As my friend Fil put it yesterday, 2011 had such great heights. And all of the valleys that accompany the peaks. These were my favorite moments of the year, in chronological order:

The year started beautifully in Miami, on hammocks.

February brought a circle of friends to begin the New Year of the Rabbit with Chinese tea eggs, boiled soft, then steeped in tea to reveal, upon cracking, marbleized interiors.

Just after my March birthday, K and I flew from chilly New York to Barcelona,

the city of Gaudi architecture, and this strange and wonderful cathedral, eternally being built.

My year was to look like this roof on the Santa Caterina Market,

but I didn’t know that yet.

We were then to Cannes, with its crêpes and cider, and my first time with Margalet cheese from the Ceneri cheese shop,

and to the famed La Colombe D’Or.

In the late spring, I joined the designer coworking space Studiomates and dressed all in purple for our Rainbow Parade.Image by Erin Sparling.

May was also my first crawfish boil, part of a road trip that included an amazing family in Madison, Mississippi, who boiled 335 pounds of crawfish.

I was overwhelmed with the abundance of food and the hospitality. To eat a crawfish correctly, you pinch the head and then, well, they chalked instructions for those of us shyer in handling crustaceans.

The weekend helped me remember my steel magnolia roots as I headed back to Atlanta to visit my mother.

June was my sister Kassandra’s wedding,

and this image taken by my sister Kat sums up my role as co-Maid of Honor, chasing down rogue antebellum sunshades in front of a historic plantation. I wrote a Fast Company piece about our use of tech during the wedding week.

But then, all the bridesmaids took our role seriously.

Image by Courtney Rosen.

Late June, K and I traveled to Amsterdam and spent time with wonderful friends Matt and Maia, piloting their boat through afternoon thunderstorms to discover bitterballen,

seeking out herring in season (Hollandse Nieuwe) at special stands, and spending time in our friend Gary’s magnificent kitchen.

We took a day trip to Cologne, with its cathedral and love locks.

From there: London in early July, with so many friends we forgot to take pictures. I remembered to bring the camera for a weekend in a 13th Century country house my dear friend Will engaged for a long weekend.

Shockingly, we spent the time eating the region’s renowned clotted cream,

preparing elaborate meals we took to eating outside,

and touring walled gardens.

I told an Ignite NYC audience why quitting a Ph.D. is the best possible option for some:

In early August, friends from graduate school Andrew and Annie announced they would be married in a week, and I filled the gas tank to drive to Chapel Hill, North Carolina and record the celebration. You see how they do things their own way, with great success. The bride wore blue.

And continuing my drive back up the coast, my friend Keryn let me pretend I lived in Maine for a week or so, opening her house and barn, as she always does. There were ferries and sunflowers and islands to see before returning to New York to teach my graduate class at ITP.

The fall brought considerable moments of quiet, struggles for professional growth as my consulting expanded, and the launch of my food magazine, Saucy.

In November, my sister Kat and I arrived in a former convent in Oaxaca, timing our trip to catch the end of the Day of the Dead celebrations, marvel at the Placido Domingo, puzzle over hand-drawn maps while bartenders poured local mezcal. We relaxed into chilaquiles and chocolate oaxacaquena con leche, then Baja fish tacos in Puerto Escondito. I will not forget the street vendor who drew a Sunday night crowd, pressing squash blossoms into tortillas she rolled out and grilled with Oaxacan string cheese. We traveled to visit my friend David in Mexico City and the Templo Mayor, the center of the Aztec universe. And Kat shared a Portland recipe, filling morels from the mushroom vendor at a local market.

Returning refreshed to NY, I shared my story about delivering bread in the early mornings of last winter, opening the TEDxEast November salon.

K and I began December in the tropical rainforest of Saba, a small Caribbean island with the shortest airport runway in the world. It was a perfect, and perfectly beautiful vacation.

Here’s to a spectacular 2012!

Related posts:

1. Year Two: There Was A Star Danced
2. year three: there was a star danced
3. a miami year

The road to Maine started in Atlanta, with my sister Kassandra and her husband Sean’s garden spilling over the fence, as the spinach grew thickly near the peppers and watermelons behind their new house.

I drove down to Atlanta after Annie and Andrew’s wedding, and then back up to New York the following day, pulling off the road for this eatery’s encouraging sign:

And then it was off to Maine, and to an island, passing the Coast Guard,

as well as bobbing boats in the harbor as I chatted with Keryn about ferries in the afternoon sun.

Keryn’s friends keep chickens, they couldn’t say exactly how many,

near beautiful male goats that perk up their ears in unison and wander toward you, bells swinging.

On Saturday afternoon, we gathered with their friends on an island beach,

and I learned how to pour coals into the rocks and set the grill cover over, and patiently wait.

As usual, it’s the guys hanging around the grill.

More friends joined us as the sun began to drop…

and there were crazy discoveries to be made in tidal pools (“Look, Mom!”)

and friendships renewed.

My friend Keryn sat serenely as the children ran about, with her usual calm that belies spontaneous dance moves that occur with some regularity while in her orbit.

I had a hard time leaving the beach, watching as we heaped the grill with seaweed, and looking back over my shoulder again at the sunset on the quiet beach.

At the farm Keryn’s friends caretake for, the sunflowers are at their height,

the garlic is drying,

and they sent us back with piles of springy rainbow chard, cucumbers, and tomatoes,

that made beautiful cucumber sandwiches and colorful couscous across the water, back on the Maine mainland, this dreamy area of the country I love to visit…

Related posts:

1. green on and off the island
2. an island of chapels near cannes
3. a return to charming maine

My friend Annie does not wear shocking pink nail polish often. Only, it seems, when she lets her mom pick the color for her wedding day.

A day picked a week or so before, when the groom casually called to say they would be in Chapel Hill, North Carolina the following weekend and had decided to be married. Like the bride’s elegant upswept hair, the couple’s circle swirled into town to celebrate these two we hold dear.

I’ve known the couple since they first started dating in college seven years ago, when they used their shared prowess in typography, content curation, and editorial direction to shepherd the most interesting campus publications to glory and legibility.

It was a perfect occasion for all of those skills, from the bold ‘A’ for both their first names on the wedding programs to the thoughtful compression of the service itself, officiated by the groom’s poised sister Caroline.

And while Andrew waited in the sitting room,

Annie’s mother attached the pearl clasp upstairs,

the best friend since grade school zipped up the dress,

and we followed the path of candles outside.

Andrew strode in with his parents under the soft, hanging lights;

Annie navigated the steps with her parents.

And throughout the service where the two read the vows they had written (Andrew’s full of energetic, scientific metaphor, Annie’s an honest and straightforward promise) and the family read literary pieces that did inspire (Andrew’s father also read a sonnet he had written long ago), all of us couldn’t stop smiling.

Caroline gracefully took us through the service, pronouncing Annie and Andrew married.

The couple kissed, and Andrew’s brother Xander played us into the living room (in the foreground, his parents look on).

I assembled family for pictures, as you do,

pulling all the guests in for the big, crazy shot.

We toasted to the couple,

and ate delicious things (the bride’s mother makes quite a sausage roll bread!) Pictured at left.

then we ate more delicious things at favorite local restaurant Crook’s Corner,

all of which led to toasts around the whole table, each of us standing to say how we knew the two would support each other, as they always have.

They bring out the silly in each other (more evidence from Andrew’s 2009 talent show birthday party),

and they love each other something fierce.

Congratulations, you two. Thanks for letting me photograph your day. It felt, like everything you do, magic to be part of.

If you’d like to support the couple, both work in education and care deeply about issues of literacy. Andrew is currently running the Read, Write, Rock project that you can learn more about on the RWR site.

Related posts:

1. Swift Seasons Roll
2. tall, proud, and progressive as a rainbow birthday cake
3. a blue christmas

Two of my favorite people live in Amsterdam, and a few weekends ago, Maia and Matt were draining the rainwater from their boat together.

The sun broke through the clouds like a champion on that Saturday morning, and we were off into the waterways as they traded driving duties.

I discovered how cars cease to exist from the purview of the canals,

and then the two introduced me to bitterballen, the traditional crunchy bar snack of Béchamel and diced meat crumbed and fried that arrive with mustard.

For dinner, we shelled purple hulls for the green peas to stir into scallion sauce on soba noodles under roasted chicken thighs marinated in soy sauce and watched the night lights luminate the canal bridge tunnels.

Kevin arrived a few days later, and we took the train to Cologne, stepping off the platform, through the station, and out into the sun, blinking at the beautiful cathedral.

The controversial stained glass inside by Gerhard Richter is startling in real life, as you stand and look up beside octogenarians who have pushed their glasses on top of their heads. You realize you are seeing the same thing they are.

After a proper night of pork plates and Kölsch served in the correct glassware, I went wandering through the rain the following morning, pausing at the women practicing aerial swordfighting on a wall (likely this is an exercise craze that will import to Brooklyn nicely),

and strolled the nearby bridge to read the sets of initials on love locks, fastened onto the gate by couples who then throw away the key together in the Rhine below.

Back in Amsterdam, we sought out herring (also broodje haring, which is the name for a herring sandwich and always on good brown bread), for the annual celebration of Hollandse Nieuwe. The Dutch favor picking it up by the tail and serve it with raw onions and pickles.

My favorite Dutch food is Boterkoek, a type of shortbread, and Kuyt Patisserie makes a perfect version. If you’ve ever made a cake-cookie, this is a shortbread cake-cookie with a chewy center and crispy edges. (I’m working on a recipe for the next Saucy mag issue.)

While front rooms from the 1700s look out over the canals, as Matt and Maia’s stunning apartment does (they were kind enough to let us stay as they traveled for work), rooms on the other side of buildings look out on private gardens,

and Kevin and I talked about the difference of views as we walked to local “brown cafes” that were appropriately “cozy” – the highest accolade in this city culture.

We were also upsold potatoes at restaurants with our friend Matt, and we marvelled at our friend Gary’s colorful rooms when we were invited over for a beautiful long dinner (and I’m cooking in his enormous kitchen next time we visit).

…

After a week or so in Amsterdam, we hopped a train to Brussels and took the chunnel to London, and I spent so much time riding around on the top of double-decker buses while exploring and then posing as an East Londoner (modeling my behavior after my good friend James, who lives in Stoke Newington and was a perfect host), that I rarely took pictures other than with my phone.

I will admit to a new and abiding fondness for eggs, sausage, chips, and beans at breakfast and that I continued to order black pudding everywhere we went. (More on my favorite food in London in the next Saucy.)

A few days into our London stay, I took a local train to the country to visit my friend Will, who had secured a manor house from the thirteenth century in Somerset for the weekend.

Will has a habit of gathering friends to country houses all over the world, so I wasn’t too surprised to be soon drinking Rosé and walking the grounds as Rachel helped him collect wood for the inspiring fireplaces.

After exploring the manor (I chose one of the secret rooms), we tucked into a lovely dinner planned and prepared by Sherrilynn and Matt in the substantial restored kitchen.

Two roosters battled for dominance outside my window in the morning while everyone slept in, and I crept out to the garden gate,

finding a machine in the garden,

before returning to the manor lawn to find Sherrilynn under a tree, as joyful as I always am to see the leaves filter morning light.

We all pitched in to make a “slap-up” breakfast (another new adjective!) of eggs with crème fraiche, beans, streakey bacon, leek sausage, and crumpet with clotted cream and strawberry jam to ease into the day.

After baths (more of those than showers in the manor), we split into expedition parties and set our sights on the Walled Gardens of nearby Cannington, where the nuns and monks are rumored to have met in underground tunnels in centuries past,

and the gardens now are curated by those who delight in strange succulent varieties.

Driving further into town, we were underwhelmed by Scrumpy at a nearby cidery, but we nonetheless took full advantage of their local dairy specialty, as you can tell from Will staring longingly at not the scone,

but the generous ramekin of clotted cream that the area is known for.

Back at the manor, we greeted the sheep,

and I followed Sherrilynn down the little path toward town (you can see Darrell on the returning end of his run),

to go past the pubs to the medieval church and its gargoyles,

finding the way back past the blackberry brambles and honeysuckle vines.

Rachel was smiling as Matt and Sherrilynn started dinner,

to the accompaniment of a delightful musical group that had produced an entire album of songs about cider.

Will worked his pie crust into the pan to bake it blind,

and I left the kitchen to join Will and Darrell in the garden,

setting up the table in the setting sun.

Sauteed mushrooms over chevre on bread with a port sauce paired very well with the company and the conversation (with Darrell sneaking raspberries into your wine at opportune intervals),

punctuated by corks flying into the air and laughter.

Later, the talented Sherrilynn and Matt would pull their banjos out and fill the old house with music and song, and I would relax deeper into a couch beside a fire that roared, feeling lucky indeed to have such good friends with such good friends that remain dear no matter where we live as the summers come and go…

Related posts:

1. vibrant artistry at esalen
2. fresh like frilled linen
3. rosy gardens in Brooklyn

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.

Related posts:

1. You Have to Believe We Are Magic
2. 2011: the best of a lesser year
3. Everything was Alliuminated

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…

Related posts:

1. an island of chapels near cannes
2. where the wild trees are
3. rosy gardens in Brooklyn

I heard the sea spray as our little ferry rocked to and fro last week on the way to Île Saint-Honorat.

One of the Lérins islands close to Cannes, Île Saint-Honorat is dotted with small chapels and a modern monastery.

One resident monk (there are thirty in this Cistercian community) was on the ferry with us, perhaps to officiate the service later that afternoon, or returning to tend the island vineyards.

There is a grand archway that stands alone near where the ferry docks, and beyond it lay mostly trees and native plants;

butterflies flutter everywhere in the tall grasses in a way that feels eternal.

Leaving the shoreline,

and the blue, blue water of the Mediterranean,

I ventured into some of the vineyards (please don’t tell the monks),

and then headed toward the abbey beyond.

Somehow, it felt strange to see cacti in this quiet place,

but the island has fended off invaders for centuries, and some paths are pricklier than others;

ducking into the wide space under this tree branch,

I found a startling view.

And then I saw the fortified monastery and took off (it’s probably a lovely swim too) in that direction.

Inside, there are the small openings that let in the breeze,

hint at the blue water surrounding,

a chapel within, beautifully signed,

and the archways provide shade on the lower levels,

but climb the structure’s single spiral staircase for the view from higher archways,

and to see the entire island.

I watched the shadows below, thinking about what it must be like to live as part of the order here,

and to see each afternoon the lavender bend in the wind, filling the air with its peaceful fragrance.

Near the lavender, carefully planted beds flank the path to the abbey,

with leaves shading the walkways,

and I heard the gentle swish of robes before I saw them as time for afternoon service approached. I wandered back toward the ferry, through the archway, past the flowers that seem imbued with meaning.

Noticing an ancient little chapel tucked in near the archway, I thought perhaps with views so grand, only a tiny place to kneel is needed, if only to study the contrast.

Related posts:

1. green on and off the island
2. an island beach in maine
3. vibrant artistry at esalen

I am surrounded by tall trees I can see from windows all around the cabin in Santa Cruz, but early in the morning, birds tap at the windows, urging me out into the day and toward even larger trees—

butterflies flutter about too, landing where I can watch them slowly open their wings slightly, drawing me outside to watch them alight on branches and plantings,

and then I do wander into the woods, passing fruited trees,

pausing for church flea markets like this one in Felton, California,

with homemade candles,

all manner of miscellany,

and aqua wine glasses that I felt the cabin needed in her kitchen cabinets (quite worth the expenditure).

And then I pass into Henry Cowell State Park to visit a spell with old-growth redwoods, stately in their bark of many colors,

fielding avian interruptions as I walk and birds hop on close posts, anxious to talk (my friend Karen, who knows this area of California well and cultivates a bird following, would enjoy these discussions).

The Zayante Indians once lived in the area, and the trees are between 1400 and 1800 years old; their majesty defies capture, as the trees twist away from the camera,

and I cannot show you the bits of softly falling leaves in the light,

I can only suggest the way a stand of trees seem to bend into each other, conspiratorially.

When I have looked up for a long while, I go to find spongy moss growing on logs,

the plants growing at the base of trees, spotlighted as sun filters in through serious branches,

and, my mind quieted, I look back over my shoulder as I leave these trees that will stand resolute, grandly implacable, the same way they will stand when I inevitably return, again and again…

Related posts:

1. where the wild trees are
2. of leaves and light
3. examining life

If I had to pick, Saturday would be my favorite day of the road trip, beginning with the town of Greybull, Wyoming that looked so like I imagined a small western town might,

and we continued on in the early hour past the Bureau of Reclamation on our way to a trading post,

with horns, of course,

and a welcome to the Land of Buffalo Bill at Our Place,

where we ate crispy hash browns and eggs with tomatillo sauce and bits of pork, and thick, smoky bacon and biscuits and gravy besides.

There was a persuasive woman carrying a basket of poppies around, and we showed our support for vets, (she instructed us to carry the red flowers with us around town).

Kat is standing here in front of a fireworks outlet, which seems like a great idea to build next to the daily rodeo center,

in Cody, Wyoming, the “Rodeo Capital of the World.”

We drove on past blue-green water, slowing down after two days of chasing the light down the highway,

startled by a Yellowstone covered in snow,

but most surprised to see a bison walking down the middle of the road. (This is the most powerful argument I can imagine for sharing the road.)

We saw bison later that day, too, but instead of the hooves clacking in a jaunty walk down the yellow line, this one was much more interested in eating grass.

Yellowstone holds incredible beauty,

and thermal energy.

We arrived near Old Faithful to be told we had one minute before the next eruption,

so we ran to join the crowd soon gasping as the heat curled away from the vertical geyser (the timing between each eruption is lengthening, apparently, which park attendants suggest may be yet another indication of climate change).

From Yellowstone, we drove through the Grand Tetons,

that amaze with their beauty, too.

And we pulled into the Jackson sunshine, to Snake River Brewing Co. for local beer,

and then margaritas, Yucatan pork, and chile relleno at the outdoor patio at Pica’s, where we overheard a fantastically encouraging (and heated) conversation between a tableful of collegiate guys discussing the merits of dairy; “It’s whole milk or no milk, John.”

And we returned to watch an equally impressive sunset from our cabin porch at Spring Creek Ranch (I highly recommend these accommodations a few hundred feet above Jackson Hole),

And the mountains were waiting for us in the morning, pulling us reluctantly from Wyoming and into Idaho, Montana, and Washington…

Related posts:

1. sunshine, bread pudding bliss, and b.side’s
2. ease on down, down the road
3. the savory side of sweet

The Willow Bake Shoppe opens early, to close at noon, in the accepted local practice of quirky business hours,

and I walked in last Monday morning to the smell of baking, of warm classic buttermilk and molasses doughnuts, some rolled in sugar.

When you visit, go for the chocolate glazed (code for chocolate cake baked into circles with a shiver of icing) at this little shop.

After work in the quiet office, my wonderful friend Keryn and I walked up Beech Hill Preserve to watch the clouds,

and the water.

Keryn pointed out the sod roof on the house at the top of the hill, another old-fashioned Maine surprise, as even a roof can spring to life.

Mornings in Maine tend to be equally serene,

birds winging their way across ripples,

the still Camden harbor waters sparkling,

local products being produced, to later be found at the wonderful Farmers Fare in Rockport, Maine: Keene Dairy raw milk (my favorite of the area raw milks), Maine Natural Oils’s potent mustard oil, mint water (not quite sure how I’ll use this), Dolcelinos excellent ice cream sandwiches (try the ginger-lemon), and Farmers Fare Frozen Joy (a product they are still perfecting).

On Friday night, the Maine Farmland Trust gallery in Belfast featured Keryn’s friend Lily’s work, and so we went to see her clean images of Maine farmers with their lovely scrubbed vegetables, before heading to (“life-changing,” as Keryn’s friend Rachel told us as we walked through the door) Pemaquid oysters at Three Tides, where they serve Harbor Wharf Brewing Co. beer produced next door.

The next morning, we pulled out Keryn’s copy of the Maine Gazetteer (Maine has their own version of most things—for a road atlas, the Gazetteer, for Craig’s List, Uncle Henry’s)—and headed toward sauerkraut.

Morse’s Sauerkraut is an institution,

offering foods in the restaurant that complement their sauerkraut and pickles, adjacent to a comprehensive European foodstuffs store.

Keryn ordered the refined Swedish pancakes with lingonberries (on top and also within the folds), while I embraced what might be the only Reuben omelette I have the great pleasure of ordering, filled with sauerkraut, swiss, and corned beef next to potatoes and sauce, rye bread.

We lingered in the shop, talking to the store owner who promised to carry Spekuloos soon (the gingerbread cookie spread that the Waffle Truck in NY is making famous), and who introduced us to pear and apple stroop, coffee candies, and chalk licorice.

We found our way to Liberty Tool, wandering among three floors of collected tools of all sorts,

wondering what a Mirroscope might be (looks like a proper projector and maybe one that uses internal mirrors to reflect?),

and Keryn illustrated how a blueberry rake (missing its handle) works.

Passing old cars, Keryn drove us from Liberty back to Camden,

where we secured a few large bags of the addictive Little Lad’s popcorn as sustenance for our friend Jen,

who is rebuilding a house of her very own.

A herculean effort, Jen’s strength of purpose showed as she talked with affection about installing the beautiful tub,

working on this room that hasn’t been a focus yet,

the vintage stove she bought years ago (that I would like to cook on someday),

and I would say we left Jen musing about the possibilities,

but knowing her better than that, more likely, she went back inside to find employment for her beloved power tools and some pieces of siding or trim, whirring away into the afternoon.

Gloriously free of tools, and not needing the Gazetteer for the nearest food markets, I wandered back to the small working farm behind Farmers Fare,

and, of course, inside the space full of local products and a cafe, ordering what turned out to be the best charcuterie plate I’ve ever had of smoked mussels, smoked day boat scallops, Sullivan Harbor Farm Smokehouse‘s incredible roasted smoked salmon, and local apples, good salami, mustard, Morse’s pickles, and a house-made relish.

Back at Keryn and Mike’s house, we made a garlic paste for cooked cannellini beans, smoothed it into a spread, and headed over to Ladleah and Shane’s house, where the fire was starting and the table was being set,

daffodils and quince branches from their friend Peels were waiting on the dinner guests,

Keryn placed napkins,

and Ladleah and her friend Rodney (who will be working at Primo) were prepping goat chorizo, mushrooms, and shells for the big paella pan,

that steamed with all the good things in it under the careful watch of its expert handlers.

Ladleah told me how she had just enough eggs for her soft, fresh pasta; the rest of the eggs were promised for Sunday’s Supper at Salt Water Farm, like the wonderful one I attended the week before (one of the many reasons I stayed an extra week in Maine).

Having completed their egg duty earlier, the chickens inspected the table,

before everyone shooed them away (conspiratorially taking my arm, Ladleah showed me how they roost in their quarters),

and everyone helped place the bowls on the table (at right is the fascinating Evan Strusinski, who forages lovely things for local restaurants and a few in New York with impossible reservation lists),

as the sun faded (at left in the foreground is Annemarie, the inspiring chef at Salt Water Farm who has made the transition from Brooklyn to Maine beautifully, and who shared her excitement about new offerings from local fish purveyors).

Jen, sans power tools, was on my left, across were Keryn and Mike, and all these beautiful people with their beautiful energy passed the wooden bowls, served each other, and their laughter rang out.

As the best dinners do, everyone moved around the table, making sure to talk to everyone else, and much later, dessert crêpes appeared, then a guitar that Rodney skillfully played in the living room by the kitchen,

and I stole outside in a borrowed jacket and scarf to warm my hands at the fire, look up at the stars, knowing I had to leave so I could return.

Suddenly, and with her usual grace, Keryn was next to me, and then her talented group of friends (that she generously included me as part of all week) joined us at the fire, and I knew I was smitten with this group, firm in their conviction they can shape the lives they want in this place.

I drove back to a rainy Brooklyn on Sunday, the trees as green as the Maine fiddleheads I split and sautéed, stirred into pasta with roasted asparagus and ramps, shaved pecorino, and a simple cream sauce for dinner with my wise friend Solana, who forgave me for missing her birthday party when she heard about my coastal adventures.

We finished a Chenin Blanc and dipped warm stroopwafels from the Maine woods into vanilla pudding (recipe) and talked of the summer, extending stays in places you grow to love,

and I thought about how my life is like the spiral of fiddlehead ferns, about to unfurl in ways I cannot even imagine…

Related posts:

1. sunday supper at salt water farm
2. green on and off the island
3. a return to charming maine

In curating the symposium, David Sasaki also created “An Outsider’s Guide to Linz.” This post is an extension of his excellent guide with video and a heavy emphasis on food. (You can also find places David marked in Dopplr’s Social Atlas for Linz with geocoordinates.)

My Linz trip began with a burger in Cafe Walker that David didn’t mention would arrive with hidden corn kernels,

and later that night, through the drizzle as I walked out of the Haufplatz (the main square), I spotted my friend Seth Hunter.

Joining him and his fellow MIT artist Noah, we were off to fetch their bags from their installations, then to Italian restaurant Bigoli in nearby OK Platz (order the gnocchi), where Seth taught us how to make origami butterflies and we talked about the food of the future:

Back in the Haufplatz, young dancers in white unitards tucked glow sticks into their hair,

and then the lights went off, darkening the entire square, the better to see the glowing dancers move glowing balls to the other side of the street.

Friday morning, the market bustled in the same square (so much speck!),

and I bought a superlative cream-filled pastry with a hidden meringue layer,

thinking about food photography as I prepped for my talk (video) at the Ars Electronica: Cloud Intelligence Symposium the following day.

While the rain continued, I went to see the Ars exhibits for inspiration. A few of my favorites (also see my friend Ethan’s favorites):

a typewriter of images:

open sailing, a project about a floating community that models sustainability,

an LED abacus,

a skeeball marimba installation,

Arthur Ganson’s piece with scraps of paper winging their way,

and my very favorite, the geotextile mesh “Hylozoic Grove” by Philip Beesley,

that sensitively moved as you entered its translucent, shimmering space, brushing against branches.

Later that night, artists shrinkwrapped themselves as part of the Ars Gala,

and David toasted to the following “arscloud” symposium in classic style,

I had a wonderful tagliatelle at Cafe Lentos (highly recommend) with local chanterelles soaked in butter with steak and crunchy bits of sea salt, while Ethan had a Sicilian pasta with a large sardine,

and outside, the Ars Center pulsed with light patterns into the night.

In the clear morning, I could see rooftops and the Danube sparkling,

before I meandered around the organic grocery to find yogurt and granola to fly through last-minute revisions;

as part of the day’s proceedings at Ars on cloud intelligence, we asked all the “arscloud” symposium participants to hack their lunch (using fancy fast food as a model), and the winner made a CloudWurst (he explains):

After a full day, I opened my window to watch people mingle next to the river,

happy and tired from a long day of thinking about clouds and intelligence with this smart group,

and I stopped by a few sweets vendors on the way to group dinner,

purchasing a tangy yogurt cream pastry,

before traditional Austrian food (I had a black seafood risotto) at Alte Welt,

and then fireworks

and fire works (listen for Juliana’s take on this particular pile of flames).

The next morning, I wandered Linz, peering through open doorframes,

and admiring the fineness of the pale architecture (that almost has an icy tone to it, heavy on the glass),

watching those walking,

under crosses,

and past buildings with glittering, embedded religious mosaics,

on my way to the park,

and the buildings beyond,

On my way back, I found door handles shaped like pretzels,

more traditional Austrian for lunch,

and traditional dress to complete the lesson.

Before a trip up the mountain for dinner, I had gelato with David (hear what he discovers his favorite flavor is),

then it was time to meet gnomes,

follow them on signs,

to this restaurant,

where we all liked the pumpkin seed cheese best,

until the first course at the castle arrived,

consuming all our attention until (at least for me), this table sat down,

and there was birthday fire.

The next morning held pastries with Ethan and David,

this last is David’s favorite, and he felt it would power a longer morning run in the Austrian hills with Teddy of Project Diaspora (a former Ugandan Olympic hopeful in the decathlon),

and asking slightly less of other pastry, I purchased the Brandl Bakery version of the famous Linzer torte for the office, heading off to discover shaggy pastel marshmallows,

glistening jellies,

and an exhibition of recovered mosaic pieces from places of worship,

that included twinkling ships.

From the mosaiced currents, I opted for a fish sandwich a few doors down,

and wandering further, like a siren song, organ chords drew me into an old cathedral,

where I watched sunlight fill more and more of the pews as an unseen organist played on into the afternoon, sounds I carried with me back to Brooklyn…

Related posts:

1. the secret life of foodpaths (my ars electronica presentation)
2. in the name of food
3. first Miami food exploration of the new year

A few doors down, the new Jacques Torres ice cream shop—next to his chocolate shop—was similarly dizzying in its superior sugared goodness (and you wonder why I work in the DUMBO area of Brooklyn?) that carried us to the New Museum’s “Younger Than Jesus” exhibit and then Pier 17 for Here We Go Magic, part of the River to River Festival.

Andrew folded the boat in the program (he’s always been good with the origami and the paper airplanes),

while we listened to opener Bachelorette from New Zealand. Andrew’s name for the paper boat references the recent Voice article we read while waiting for the bands, where Mike Powell skewers Wilco.

here’s the larger version

And hearing about the artistry at Locanda Verde (I’ll return for the breakfast menu instead), we topped our dinner there the next morning with new red potatoes from the Prospect Park Farmers’ Market,

that provided a base for baby onions, fresh corn, red chard, flowering thyme, and Parmesan.

We discovered that pheasant eggshells are blue inside,

and headed off to find more visual fabulous in “We Know The Secret of the Colors,” an ambient Manhattan adventure that started here,

led to a piece by Paul Richard,

paused for a public fountain,

directed us to look up,

at a nest on the side of a building,

to unscrew the cap of a fire hydrant,

pass a park with a rusty bike,

that gleamed almost at brightly as Kee’s incredible confections at Kee’s Chocolates, where Andrew and I forked from the ambient adventure for one involving tasting the fennel and the tiramisu truffles (the truffle oil macaron is sparkly, but go for the truffles that didn’t last for a picture).

Then we developed our own progressive dinner tour—snacks at the Park Slope Food Coop, sandwiches from the lengthy Bar Reis menu (there are 95, and yes, each is a thesis unto itself), and then pizza at Franny’s with local beer.

It was a day where we spied Shel Silverstein’s name etched where the sidewalk did, indeed, end,

under red leaves that sheltered birds calling out from hidden branches,

where even plastic strips forming a curtain to a receiving area were noteworthy,

and a stationary mailbox encouraged taking risks.

So we climbed to my roof, listening to sparklers going off in the streets below, and talked about the subtle explosions of everyday life, the small events that trigger cycles, in the way old friends observe patterns—Andrew’s toasted to four jobs with me now, and I heard the little crackles portending his meteoric rise through the worlds of science, policy, and (perhaps, perhaps) epidemiology…

Related posts:

1. a market to begin the weekend
2. in a new york day
3. sweetgum, floating words, eating by color

the gourmet shop in Cambridge where Charcutier (what a beautiful title) Leah Mojer crafts housemade rillettes, pâté, and a guanciale I could not resist when I visited on Friday.

I was in town for my last event with Knight Foundation, a gathering of the Knight News Challenge winners at MIT:

where I managed to convince some two hundred in attendance to wear Knight Pulse sweatbands and unveiled new pieces of the Pulse site—much more on that in a later post, where I’ll share what I learned this past year starting a niche online community space.

Some of my favorite people (including new friend Catherine) were in that number at MIT, and on Thursday night, I had dinner with them (Ethan, David, Catherine, Kevin) at Asmara.

Ethan explains the wonderful Eritrean food we ordered (I should say we actually let Ethan order and, like everything Ethan does, the order was thoughtful and nicely done):

My favorite was the lamb with jute plant (we ordered another), and like the spongy injera bread that serves as utensil in this cuisine, I felt my mind expanding as we talked of global politics, poison (not the band), and functional flows of local brain power. With this table of frequent flyers, it was so nice to land in this comfy restaurant and hear travel adventures narrated and future schemes plotted…

Being Cambridge, my mind also tried to bend around understanding why the buildings are numbered as well as named and around Erik Demaine‘s work with computational origami (he’ll tell you simply that he likes algorithms). Erik is an extraordinary person (kind and the youngest professor in MIT history) and he folds balloons into octahedrons:

Driving out of the Cambridge rain, past the Charles River, and toward the smell of the Atlantic Ocean, I made sure these petit noirs from Formaggio Kitchen were tucked away,

delivering them to Matt and Maia’s kitchen in Newport, RI (fanciful chocolate for a lovely, artistic couple) on the way back to Brooklyn, where we’ll make charcuterie and chocolates and inflate balloons (a caveat that octahedrons are beyond me) now that the boxes are unpacked and neighborhood explorations begin in earnest…

Related posts:

1. traditionally swayed
2. a few good community leaders
3. better video of good community leaders

I’ll stand by what I wrote when I originally posted this (great comments on that post), explaining the recipe:

Why fry a doughnut that has already been fried? A turn in a hot pan caramelizes the outside of the doughnut to a crispy shell and returns the inside to a pillowy, soft state.

I hope you celebrate in style and to make these with all of you in all of your kitchens by next year this time (I’ll bring the lard)—

Related posts:

1. kthread cooks: fried doughnuts
2. kthread cooks: fried green tomatoes
3. crisply, on a holiday weekend

that bend in the sun, recovering from her fierce appearance,

and like filmmakers that race to shoot while streets are wet,

I am learning to wait in readiness, part of the Nature Paparazzi corps,

to catch her exit and the dazzling scene she leaves in her wake—

Related posts:

1. after the morning rain
2. canopies of suspended rain drops and culture modding
3. a miami year