I woke up this morning and rushed to the refrigerator, smiling to see the blue and pink eggs from chickens I watched peck around Emily and Jeremy’s yard this weekend next to a gallon of raw milk.

Reassured the weekend in the Berkshires wasn’t all a lovely dream, I scrambled a few eggs slowly and thought about how extraordinarily lucky I am that Emily’s father—who seems in the middle of all sorts of useful projects, like working on bringing Internet access to more of the town—found this blog, forwarded the url to Emily, who wrote me a kind and intriguing note about the life she has created with her family in Southfield, Massachusetts, inviting me to visit Barking Dog Farm (I’ll share their new site address soon).

In the large yard behind the house, flowers grow tall,

(I especially like these, that look to me like firefly orbs)

and wild arugula grows between beds of the vegetable garden with borage,

squash blossoms (I learned from a CSA farmer at dinner that the blooms attached to the squash are female)

tomatoes still green,

baby lettuces that made a soft salad,

blueberries that will darken,

and serious rhubarb plants.

On the other side of the yard, their two dozen happy chickens were roaming,

and I followed Emily and Jeremy back to their chicken house.

They have all different kinds of chickens,

that lay in a house with one wall panel from boxes of grapes they bought and pressed last year,

and then there’s Handsome the Rooster, who can be testy.

Fortunately, they have an impressive (and suitably intimidating) pitchfork to keep Handsome in line, that also happens to be useful for digging fingerling potatoes,

that were cooked and tossed with herbs and butter and joined by baby zucchini from the garden,

and then there was the best chard I’ve ever tasted (Jeremy explains below) and a fish stew with clams, mussels, and Red Striper. Jeremy is a chef and the owner of Fire Roasted Catering, so there was an intense and consistent level of really excellent cooking all weekend.

Emily began the plum tatin before dinner,

and unmolded it perfectly a bit later—

The night ended with tastings of dandelion wine and Jeremy’s tart hard cider and smooth apple brandy, and the next morning I woke up to find Emily making crumpets in her handmade Italian tins formed for that purpose:

And the crumpets were the base for eggs Benedict with a Prosecco hollandaise sauce—

this is how yellow hollandaise becomes with fresh eggs and yes, those are the orangest yolks I’ve seen.

There was a pressed cream spread Emily made topped with jam,

and then we were off to visit Blue Hill farm (this is the real one), where one of Jeremy’s brothers farms.

Thistle abounds,

and the farm goes on and on,

to mobile chicken coops (these are neat),

beautiful pigs of a heirloom breed that make you smile, near the cows (the goats were hiding),

all on a farm that truly looks like this.

We went for ice cream and cheese (at Rubiner’s) in the town of Great Barrington and walked through gardens with friends of theirs, and I really didn’t want to leave.

Emily and Jeremy sent me back to Brooklyn with bottles of Jeremy’s good cider, raw milk (you know how I consider this a necessity), and a dozen of those beautiful eggs.

The best part is that not only do I now consider them friends (they have a place to stay in Brooklyn), but I can support them in their new venture—a local butcher shop in Great Barrington.

In late August (the 22nd, to be exact), the two will host a fundraising dinner for the shop at their farm with a menu that includes, among other things, rooster ravioli, a rhubarb cocktail, and their own salami.

How nice to think we can, all of us, nurture small businesses into being; let me know in the comments or by email if you would like to go to the dinner too, and I’ll make sure you have all the details.

I imagine that, like me, you’ll find Southfield and the hosts charming and the area very difficult to leave…

Last week’s New York adventures began with drizzling rain and delicious cupcakes at Royale—chocolate with sea salt icing is worth a trip to the neighborhood.

And clear orb-like containers protect the small cakes as you bring them with you into whatever weather outside (here, Alice and Jess smile at the cupcake box that did almost glow as we carried it back to the Games for Change conference).

When the drizzle disappeared, the sun shone on produce at the Union Square and Prospect Park farmers’ markets Saturday morning,

on foraged ramps,

the ends of rhubarb,

tulips, dahlias, hydrangeas,

and edible purple in garlic chive flowers (my favorite) and radishes,

while bundled asparagus stood near a merry band of musicians,

where my friend Eric met me, and then we walked Park Slope, finding another festival called Local Produce that included a rather tall individual and hula hoops,

before heading over to Red Hook for a pickle party.

I met my new friend Colin (he’s lovely), who keeps chickens in his backyard near the lettuces of his garden,

a choice I think Eric should imitate when he moves to Philadelphia (and, ultimately, the Philadelphia suburbs).

Partnering with Eric’s friend Zed (yes, that’s his real name), we created a traditional Chicago dog base to showcase the homemade pickles,

as Korean barbecue production began outside—I thought the marinade was perfect, though it is, apparently, still being tweaked:

Much later, squid caught by a late arrival to the party cooked in a cumin marinade and was scissored, all of us pulling it apart in the light of a headlamp (as though spelunking new grilling territory),

and then Eric and Zed directed our path toward Williamsburg, where we discovered the Green Balloon Experiment,

and less cryptically, equally artistically, the next morning, I discovered the incredible detail work at beautiful old houses in Prospect Lefferts Gardens (PLG), a historic area of Brooklyn, on their neighborhood tour with proud owners describing restoration processes and their pride in these streets of brownstones, and limestones,

and so many roses…

More images from the trip in the Flickr set.

insisting you notice her even as she sweeps grandly away, trailing drops across leaves,

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—

It’s been a week, and I’ve missed writing here, so this is a longer post below. I hope that all of you are having wonderful days—

Last Wednesday, my friend Dianna showed me the community garden in South Beach. With retro signs (community gardens are quietly beginning to be called Victory Gardens again across the United States) and a convenient location in the South of Fifth section, the garden boasts a waiting list years long and acts as a quiet hub for energetic locals.

An ideal way to find people who share your concern for thoughtful food,

in a way that Dianna’s Mr. Cecil approves.

Thursday night I flew toward another community garden in Portland, Oregon.

After Friday morning pastries from Boulangerie in the Northwest section (skip the croissants and tend toward the more complicated offerings), I unwrapped a pork belly banh mi off the Bunk Sandwiches board—

with perfectly toasted bread, melting pork belly, the right sort of red sauce, cilantro, and julienned carrots, perhaps the best sandwich of my life.

And so I fell silent for part of the Friday drive with my beautiful sister Kat to the Erath and Ponzi vineyards near to Portland,

where even Erath’s Pinot flight (the Reserve Pinot Gris that is only sold at the winery is lovely) was no match for Kat’s homemade cherry kombucha, and we headed out the next morning for other healthful local food at the Portland Farmers’ Market with Reid and their friend Nathania,

to marvel at incredible morels,

unusual snow morels (that almost look sculpted),

music all around,

prepared market food like asparagus pesto and bacon on a bagel, and breakfast burritos wrapped in fresh, thin tortillas.

Full of families visiting, eating, laughing, the Pickelopolis stand awed younger market shoppers,

baskets of rhubarb waited to be stewed, roasted, and baked into crumbles and pies, jams,

and Ranoculus and purple flowers carried the day.

Close to purple flowers, bundles of purple asparagus waited,

though we opted for local fried asparagus from Burgerville, the In-n-Out chain of the Pacific Northwest, (pick off the batter and dip the spears in the included aioli,)

and crossing the St. John bridge, we picked lettuces and onions from Kat and Reid’s plot in the community garden (I resisted picking dandelions).

The two explain what they’ve planted:

and we peered closer at the potato plants,

peas on a trellis Reid has devised,

soft lettuces glowing in the sun that hits parts of their plot,

and then Reid appreciated the smell of the freshly-dug onions in the backseat all the way to the Oregon coast, where even toddlers skate,

and the trees stand tall,

covered with moss,

and we waded over to the side where smaller waves washed into the shore,

and held forth with a picnic of crusty market bread, herbed chevre, wine, olives, and strawberries,

before returning to Kat and Reid’s apartment in Portland to simmer those morels in cream, sauté fiddlehead ferns and nettles with their onions, and roast parsnips, delighting in the way foods from this moment in the season play off each other.

Sunday, I visited Kat working at Cacao (where she introduced me to a fabulous new chocolate bar that tastes of blood oranges) and sipped drinking chocolate,

and after she closed the shop, we shared a spicy avocado sandwich with bread that did taste alive along with a bowl of beans, quinoa, and kale at Blossoming Lotus.

As yoga practitioners emerged from class in the adjoining studio, we joined them in breathing deeply as sisters and even closer friends…