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…

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…