Moving Day

Before I walked back in to the building I forced myself to look up and out at the new expanse I’d call home. At that moment, I saw it as neighborhood—concentrate. There was a church, butcher shop, bakery, furniture store, several restaurants, hat shop, Laundromat and store dedicated to mozzarella balls and nothing else. I could wake up, buy a cup of coffee, couture fedora, furnish my apartment, get married and die and still not venture beyond my block. A Billy Joel tune fought its way into my head.

Sergeant O’Leary is walking the beat,
At night he becomes a bartender.
He works at Mr. Cacciatore’s down on Sullivan Street
Across from the medical center…

One day, I’d find “Mr. Cacciatore’s” and take Mamma there for dinner. She’d begin to understand why I had moved. We’d have spaghetti and casks of red wine and I would put down a piece of plastic when the bill arrived. “No, Mamma—I insist. This is my city and I’m treating,” I’d say. She’d love that my street was in a song by Christie Brinkley’s ex husband. Christie’s exercise tapes were her favorites.

Looks like I’ve got myself an audience, I mused, noticing a man standing, staring nearby.

The young fellow stood several yards away watching my moving men cart big, inappropriate farmhouse furniture inside my apartment building. Town cars with tinted windows and sports cars with important drivers formed a line down the block as a polished oak bed and kitchen table were transported, assembly-line style, across the street. The sound of car-horns bounded from building to building and shot back to me like a boomerang, the noise returning to its rightful owner. The young guy didn’t say a word. The shopkeeper across the street stood in the window, staring, coffee mug in hand. Several floors above me a window slammed. No one acknowledged me.

What I didn’t understand then, and I wouldn’t for many months, was the paradox of city living. The coexistence of intimacy and anonymity was something I had never experienced before. Homes rested atop businesses while coffee shops and liquor stores flanked either side of a St. Anthony’s or a St. Agnes Church. Life and all its motions were condensed to such a compact area that anonymity was a gift from your neighbors. They had to look the other way—feign ignorance or otherwise—and you would be expected to do the same. Back home everyone knew my business, but only because we frequented the same tea and coffee hour after the 10:30 Episcopal service. We repented our own sins only to turn and promptly discuss the sins of others. When two lakes and a hunting camp separate you from your nearest neighbors, casual run-ins aren’t possible.

Why wasn’t Mamma there to help me? Surely she could tell me what to do and how to think and, for once, I would listen.

See what the 'News Channel' missed out on...

In the paper, on the page, on T.V.,
Last year's headshot when I wasn't sure what I wanted to be...

(In the end, love--and a little luck--pushed me in the right direction.)

Eat Your Hearts Out

Some of you have been nasty. Many of you have been nice.

To the naysayers: I wanted a nice meal. I got one. I enjoyed every morsel. As Lynn Harris of Salon.com said, "this 'dinner whore' thing is a tempest in a 'tini. A night out that doesn't necessarily lead to sex? Call me crazy, but I call that dating."

The rest: You're fabulous! I'm glad that you were entertained by me and Ms. Stadtmiller's amusing piece in Thursday's New York Post.

One can not think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not eaten well.

--Virginia Woolf

EAT YOUR HEARTS OUT.

"Meet the Dinner Whores"

As if single men and women don't already fear one another enough, today's New York Post drums up more terror in its portrait today of New York City's "dinner whores."

Here's how Urbandictionary defines "dinner whore": "A girl who is exclusively after a free meal or an expensive gift. She actively seeks out dates with well-off men who will wine and dine her at upscale restaurants. She is usually physically attractive enough to make the man fall for her feminine wiles. She will rarely have sex with these men, until they spend a certain number of dollars on her. Nobody knows exactly what that number is, so the man keeps spending and spending, while the dinner whore keeps living it up."

To be sure, some of these food diggers are thoroughly unapologetic. Like Brooke Parkhurst of Belle in the Big Apple, who is quoted extensively in the article and who -- though she is now happily dating a chef -- boasts that her dinner-whoring has scored her over $30K worth of gourmet food and expensive cocktails.

Still, when Parkhurst says, "Women used to feel like something had to be given in exchange, whereas now I'm perfectly confident that my company is enough," I think she's got a point. Same here: "Men are always saying, 'It's just sex. It's just a one-night stand.' Well, this is just dinner," she says.

Using someone solely for his -- or her -- money: ick. But to some degree, this "dinner whore" thing is a tempest in a 'tini. A night out that doesn't necessarily lead to sex? Call me crazy, but I call that dating.

[BY LYNN HARRIS via Salon]

NY Post: Gourmet Gal Gets the Guys

Pate de foie gras. Fettucine al tartufo bianco. Kobe beef tartare.

Exquisite food. I love it. I just can’t afford it. What’s a girl to do?

A) Date a Chef (more on that later)

B) Study the culinary guidebooks of Alain Ducasse, Pierre Troisgos, then scrape together enough money to buy miniscule portions of the exorbitantly priced ingredients. Finally, attempt to recreate their gustatory masterpieces… in my mouse-friendly studio apartment.

C) Smile, angle my gaze, slip on high heels, twist my long, blonde hair into an elegant chignon…and make the nearest investment banker buy that dinner for me.

The Dinner Whore

I'm a woman that will stop at nothing--except for the bedroom--for a fine meal. Am I a tease, a tyrant, a gourmet slut? Nah. My charm, wit and attentive laugh are more than fair pay for the Osetra caviar and Dom Perignon. As I am quoted in today's New York Post, "Women used to feel like they had to give something in exchange, whereas now I'm perfectly confident that my company is enough." Moreover, "Men are always saying, 'This is just sex.' Well, this is just dinner--I don't feel sorry for them."

That's right--I'll be your date, your sugar and spice and everything nice just as long as you pick up the tab. Well, that is, until you corner me in the taxi, trap me outside the apartment door. Then the sweet turns sour and slowly to steel... In you gentlemen's hormonal rage, please do not
forget--I'm a Southern belle with a backbone.

I'm also currently--desperately, madly-- in love. Chef/Southern Boy (as he's known to my loyal readers) sears a mean foie gras. He's my new modus operandus for eating well. As I said to the Post, "It's kind of ironic, a reformed dinner whore dating a chef."

If y'all live in the New York area, go out and buy a New York Post. The aforementioned article is featured today in the Entertainment Section!

Romancing the Stove

A chef. A writer. A love.

We met in a restaurant. We fell in love at the table. We've begun our lives together at the stove. But, still, how do an Alabama chef and a New York City writer cook for themselves? Entertain at home?

Last week, Chef (also known as "Southern Boy") and I rented a house on the Gulf. It was our start to our new year. We woke up to salty breezes and emerald green sea, fell asleep to silence and warmth... and the smell of sauteed garlic and onions. We couldn't help ourselves, you see. With all that time together we decided to put pen to paper, test out recipes and devise a little cooking/entertaining guide for our friends and family. Shopping, buying the freshest seafood by day, cooking and testing recipes by night. I might just share the recipes with y'all...

Seaside

Vacationing by the Gulf, my lovelies... will write soonest...