My favorite warm weather sight is a fruit pie framed by an open kitchen window…

For my Deep Dish Blueberry Pie recipe, go to Glam Girl Cookin.

No matter how well I play the game, will I ever have this?

You see, every morning I wake up and place a bet on how my day will proceed.

Will I win?

Lose?

The great authors tell us that New York is a city of infinite possibility. But the flip side of always feeling hopeful–coming this-close to success– is the breeze of despair and failure.   

You smell money in the air up here. Down South (and in the picture at left), you smell languor, marvelous little ions bouncing from the Gulf waters onto the sand and finally in through the screened porch…

See the white dot on the right-hand side of the photo? That’s me!

And the shiny head at the podium? Tom Colicchio!

Although the photo is barely proof that I was a presenter at the James Beard Media Awards (I’m still pinching myself), I’m grateful to E.V. Day, the lovely wife of Ted Lee, for capturing the moment.

Giving medals to the likes of Ruth Reichl and Tom Colicchio while enjoying Rick Bayless fare and sipping on Pegu Club cocktails (Gin Gin Mule–4 stars) adds up to one granddaddy of a night. Right when I declared that the evening couldn’t have been any better, Jamie and I mosey over to the Bon Appetit after party.

Chef Heaven.

Mingling around the Edison Ballroom dance floor are Michael Anthony (Gramercy Tavern), Michael Simon (Iron Chef), Paul Liebrandt (Drew Nierpont’s culinary wunderkid) and…

My knees buckle.

Delicious meatball slider almost rolls down my raw silk dress.

Lipstick check!

JOHN BESH and Jamie are sipping cocktails, one looking more handsome than the next. It would have been the ultimate Gorgeous Chef Trifecta (I can declare my own boyfriend as gorgeous, right?) if Michael Ruhlman had been present. Oh, and then there’s my bad boy crush, Anthony Bourdain…

I’m already choosing my outfit for next year’s awards…

Adding a little rouge to my cheeks, Publisher’s Weekly declares:

“Parkhurst, former blogger and media gossip staple turned Web-and-TV culinary personality, brings considerable Southern charm and sass (plus some mouth-watering recipes) to her chick lit debut…the tartly told story is a genuine guilty pleasure.” (6.23.08)

And my author photo at left. Because “Belle” makes me blush, makes me laugh, makes me squeeze my eyes shut and think, “What have I done to deserve this New York City? My God, the experiences that inspired the book!”

For the full Publisher’s Weekly review, click on “About the Book” and “Reviews.”

(The above bio is from the list of guest chefs at Tyler Florence’s Lowcountry Celebration in Palmetto Bluff, South Carolina.)

As part of my Belle in the Big Apple book tour, I’ll be reading and cooking with my honey alongside the Food Network star, Tyler Florence! The uber-luxurious, South Carolina resort, Palmetto Bluff, and Coastal Living Magazine are sponsoring the Music to Your Mouth Lowcountry Celebration. So what will we be doing all weekend? Listening to music, sipping wine and eating shellfish and grits with wild abandon. Yep, it’s my perfect weekend away from the Big Apple.

We planted a postage stamp-sized herb garden together. Basil, thyme, rosemary, parsley, mint. In my mind, I tick off the pestos, chimichurris and marinades that I’ll make the next three months to top off fresh linguine, grilled ribeyes and snapper. And then, because he needs *something* to serve alongside his watermelon margaritas, we planted jalapenos and cherry tomatoes.

When he left for work, I swept up the dirt and imagined the kind of garden I would plant down South—bigger, better, maybe a little vulgar in its size and rainbow of colors. It would be a welcome change for the senses after muted, refined, tiny New York.

A few hours later I call him at work, very pleased with our domestic handiwork.

“I just tasted our basil.”

“What was it like??”

“Perfectly fragrant, just like my favorite spot on your neck.”

You make little moments of happiness in the city and then imagine when you can finally plant that big, bright, garish garden of your dreams.

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…