Of all the Washington, D.C. places to brunch, Tabard Inn excels at being that perfect place of quiet with green vines climbing the brick patio walls, tables nicely spaced, and warm, homemade doughnuts as the (expected) immediate order that arrive with whipped cream and berries.

(Note: This is the last of eight posts from this road trip. You might start at the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh post.)

Karen ordered French toast as we sat in the garden (a good way to end the pancake quest),

and I had the Eggs Benedict with housemade Tasso ham (harder to find in Brooklyn) as we recalled all our favorite moments of the week on the road.

We then set out for the Dupont Circle farmers’ market, watching the usual stranger interactions along the way (intersections are awkward in this place),

and crossed the circle to the busy vendors selling peaches and goat cheese.

At a great loss to Miami, my wonderful friend Holly (at right) now lives in the area, and she guided us to her favorite sellers and their finest varieties, bubbling over with her infectious zeal for local food.

And, just a few hours later, we arrived back in Brooklyn.

I stood with Karen (after she helped me unpack the car) and we smiled at the thousands of miles we had driven together, at the gifts of the road, and stories we’ll tell of our adventures,

especially as only Karen’s suitcases are in focus in this image, ready for the next time the road calls and we answer…

A few months ago, I moved to a little cabin in Santa Cruz to spend the summer on a personal sabbatical (more in my original May post), and July 31st, I left the redwoods and my Stellar Jay friends to return to Brooklyn.

Above is what the inside of the cabin looked like every morning as I peeked out of the sleeping loft around five and climbed down the wooden ladder to begin the day.

On my last afternoon in Santa Cruz, Margaret (who has become one of my closest friends) raved about a community stone event happening in a nearby neighborhood, and walking through the backyard gate, I smiled as the stone artisan related the blissful attributes of bright orange stone Margaret chose.

Trays of beads were organized by color (Santa Cruz is a town of rainbows),

and Kevin listened as the energy of the pink stone he drew out of the “magic stone bag” was explained.

Margaret’s children were running about with joy as usual, and Zsa Zsa had chosen blue as her color of the day—her nails and stone necklace match, of course.

From blue—or maybe Zsa Zsa was really an indigo girl—the color aqua appeared in the form of a fresh egg, to the general excitement of those around the chicken run.

Kevin was perhaps channeling the dark pink stone energy when he cradled a chicken in his arms and had a moment. (I left him to commune with the chicken. These things happen in this town.)

Shortly after I said goodbye to Margaret’s family and a really lovely few months, Kevin and I went to watch aspiring surfers laze in the calm afternoon water as we napped in the sun and then drove to San Jose, where I began the drive to Brooklyn the following morning.

Thank you, thank you Santa Cruz for a summer I’ll remember, and one that is helping shape the path ahead…

Every week this summer, the weekly salon and market at Fairy-Tale Farm has grown more magical, with gleaming potatoes two Thursdays ago,

that Margaret’s daughter Zsa Zsa deftly bargained for, as Roman contemplated biscuits and Madeline watched people enter the summertime salon.

We all ate a market dinner of biscuits and honey (pictured is my instructor in how to ladle honey),

salad with dried fruit, rice with almonds, and Persian vegetables,

from a table that always seems to replenish itself until everyone is fed.

A soft, sweet plum cobbler was, if possible, even nicer that the plum pie with a heart crust a few weeks back,

and Margaret’s son Roman made accordian music with a new friend,

while Zsa Zsa related her motto for Fairy-Tale Farm (“where all your dream come true,” I think it goes),

and Madeline continued her advanced training in chicken support, solemnly holding one under each arm.

And then Zsa Zsa’s face appeared, curiously, in orange,

and the girls worked together to make a chicken foot shape.

Margaret and I talked, hosts Karsten and Debora were their usual thoughtful, kind selves, and corsages were soon to be created on the craft table,

a nice activity to complement the crafters who bring their wares to the market each week.

Madeline smiled at her new necklace before making corsages with Zsa Zsa,

and I thought about how nice it is to be surrounded by the creative energy of Margaret, her children, and everyone else here each Thursday night on the farm, all of us grateful that Debora and Karsten open their space to the Santa Cruz community…

With only a vague idea of what Saturday might bring, I made a speck sandwich (this is the beautiful La Quercia Speck Americano you may be able to find near you) after yoga and waited for my wonderful friend Margaret and her family to arrive.

Another stop in downtown Santa Cruz for our friend Stephanie and her daughter Amanda, and then our boisterous carful was off to Pescadero for the town’s annual day of barn sales.

Amanda, Zsa, and Madeline whispered in the backseat until we arrived,

we all smiled at the day ahead,

and especially as Roman freestyled down the road,

as we approached the goats and dairy shop at Harley Farms.

There were goats to meet (I think this is Tony the Goat with Zsa Zsa),

near a great sign for edible flowers,

and my favorite blue edible flower, borage,

was growing near the fence that was painted (like the buildings) with goat cheese, a usual paint choice in the nineteenth century.

Upstairs at Harley Farms they hold monthly farm dinners,

and five courses begin after you tour the farm (sounds lovely).

Close to the goats at Harley Farms, large fields of vintage objects awaited—

Stephanie and I found an old pressing machine,

Margaret showed Roman a dragon’s flight path,

Stephanie found books for a side project she intends to pursue (Stephanie pursues things with admirable and directed intention),

and Zsa Zsa, Amanda, and Madeline negotiated for Barbies. (I’d like Summer Splendor Barbie’s outfit, especially the hat.)

Pescadero is known for Arcangeli’s Grocery and the artichoke bread they sell warm with a crispy crust and whole artichokes baked inside, and I now understand why the bread is worth the drive.

I’ll likely always remember standing in the sun on Pescadero’s main street with Margaret and Stephanie, wise women and mothers both, tearing off pieces, dipping the bread in a spread of artichokes and sun-dried tomatoes, and listening to bluegrass as the girls continued the Barbie negotiations…

Later that afternoon, I drove to Los Angeles to celebrate the day with other amazing women in my life. Saturday night we gathered at fire-station-turned-bar Edendale Grill to raise a glass to LJ’s next adventures (Laura has just begun a fun new gig befitting her passion for all things pop culture).

On Sunday morning, Laura and I were happy to hear Leftover Cuties playing the Santa Monica Farmers’ Market (video I took of them covering “At Last” a few months ago), the lead singer with her signature apple maraca that seemed particularly appropriate to the venue.

Children danced while their parents watched and talked at this very social market,

Laura and I did an initial market lap, comparing peaches, wondering about these artichokes, which are trimmed for steaming a day ahead of the market, revealing their purplish insides.

Laura’s friend Amy met us soon after,

and I sipped a coconut (the Planet Raw food stand will later halve the fruit so you can spoon out the lovely coconut meat),

and we made our way through daunting omelettes.

We watched passersby eat juicy pluots from the closest stand and stopped for a few on our way out of the market,

and I watched the sweet drummer let kids bang the Leftover Cuties’ drum kit, crashing away into the late morning as Laura and I strolled back to Venice for a beach day and Broadway night, catching the cast of “In the Heights” at Pantages Theatre with LJ.

Over dinner, we talked of the New York that Laura frequently visits, the one LJ soon returns to for a month or so, and the one I drive back toward in just a few weeks…

Last night was another magical Thursday summer salon at Fairy-Tale Farm in Santa Cruz,

and the crafts table was soon crowded with feather artists and those skilled in the ways of pink fur.

Margaret’s daughter Zsa Zsa (wearing a pink dress that matched her zebra jacket) showed us her flower clip creation,

and I noticed the wonderful sticker affixed to the front of the rickshaw that is a new addition to Fairy-Tale Farm (what a great Santa Cruz organization name).

And then, as the Old Spice Man, who owned the Internet this Wednesday, might say, I’m on a rickshaw.

And then my friend Mike was on the Fairy-Tale Farm rickshaw (and later, so was the open source coder, angling her guitar to play from the cart).

The farm market continues to be part of the salons, and I was happy to have fresh strawberries and butter lettuce,

as well as Aslan’s wild nettle pesto and raw goat’s milk cheese with herbes de Provence and lavender. I always trust people with fantastic millinery and retro apron skirts, and Aslan also makes olallieberry mead, so I hope her lovely wares will be at the farm market again.

Hosts Debora and Karsten made great rice with pine nuts and almonds along with vegetables and the plum pie was warm,

drawing all of us toward the table near a large basket of plums.

Later, another plum pie, this one with a lattice crust, emerged from the farm kitchen and I cut a slice of that one, catching up with Margaret and Mike on all the Bastille Day antics in town.

Throughout, Madeline revealed herself to be the Chicken Whisperer, holding one, and then another, the new white, and two at once, persuading everyone to walk around with a chicken tucked under an arm.

Margaret pointed out grapes growing on a trellis near the roof, and I knew that Debora and Karsten would continue to surprise as organic curators of this weekly event and their space,

just as Margaret’s son Roman would continue to surprise with his joy at new toys and accessories.

Back in my kitchen, I took my collected treasures from the farm and made a fairy tale of a salad,

breaking the soft lettuce into smaller pieces, tossing the leaves with a little of Sciabica’s olive oil Kassandra thoughtfully brought me from the Embarcadero market last weekend, cutting in strawberries and crumbling in the herbed chèvre,

using the rest of the strawberries this morning on hot biscuits (Mica, this picture is to remedy the regrettable lack of biscuit documentation in the last post),

Both times, while eating the strawberries, I closed my eyes like the crafters last night and reveled in summer…