“Propelled down West Broadway, the clackety-clack of my heels kept rhythm with my speeding heart… Finally, I was there, beneath the Cipriani awning, brushing past the seats of my dreams, pushing open the glass doors, entering a world where I could live Ms. Didion’s lines instead of just reciting them.”

See y’all tonight! (I’ll be the one in the fuschia party dress.)

“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!

My Aunt Kristi was the first person to ask me about my book tour wardrobe. Until then, I hadn’t given it a thought. (This is a Save-My-Sanity measure more than anything else; when your rent is in the $1,000’s and a box of cereal costs you $6, fashion is, unfortunately, an absolute luxury.)

My thought: just pack staples–black pencil skirt, navy blue Chloe blazer, jewel-colored blouses, little black dress, skinny jeans–and make do. You’ll be fine, Brooke. You’re not attending red carpet movie premieres, you’re reading passages from a novel. Chill.

Then I became aquainted with MINT, by Jodi Arnold. Y’all know it? Jodi’s also a Southern girl and her lines are hip, young and unexpected.

One visit to the showroom in the Garment District and I was hooked, they were hooked.

So now, my book tour wardrobe (I feel kinda funny saying that word–it’s as if I’m packing a steamer trunk and going on my European grand tour. Instead, of course, I’m doing a southeastern book tour with my mom!) is all MINT, all the time.

Thank you, Jodi! Thank you, Deenie! You’ve pulled me out my librarian mode and into the realm of chic and stylish (fingers crossed).

My legs might not be as twiggy as Ms. Blonde Thing on the right and my hair might not be as sleek as Ms. Brunette Temptress up top, but my book tour wardrobe will be fun, doggone it!

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.

It takes a lot to get this one out of bed in the morning. I’ve tried everything.

Perfectly roasted coffee beans brewed and blended with cream and sugar.

Sugary fantastic breakfast breads.

Two-egg omelet stuffed to bursting with a sinful array of imported cheeses.

Promises that we’ll slide back in bed if only he’ll exit the hot sheets for 30 minutes and run out and snag the Times and the Daily News

Now we’re both searching for that magic a.m. formula—what gets you up and out of bed in the morning?

Our cookbook writing is in full swing and we’re trying to cook up ten sure-fire recipes that will make breakfast in the buff more delicious. Emails and comments are welcome!

I’m a 28 year-old food writer, and my boyfriend, James Briscione, is a 28 year-old chef. I consider us two deep-fried Southerners swimming against the champagne current of New York City. After three years together, our lives — and our tastes — are finally in sync.

So when we’re back in Pensacola, of course we expect their line of questioning…