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.

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… 

I’m on Good Morning America NOW! Check out my Perfect Kentucky Derby Soiree. Yummm…

The Kentucky Derby is this Saturday. Don’t worry ladies–the “most exciting two minutes in sports” is about a whole lot more than sports.

Do you think I care about horses? Of course not!

But I love any semi-viable excuse to get glammed up, slip into the first sundress of the season and prance around in a big ol’ hat (think Jessica Simpson meets the royal family at Ascot). Oh, and there’s a drink called a Mint Julep…

So I’ve got a plan for all of y’all who aren’t headed to Churchill Downs and Millionaire’s Row.

First: Watch me tomorrow on Good Morning America NOW. (Pictured at left, in the ABC Times Square studios.) I teach New Yorkers a thing or two about bourbon and while Jamie shares his deeelish Derby Day eats. Think mint juleps, bourbon-cured salmon toasts with jicama slaw, gougeres filled with country ham cream… 

Second: Join me on Derby Day at “Bar K” (519 Hudson Street) for those two, sporting minutes that I mentioned earlier. We can laugh at the horse’s names (Pyro? Smooth Brown? Cool Coal Man? What?) and compare hats. Afterward, I’m headed to the James Beard House for the ultimate Kentucky Derby Dinner.

Third: You can’t get out of bed but you still want a nip of the Kentucky Nectar. Fine.

The Perfect Mint Julep

Courtesy of Adam Harris

1 teaspoon simple syrup
4 mint leaves
2 ounces Maker’s Mark bourbon
Mint sprigs
Powdered sugar (optional)

Begin with simple syrup and mint leaves in a silver julep cup, muddle to release the aroma of the mint. Add crushed ice, to fill the cup ½ way and pour in the bourbon and stir until frost forms on the outside of the glass. Add more crushed ice until it is mounded just over the top of the cup. Stick 3-4 bundles ofmint into the center of the ice and insert a straw through the mint all the way to the bottom of the cup. Cut the straw off about 2 inches above the mint and dust the top with powdered sugar. Sipping a julep should be a dual sensory experience- the short straw makes the nose fill the scent of mint while you taste the sweet bourbon.

Check out my recipe for basil, mint and petit pois pasta in Glam Girl Cookin’!

Ramps, pancetta and rigatoni for him. Why? Men love bacon fat, acrid flavors and easy-to-fork short pastas.

We girls get the clean, bright loveliness of basil, mint, petit pois, red-stemmed spinach and the tang of salty feta. It’s really just a salad with a handful of whole wheat ziti thrown in for ‘oomph.’

If Iwere Bette Midler in “What Women Want,” I’d say that men are from Mars, women are from Venus and, bite for bite, I’ve come up with two pasta salads that speak Venutian to our tastebuds…