“Newly married couples around the globe face a holiday obstacle so great, so profoundly intimidating that they question the spirit of the season, the meaning of family–each other.

When the entire clan gets together, who cooks Christmas dinner and how?“

Okay, fine, it wasn’t a hodown. Really, the hometown party was more like a TriBeCa loft party than a Southern shindig.

Mom’s favorite party ‘favor?’ The 8-foot tall likeness of me and the book cover. 

Meanwhile, my favorite taste of home included pulled pork nachos and fried oysters with remoulade sauce. I’ll never understand those girls who don’t eat at their own parties.

“So this is the story of how I–a Southern girl from the Gulf Coast of nowhere–set out to become a part of it all, an elegant, colorful piece of the Manhattan media puzzle. How I tried to prove Granddaddy, Mamma and their newspaper wrong, make New York City my city, even if nothing was all good or bad or nearly as lovely and depressed as Joan Didion’s essays told me it was going to be. Things would work themselves out, I thought. Life always seemed to have a generous way with me.”

Enough with the free excerpts! Now go out and buy a copy!

Yesterday morning, I did an email and phone interview for the upcoming BELLE launch. I was calm and collected; I felt good about my answers. And then, the reporter hit me with:

“I know you visit the South often, but what do you miss most about home?”

Well that did it.

The tears and sadness (and remorse?) related to making a home where there could never really be a home–in New York City–flooded to the surface, slid down my cheeks and dropped onto the keyboard.

Quickly, I decided that I was being silly. I stretched the collar of my night-shirt, wiped down my cheeks and sucked in the morning air on my patio. What was I doing? Hadn’t New York been good to me? Here, I found life, love (see previous post) and a career that paid the bills.

Still, there has always been something missing…

“I miss the easy afternoons and meals with family… I miss our farm… I miss sunsets with my grandfather out by the lake… I miss childhood friends and not having to explain myself or “pitch” myself at every turn… I miss the pace of life… I miss strangers saying “hello” just because… I miss shrimp and oysters fresh off the boat… I miss the easy life.“ 

And then I shut my computer and went on with my day.

The gas station was the sexiest—most real—place in town. Puttering up to the “Gulf” gas sign perched above the bayou, Mamma checked her blonde hair in the rear view mirror, dabbed at her lipstick and finally exhaled. The delicate little wrists dropped into her lap (palms facing skyward) and her head— full of recipes, dry-cleaning stubs and “to-do” lists— tilted back, relaxing into the black, pleather head rest.

The air was thick with humidity but, finally, light with worry.

Mamma liked being served—she was quite good at it. Even at age 6, I enjoyed watching the men tend to her, put her at ease, buzz around the car to fill up the tank, wash the windshield, dip into the special cooler and offer us 6 ½ oz bottled Cokes. Peppery and alive—everything tasted and felt better on those afternoons. My favorite attendant at the full-service station was the owner’s son, with eyes as calm and blue as the gulf water just beyond the bayou. I learned how a man could make you feel. I learned about chivalry. I learned that a woman really could do everything on her own, but why would she want to?