I have spent the spring impatiently waiting for warm weather in New York, hopping a flight in late March to wander sunny Barcelona streets,

and its long stretches of parks, and the elaborately encrusted Sagrada Familia,

with its Gaudí figures and ornamentation,

including a Magic Square on the outside of the unfinished basílica.

The inspiring inside is filled with light from the stained glass playing off itself and the organic columns, and ushers in a curious sort of local and tourist reverence.

In nearby neighborhoods, there are plazas also filled with light and the sounds of guitarists practicing before standing just outside restaurant patios,

and in April, chocolate shops filled with Easter houses (characters sold separately).

Visiting for a few days, I started a wonderful habit of Cava and Jamón ibérico from the nearby La Boqueria on our roof deck, reading into the late afternoon before meeting friends for very fresh fish and crispy Pan can Tomate.

From Barcelona, we went to Cannes, where I discovered Margalet, a cheese much like Camembert, at the fabulous Ceneri – the sort of cheese shop you feel you cannot make a mistake in, the selection is curated so thoughtfully.

A perfectly ripened cheese makes for such quiet happiness.

While in Cannes, we were part of a small but determined expedition to the famed Colombe D’Or, the restaurant with early art from those later collected by museums. The trip there and back was just as entertaining (hairpin turns!) as the witty conversation at the table, and we were the last to leave the dining room and walk back through the picturesque town.

And a few weeks ago, back stateside, we celebrated a family birthday on the charming boyfriend’s side in New Orleans, that city where the trees grow beads in season,

and where it is possible to source a glittery birthday cake on short notice.

Near our hotel in the Warehouse District, I walked to Cochon for an Abita and a glance at the menu, watching as the heat melted the butter for the rolls,

and unable to resist, I ordered their Cochon de Lait that arrived on top of braised cabbage and with a cracklin’, a good omen for a snappy city I try to wander through on my travels as often as possible…

More pictures and stories from these trips in the next issue out this summer of a food magazine I’ve started called Saucy. You can buy the first issue (it used to be called Culinaesthete) on Magcloud in print or digital formats. Your support of the magazine so far (hello, new Australian friends!) means the world to me.

Last weekend I spent with some of my favorite people (such handsome men!) that I have known since I lived in Charlottesville—Ben, Stewart, and Michael.

Ben and I flew in for Stewart‘s performance on Sunday night, and the women of Stewart’s supportive family also arrived, laughing as they circled around him.

Stewart’s mother had a fiercely protective moment, but we all know how brave and how talented her son is as a singer-songwriter.

An altogether sweet weekend, I also located the wonderful Olive and Sinclair chocolate made in Nashville,

that seems to be hand-packed and stamped. I felt as though I were opening a Wonka bar…

but I already had a lovely guest bedroom at my friend Michaela’s house (Michaela and Harrison are admirable and awesome parents to Chapin).

And that evening, we waited outside patiently at the Bluebird Cafe to secure seats (you don’t need a ticket to hear a golden list of performers).

Stewart and I see each other less often than we’d like in recent months,

and I am a member of his fan club (I do have to battle the women at this table for club leadership titles, though),

Michaela and Ben were so fun to sit next to,

and at the end of the night, the announcer Steve Goodie held up Stewart’s CD,

before Stewart sang, his voice ringing out over the tables in the small space, singing “I’m Not Moving On,”

and “Backseat.” Such a wonderful Facebook husband he is (I’m so proud), and a singer-songwriter with such a bright career ahead of him…

I spent Saturday afternoon surrounded by the flowers of Esalen, an institute and retreat center in Big Sur.

The flowers are near the gardens,

and visitors are encouraged to take a sweet pea or two with provided scissors,

There is incredible energy in this place where those seeking to learn arrive for workshops and seminars,

to see parts of themselves unfold in brilliant colors.

From the gardens, I could hear the poets on stage as part the day’s Arts Festival, so I left the orange dahlias,

to see what words were being spoken—

beyond impressed with Dr. Thema Bryant-Davis’s performance, especially her (famous) “An Upbeat Black Girl’s Song” that rang out over the grounds.

I wandered over to where hula hoops revolved near the mineral baths,

and plantings of succulents,

and returned to watch the opposite stage as someone chalked a peaceful heart in blue near my feet,

as the tribute to to Francisco Aguabella (1925-2010) with Jesus Diaz & Pedro “Muñeco” Aguilar began, and I was inspired by another fierce female artist, Kati Hernandez, who commanded the audience’s attention.

Kati was joined by another dancer who left his microphone to dance in front,

until she appeared in a different costume (the blue costume symbolized the maternal force of water, known as Yemayá in these traditions).

Then, the two danced together after the different types of Afro-Cuban rumba (Rumba Yambú, Rumba Guaguancó, and Rumba Columbia) were explained,

and the group’s performance on the bright stage hung with prayer flags ended with a huge audience conga line around the space and everyone on their feet (also, the drummer in the center with the cap was phenomenal).

As they finished, the festival founder and creative director Jayson Fann (here in the hat) was readying the next performer, Viviana Guzmán—part of a seamless string of talent that graced the stages throughout, and not an easy feat with an entire day of different acts.

As Viviana’s set started, beautiful local food began to be served:

a local halibut, local corn, and three salads with lettuces grown at Esalen ( “greens that haven’t seen a mechanized vehicle!” a proud server crowed).

Grateful to my friend Bella Shing for alerting me to the event (she’s lovely, and ran a filmmaking intensive as part of the festival), I left the celebration of artists and food and nature to drive into the sun around Big Sur,

inspired by all the views of the day on the misty drive back to my cabin…

Many, many moons ago, I was the Sugar Plum Fairy, and looking back, I’d rather have presided over midsummer’s sugar plums, glorious fruit without the tart skin of most plums, than the confection the fairy takes her name from. Yesterday morning, I simmered sugar plums and peaches in butter and honey,

just the thing for yesterday’s pancakes or this morning’s oatmeal, as the fruit throws off a beautiful syrup (recipe) that can be stirred into drinks or a savory sauce with mustard.

My close friend Ben and I found the sugar plums on Saturday morning at the Prospect Park market,

one of the first places I wanted to show him on his trip to Brooklyn. We then perused books, clothing, and fantastic retro clock faces on streets and stoops on our way through Park Slope to the food coop, the dumpling truck (Ben recommends the Watermelonade),

and finally the waffle truck, where we saw someone from the dumpling truck recognize us and smile, writing his favorite drink on the chalkboard next to mine—I like how the different trucks support each other and often park nearby.

Into Manhattan for one of our many train rides that day, we heard tapping in the Union Square station,

laughed off a terrible movie with very good burgers at Dumont in Williamsburg, before meeting Solana on a rooftop where we learned how the gendered ice sculptures were created,

and chatted with mustachioed men before dancing until three at a neighborhood club…and a few hours later, we met Solana (who unfailingly glows with energy) and other Global Voices (Lova, Juhie, Jillian, Anas) for a Superfine brunch in DUMBO,

wandering the market near the Brooklyn Flea,

where I found a new vintage dress (for the next kthread cooks where I warble and (for Amanda) introduce you to the new kitchen), liked the shiny bottles,

and decided Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory’s vanilla was as good as spending the afternoon with information activists I respect and almost as good as a weekend with an old and very wise friend who is off soon to new adventures near other bodies of water…

I’m starting with the men and women in the mirrors; at the Brooklyn Flea this afternoon, my good friend Laura (who is in town for a few days, we always have adventures) and I ventured toward new treasures and reflective objects.

Fresh from a walk through a rollicking street fair in Carroll Gardens where the entire band accompanied the drummer on air bongos (this is what you might call the “Rock Band Effect”),

we walked through the DUMBO Farmers’ Market toward the Flea,

which is, as advertised, held under the Brooklyn Bridge.

and met up with my friend Eudie from high school, who I ran into the other day in Park Slope.

It’s so nice to meet up with people years later and discover they are even more fabulous now than they were then.

As the lobster roll line snaked around most of the vendor stalls (next time!), we opted to try raw chocolate ice cream on dry ice (you can choose between cashew and coconut bases) and wander the flea.

Before leaving, we found sparkly slippers to keep easing on down the road (that Laura and I began Saturday night at a midnight showing of “The Wiz” at BAM punctuated with wild applause for MJ as the sweet Scarecrow)…

And before that screening, I admired the emerald trees as I walked through Prospect Park to the Farmers’ Market at Grand Army Plaza on Saturday morning,

charmed by the flowering lemon thyme

and sage.

Heading out with my friend Matt (a fellow member of the Park Slope Food Coop), we admired the glass seltzer bottles in Ronny’s Seltzer truck (a Brooklyn delivery tradition),

before hopping the ferry to Governors Island to see the PLOT09 art exhibition,

where everyone seemed pulled toward giant chimes,

that we could still hear faintly as we opened apple chips from the market and sipped strawberry cider (actually very good) along with “Womanchego” cheese.

I looked up at the trees,

and listened to the sounds of families playing games, this little girl toying with a bike.

Old-fashioned music awaited near a reception for the PLOT09 opening,

and children were similarly smiling and happy on a beautiful wooden play structure (I like the exposed dowel ends below) and the nearby miniature golf course on another part of the island.

My favorite piece in the show was Edgar Arceneaux’s installation (Edgar is one of the Knight Pulse/GOOD L.A. Community Leaders tapped a few months back) of a machine that transmitted eerie sounds at low frequencies from a closet in one of the old houses with flaking drywall that ring the island.

For many years, Edgar has been working on the Watts House Project (“a collaborative artwork in the shape of neighborhood redevelopment”), and so it was especially appropriate for him to suggest disquiet in such a way that could be reversed, or at least removed at the end of the exhibit.

Is it the sounds without and within that bring comfort in a house, that ease the mind? I listen to my new Brooklyn neighbors laughing, steel drums, and the thum-thum of the train as I fall asleep lately…