Even more beautiful than big, bright dahlias (that apparently the Aztecs ate—but the flowers are not the food subject for this post),

my sister Kassandra came to visit this past weekend,

and we made roasted portobello sandwiches with homemade aioli, cut cherry tomatoes, and rocket on local bread rolls while we spilled secrets, as sisters do.

(To make this sandwich, place a portobello for each person on an oiled baking pan with a nice pat of butter and minced garlic (1/2 clove per person) on top, and roast at 400 degrees Fahrenheit until the butter has cooked through (about 20 min) and then assemble sandwiches—try to find arugula or watercress, as the spicy bite will cut the richness.)

Visits to the beach, drinks downtown, making biscuits and strawberry jam in the kitchen, watching old movies, shopping for vintage, talking for hours and hours—I am so proud of Kassandra’s strength and sense of humor as she creates a life as a dancer and choreographer (more on her personal site).

On Monday we cooked together, as we like to do, for my friend Margaret, making the stuffed squash from my last post along with crispy croutons for the salad and potatoes for the quinoa.

It was the first time I’ve entertained in the cabin this summer, and I enjoyed watching who was more adept with their phone as we ignored texts and calls to sit and talk together—and it was a tie, I think, between Margaret and Kassandra.

For dessert, we roasted some small, halved Blenheim apricots (again, at 400 for about 20 minutes) that appear for a few fleeting weeks in the summer,

and topped them with whole yogurt (I’m fond of Pavel’s Russian Yogurt from San Leandro) and local raw wildflower honey.

And later that night, Kassandra was off to go and set choreography on dance companies around the country, but I smiled to know I will see her again in about a month as I drive back to Brooklyn…

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…

Just inside the gate at Fairy-Tale Farm last night, the first summertime salon was commencing,

with beautiful glass jewelry and buttons,

treats and a bright, slightly herbal punch,

and jams and produce for the urban farm market part of the event—all in keeping with the organizers’ wishes: “Our intention is to grow a farmer’s market for the DIY community who doesn’t make enough to sell at the Farmer’s Market.”

Karsten showed my wonderful friend Margaret and me the rest of Fairy-Tale Farm,

and as we were about to venture beyond the fruit trees and the hives,

Karsten’s lovely wife Debbie, wearing a dress I covet, serenaded us and asked that he let the chickens out,

and so Karsten did, explaining about the laying cycles of late in this coop, fronted with a repurposed circus board,

as the ladies went scurrying into the yard,

and gently, he lifted one who likes to stay in the coop out.

There were a few new beautiful blue eggs,

and more of the farm to see—some new things growing where tables for underground dinners used to be set up,

and you will find you are surrounded by circles, the most special being the circular area in the center of the garden, just large enough for one table (what you can’t see in the photo are the girls sitting in that circle, perhaps holding forth in their own club, surrounded by string runners for peas and tall, swaying plants).

Heading back to the salon behind these two noted open source software advocates, I noticed the table set up for collage work with seats of orange pillows on hay,

and smiled at these two in the foreground, clearly intrigued by something (capturing a chicken?) off to the right as the food table busied,

laden with cauliflower of a Madhur Jaffrey recipe to go with basmati rice,

near pan bread with lemon cheese and apricot chutney, two sizes of biscuits, butter, and jam.

Margaret and I agreed that the biscuits were made with a great starter (Margaret has expertise on biscuits and the deep level of commitment it takes to start and build communities, the same way bread requires proofing),

and the maker of the excellent jams encouraged sampling,

as someone left, smiling, with his arms full of basil,

and the grower of the basil, her hands full of sweet peas,

let me try one of her alpine strawberries (these are also known as fraises des bois and they are magic).

Margaret and I found a little bench tucked away behind the collage table to catch up from our travels,

and as we left this wonderful place full of the sort of people that make Santa Cruz exactly where I want to be this summer, a maker of pastel marshmallows appeared,

reminding me of the colored marshmallows at the markets in Nice last week (more on those adventures tomorrow) and of how makers and markets all over love to share why they make what they make…

Update: July 2, 2010: Karsten posted on the urban market, explaining the concept and detailing the makers and musicians who came with clear passion. He also said some really nice things about this post (thanks, Karsten!) For more on Fairy-Tale Farm, follow their site.

Arriving in Cannes last week, Kevin and I listened to a gazebo full of musicians,

just past the carousel,

as we ordered what turned out to be quite a large seafood paella complete with langoustines—and mussels while we waited—at Le Rendez-Vous (35 Rue Félix Faure) before drinks with friends nearer the sand.

On Tuesday morning, I found my way to Marché Forville,

with gleaming red currants in boxes with little handles,

other fruits (I was most interested in the apricots),

silver bowls of marinated garlic and olives,

red garlic heads,

and bouquets.

Leaving lovely cases full of pâté and cheese at the market, I wandered windy streets until I found rue Meynadier,

and the traditional French cooking of Aux Bons Enfants (80 rue Meynadier), where I sipped rosé as accordian players and children passed,

began with terrine (the ingredients are chopped less finely than in pâté) and onion confit,

then a very good blanquette de veau, with the softness of the famous stew against the crispy edges of the potatoes,

and finished with blanc manger under apricots that I spooned slowly, stretching out the perfect lunch.

Intriguing salts rewarded further walking, and close by is a wonderful cheese shop, Ceneri (22 rue Meynadier) as well as Jean-Luc Pelé (36 rue Meynadier),

a dazzling store with glittering cases of macarons—

my favorite of these three was the vodka citron, but do try the pale fleur de sel macaron filled with foie gras for the experience.

Back toward the Palais, badges fluttered for the Cannes Lions festival all week (awarding excellence in advertising),

and equally interesting, on the beach near the sessions, excellent sculpting shaped grinning large heads in the sand.

At an event put on by the Swedish contingent at Lions, Kevin’s delightful friend Nick smiled while he checked voicemail and Kevin concentrated on responding to texts, both blithely unaware they were the only ones still working as the waves crashed and everyone traded in little Swedish flags for drinks.

Then, Nick’s friend François arrived, more interested in the ocean than the party, and I watched children learning how to swim with the undercurrent as François borrowed my camera to take this one of Nick and Kevin in conversation (they aren’t always so serious),

and this one of me, daydreaming about my afternoon on Île Saint-Honorat that I will tell you about tomorrow…

On Saturday morning, red leaves of Park Slope streets filtered the sun,

and I walked first (well, first was Milk Thistle, but right after that) to Cayuga Organics, where I bought one of every kind of grain, delighted to find rye berries that they don’t often bring.

Pausing for carrots (I like knowing I have the carrot tops in case I run out of parsley),

ramps and rhubarb at Wilklow Orchards,

I arranged all the beautiful things from the Grand Army Plaza market on the kitchen table: lilacs and green wheat, carrots, grains, ramps, rhubarb, asparagus, Evolutionary Organics eggs, scallions, and Milk Thistle whole milk, almost everything I needed for a “bowls of grain” party Sunday night.

I peered at the buds of the asparagus,

the different colors of the grains,

and headed out again toward the outdoor Brooklyn Flea at Ft. Greene, where I found green roof trays,

letters to spell all kinds of words,

vintage glass,

and skeletal outdoor furniture.

A little later, I decided upon the yellow dress to be the woman in the yellow hat at a Derby Day party—it makes me happy to see everyone wearing beribboned, rosy hats.

Just before the party, I stopped in to Studiofeast‘s Korean BBQ event,

a nice bookend to a week that began with catching up with my friends Ethan and Catherine at a Korean restaurant,

and Mike was, as usual, competently plating beautiful food (he also cooks in A Razor, A Shiny Knife).

Sunday morning I picked up a croissant, warming it in the oven, making a pocket to spread with homemade butter and place a bit of chocolate inside for a pain au chocolat (I like these better in the classic croissant crescent).

The decorative green wheat on the kitchen table that I had found at Saturday’s market reminded me to begin cooking,

and so I simmered rice for pudding with heady vanilla beans.

Slowly, I created the bowls of whole grains I have been dreaming about: wheat berries simmered for an hour, then stirred with balsamic and sautéed red chard (these do not have to be soaked, ratio is 1:3 grain: water).

Then, green freekeh (roasted spelt) that does not need to soak (1:3 grain: water) simmered for twenty minutes with sautéed carrots and flowering broccoli.

Soaked brown spelt (about two hours, 1:3) simmered for about 45 minutes before meeting roasted spring asparagus and big, snowy pieces of chevre.

Farro’s sweetness (soaked three hours, 1.5:4, simmered 45 minutes) heightened with the slivered dried plums, chopped almonds, and roasted fennel.

Lastly, the rye berries (soaked four hours, 1:3, cooked 45 minutes) took to the ramps and glistened with oil.

Just as I was finishing the rye berries, my friends began to arrive, and Sarah, Fil, Kirstin, Noah, and Karen were all game for the different textures of each grain (the brined pork tenderloin also worked, was passed separately). They are all, by the way, lovelier than this—I was enjoying their company too much to take a proper picture.

For dessert, I spooned poached rhubarb over the rice pudding, and loved how these smart people filled the warm kitchen with their wit and laughter.

This morning, I glanced at the chive flowers in the windowsill, in various stages of bloom,

slipped one into the remainder of the rye berries with scrambled market eggs,

and then ate it (that’s the best sort of flower) and in a playful, warm way, it was all yellow.