerty.

“Oh, put me in, Coach–I’m ready to play today;
Look at me, I can be Centerfield!”

Turns out “coach” is my husband. And actually, he won’t be by my (aching) side at 3am.  You see, I’ll be stuck in a “semi-private” post delivery room–where “coaches are banned”– for a minimum of 2 nights. NYU has only 4 private post-delivery rooms–where “coaches are allowed”– and they’re first come, first serve.

And if you are that lucky gal who snags the private chamber? That’ll cost you an additional $525 a night. Our guide made it very clear that this sum was out-of-pocket–“no insurance company known to man covers this surcharge.”

“Let’s just go to the Ritz,” one man muttered to his wife.

Even the bright, eager moms deflated.
 
After our guide gave us one final demonstration on how to give birth in the squatting position while holding onto a horizontally-positioned bar (“It looks like a roller coaster ride!” Jamie beamed) it was time to hop into a cab and cruise west, homeward bound.

Girls, check your patches, rings and pills. And next time you think having a baby is like purchasing that puppy in the window, take a Grand Tour–at NYU.

“It’s the middle of a very cold March and all we want to do is end our day with a Gulf sunset–not a subway ride or a traffic jam…”

(Keep reading our couples cooking column to see how I blame our poor, defenseless, unborn babe for my raging hunger and impatience come mealtime.)

Only for the lovely editors of Ed2010 (“a community of young magazine editors and magazine-editor wannabes who want to learn more about the industry so we can fulfill our dreams of landing top editing and writing positions”) did the half-baked bun and I traipse over to a poorly-lit-but-cozy East Village bar to speak about chasing your Manhattan dreams (Gawker and the haters be damned!) and succeeding in the city.

The 20 young women–bloggers, aspiring writers and “media-lites” (media beauties with substance and professional drive)–impressed me with their focus, their goals and their sense of self.

I’ll admit, it was a little strange giving advice at this point in my career. A William Morris demi-god like Cliff Roberts does not represent me and I’ve yet to garner a 7-figure paycheck for my writing efforts like a Diablo Cody or Lorene Scafaria. (I’m still stuck on yesterday’s Sunday Styles article… Cliff, gimme a call. There’s a killer Mommy-in-Manhattan screenplay tucked into my new diaper bag!)

But regardless of my place in the pecking order, these young women genuinely cared about what I had accomplished and learned during my 6 1/2 years in the city.

If I could give them one tip, what would it be?

PERSISTENCE.

And this.

Young female writers chasing their dreams–and getting seven-figure paychecks–in Hollywood. Love it.

“An Entourage of Their Own” (The New York Times; Sunday Styles)

He’s calm, cool, collected… and on fire! There’s a hot new chef on television and his name is James Briscione. (The fact that I’m carrying his baby has absolutely nothing to do with these accolades…)

Hubby was a champ last night and nailed his victory with a “beautifully composed [dessert] plate of sweet and spicy bacon with orange sabayon and shot of citrus juice.” (!!!)

“What are you going to do with your prize money?” Ted Allen asks.

“I’m putting it toward my new bride and our baby-to-be.”

Parker and I are very lucky girls.

(Viewing party at the Barrow Street Ale House. Nothing like soda and lime while 8+ months pregnant!)

I’ll be honest: these past months in the Brooke/Jamie household have been busy…and anxiety-ridden. “Stress Express” became one of my nicknames (thank you, Ellen) and I didn’t even argue.  BELLE book tour, baby news, secret wedding, family tensions, dubious friendships, a West Village move and an expanding belly-not to mention fanny-will do that to any girl.

But, somehow, along the way, Jamie and I kept working, shutting out (most) of the bad and moving toward the good. We worked through the difficult times before the honeymoon was even over… because that’s what families do, even the young ones who have just left the church and who suddenly find their envelopes addressed to “Mr. and Mrs.” I now realize that the promise of April was our inspiration. Spring and a baby.

But March has her charms…

And, in our book, charm can be spelled out in two words–FOOD NETWORK! Tonight, on the heels of our cookbook excitement, Jamie will make his Primetime television debut on Chopped (10pm/9c). He’ll sweat it out with three other top chefs and face a basket of crazy ingredients–not to mention studio lights, cameras and Ted Allen in his face (though Ted is totally adorable). I’ll say this –if someone gave me a basket of soda, macaroni & cheese and bacon I’d probably throw up my hands, hightail it to the bar at Balthazar and order a tray of French 75’s.

Here’s his Food Network confessional interview where he reveals, umm, his competitive (and fantasy sport?) side.

Life–and food television–are full of surprises. 

It’s official… (!!!)

“Daniel Boulud alum and Culinary Institute chef, James Briscione, and southern BELLE IN THE BIG APPLE novelist Brooke Parkhurst’s JUST MARRIED AND COOKING, a cooking and lifestyle entertaining guide with a personal and very Southern accent for the newly married and kitchen challenged, to Beth Wareham at Scribner, for publication in February 2011, by Bill Contardi at Brandt & Hochman.” 

–Publisher’s Marketplace; March 7, 2009