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…

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2. fresh like frilled linen
3. rosy gardens in Brooklyn

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…

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1. sainted yogurt, salted chard
2. a justified and ancient grain in rotund squash
3. you are awesome and beautiful

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…

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3. rosy gardens in Brooklyn

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.

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1. you are awesome and beautiful
2. bargaining for potatoes
3. sunday supper at salt water farm

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…

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2. make mine spekuloos
3. petite friture and a chair by the sea

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.

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1. chicharrones, alliums, an opened garden
2. the market dressed in spring
3. a path strewn with yellow flowers

and on Friday, sun filled the patio of Song Thai, where Kevin, Nika, Liza and I toasted to spring holidays (to be clear, Nika was celebrating with pineapple juice) with a daunting amount of lunch specials,

and all the neighborhood trees opened into full bloom as the church bells rang through the weekend,

carrying me toward the farmers’ market on Saturday morning in Grand Army Plaza,

where I found chicharrones from Flying Pigs Farm,

shiny on the inside,

and that secret wild emblem of spring, ramps, that I sautéed into orzo with flowering kale and a poached egg for brunch with LJ and Solana.

On Sunday, Daryn and Marcy opened the garden and created a wonderful Easter table as we sat in the afternoon sun (my delightful new friend Sam took this and the next image),

and we only rose from the table to take calls from our families on the green grass (I’m wearing a vintage dress with lilies from around World War II thrifted at the Brooklyn Flea)

Marcy (who has a lovely food blog) made biscuits to be spread with local fruit preserves,

and a garden frittata filled with greens along with asparagus, “peanut” potatoes from Union Square Greenmarket, and roast lamb studded with garlic.

As since it was a perfect Easter brunch, we experimented with dyes on eggs, of course, creating purple from red and blue,

and instigating a Peeps War,

but these two were lovers, not fighters, and wouldn’t impale the other with their matchstick swords.

Solana created an especially religious egg,

and smiled at the places Sunday adventures have taken us,

and I had to leave to create chilled pea soup (recipe) topped with guanciale, garlic cream, and a chicharrone in my kitchen,

followed by roast lamb on a risotto with ramps and carrots.

This morning, with the sunrise, I stacked latkes under ramp greens and eggshells filled with scrambled eggs and glowing salmon roe, thinking about baskets and the sweetness of warmer weather, and how we cannot possibly contain the possibilities of spring…

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2. the market dressed in spring
3. sunday supper at salt water farm

The folds in the lilies curved and swooped as I spun the vase on the table,

just as I spun the bowl of white beans last night that I simmered with the rest of the diced tomatoes from the sugo I made on Monday, some chopped lacinato kale, garlic, diced sausage, and Parmesan.

One glorious winter a few years ago, my then-roommate Ben elevated our humble crockpot to a position of honor by creating soup after soup that we would eat throughout a given week.

I miss him, his careful attention to that parade of soups, and that crockpot; this simple soup (still full of flavor without the sausage and Parmesan, in a vegan iteration) reminds me of the many different kinds and colors of good things swirling around me in New York…

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2. kthread cooks: tortilla soup
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I convinced Margaret and her friend Joel, who teaches photography at the University of Buffalo, to stay a few extra days, and when the opera was sold out last night, we decided to have a celebratory dinner at my apartment instead. (I will link to pictures of these two lovely people later as those live on other cameras and in other places.)

We began with Long Island Blue Point oysters,

and I worked on my shucking skills to contain all the oyster liquor,

Then: crispy blinis with smoked salmon, local crème fraîche, and salmon roe while cooking leisurely and talking about students, motivation, and art.

I am extraordinarily lucky to know Galen Zamarra, Executive Chef of Mas (farmhouse) in Manhattan, and asked him how to cook fresh slices of foie gras. His answer (was perfect, of course):

in the pan you sear the foie in, fry thinly sliced shallots in fat until crispy. set them aside. then brown some poached pear…deglaze the pear with aged sherry vinegar. Make a sort of vinaigrette w/ foie fat, pear jus and vinegar to dress mache + shallots…make sure the dressing is cooled before you put it on salad or it will wilt.

Frisée was the best choice for underneath, as I was unable to find mache; I’m proud of this dish, and grateful to Chef Galen for the advice.

Then, I seared flank steak (it looked better than the skirt steak) and stirred wilted escarole with garlic into nutty kernels of farro,

and the earthiness of this dish (simplified from this month’s F&W recipe) helped ground us as we prepped for a party invite that had arrived, like the morning snow, as a gift that afternoon.

Rosie and Faris are really delightful and as much fun as Margaret and Joel, so it was good to be all in the same place as we counted down the seconds. I hope to spend more time in 2010 with all four of them.

The other gift of the day was this dress I happened upon in a store a few blocks away; I do think sequins are appropriate for ringing in a decade,

with blue vintage earrings for a blue moon under my vintage hat from the Brooklyn Flea.

Spending today quietly, I’ve been looking at the beautiful tulips Margaret and Joel brought with them along with their creative energy,

and even in its newness, I can feel how important the year ahead will be for all of us…

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In the morning, it is quiet around our wooded cabins and quiet on the beach.

Yesterday I drove to the Camden Farmers’ Market, noticing the paint wearing away on the road, and smiling as I approached the murmur that always accompanies local food vendors setting up;

next week marks the penultimate market for the season, and wonderful local goods were on offer—I almost hugged this seller for obvious reasons (I am a calcium fiend), and the milk itself is the yellowish color and thickness of fresh cream.

My friend and colleague Keryn arrived and introduced me to the smell of Sweet Jenny,

and in her wonderfully energetic way, began to talk warmly about the dedicated sellers and local festivals—all reasons I’d like to be in Camden more often.

At Peacemeal Farm, I bought tiny brussel sprouts and listened while locals

debated which type of potato was the right choice for specific fish,

near jugs of cider,

papery bouquets,

and tables selling vegetables and wool.

Impossible to pick one of the many colored scarves,

soon dancing began, the music competing with a wandering flutist.

I was more interested in the charcuterie, considering this soppressata and deciding to try the salami with orange peel,

as reaching into the cooler with the beautiful bacon, after making the seller laugh that I had eaten a pig ear sandwich once (he was selling them to feed to dogs).

On the way out, there were baskets perfect for filling with market produce,

and dried arrangements with milkweed,

hard squash and soft pumpkins,

and lovely mushrooms still joined in the large mass they grow in on trees.

Out of the pastries at Atlantic Baking Company,

I picked a swirl that held apples and spices in its crispy layers, and spreading it with local raw butter,

sipping that beautiful raw milk, I headed back to sit and listen to the waves…

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2. children, costumes, leaving Maine
3. the market dressed in spring

Like the grapes’ purplish skin, which slips, the calla lilies swirled around a bowl in autumnal hues,

with nearby bouquets ready for impromptu celebrations of the season’s turn,

and golden sheaves ready for tables and hallways.

Mushrooms spilled out of the baskets,

and big, beautiful porcinis are in season as well;

and with a counter still full of Evolutionary Organics’ tomatoes from this weekend, I skipped that awesome this morning in favor of Adirondack potatoes that I’ll make butter for later tonight…

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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

and nearby were two curiosities: refreshing Mexican Sour Gherkins—a type of heirloom cucumber that sours later, but these have a sweet pop to them now,

and for something slightly different, corn shoots sprouted from popcorn kernels at Windfall Farms have a lingering sweetness at the end, the better to begin this Wednesday morning…

Now I’ll need to devise ways to incorporate both in summer menus—

Related posts:

1. a market to begin the weekend
2. eat your spigariello
3. sparkly morning at the greenmarket

Panzanella, the cheerful name for an Italian leftover bread salad, sounds like the deliberate toss of ingredients at the height of summer, and with this year’s tomato blight, the dish is especially dear.

I tore the bread in pieces, cut an equal amount of very ripe tomato in similar sizes, minced a tablespoon of shallot, salted liberally (this draws the juice from the tomato) and left the flavors to marry in a bowl for half an hour. With a brisk stir, I added in the crumbled bacon and scissored baby leek on top, squeezing in a little lemon.

The transformed bread pillows taste of tomato and rounded shallot, pair well with an icy glass of Sancerre, and make for a meal that quietly rejoices in these flavors. (If you find a lemon cucumber at market, that’s a lovely addition.)

On Saturday, Evolutionary Organics at the Prospect Park Farmers’ Market had a table full of tomatoes in darker hues,

and another stand featured green gauge plums,

still another speckled squash,

and just outside the market, the Treats Truck (@thetreatstruck on Twitter) held wonderful Mexican chocolate brownies—this is a truck to seek out—that preceded a sweeter wafel with spekuloos,

as I explained to the Waffle Truck that the flowers in my market bag were for my talented work colleague Fil,

who was Golden Girl Dorothy that night in the Brooklyn Columbia Waterfront district. Here’s the first part of the pilot episode (the rest of the performance starts here):

And that preceded Calexico’s pork belly torta (waving is my boss Andrew, who is eating with his wife Jenni and baby Emilia, who was an excellent audience member and as in awe of Fil as we were)

and a Sunday of adventures that included dim sum, gastropods I couldn’t identify, a bit of drama at the Tenement Museum, long stretches of walking with a wonderful conversationalist, applied knowledge of appliances, and salted caramel ice cream in Fort Greene…

Related posts:

1. bacon, bourbon, bacorn, and brooklyn
2. make mine spekuloos
3. a power chord

You emerge from the subway into flowers,

and this morning, into the Italian broccoli kin, spigariello.

Ruby crescents gleamed (not sure what I’ll do with these yet),

and I wanted to share this wonderful Evolutionary Organics sign opining the origins of toraziroh.

The white currants I’m still (inexplicably) resisting, but I did buy blackberries for the office from this vendor,

who keeps the leaves in the cherries, which makes me smile.

This afternoon, I met Kushal of Vittana (one of the PopTech 2008 Social Innovation Fellows) for a video on the microfinancing-student-loans-for-the-developing-world company that we’ll post today on the PopTech blog (part of my job is to hang out with amazing social entrepreneurs).

And heading back toward Brooklyn, I found a mobile food vendor, @StreetSweets, I’ve been tracking. The lovely woman inside the cart handed me a card for return visits, saying, “you’re local, right?” (Sweet words for me as I wrap myself in this New York minute.)

A clever cupcake collar kept the vanilla frosting peaks intact as I walked (their frosting is great),

and it didn’t spoil my late dinner of simmered spigariello (simmer 1/2 cup of the stems in stock for ten minutes on med-high, then add the leaves, 1 tablespoon of oil and 1 chopped clove of garlic and stir for about a minute), eggs, and toast.

I closed my eyes, imagined I was in a kitchen in Italy (just outside Urbino, perhaps?), and remembered the first dessert of today—a Ronnybrook Farms’s sample of panna cotta, the firm vanilla custard that is my favorite way to begin or end a summer day…

Related posts:

1. sparkly morning at the greenmarket
2. and dessert will be simple
3. heirloom cucumber and shoots of corn