The road to Maine started in Atlanta, with my sister Kassandra and her husband Sean’s garden spilling over the fence, as the spinach grew thickly near the peppers and watermelons behind their new house.

I drove down to Atlanta after Annie and Andrew’s wedding, and then back up to New York the following day, pulling off the road for this eatery’s encouraging sign:

And then it was off to Maine, and to an island, passing the Coast Guard,

as well as bobbing boats in the harbor as I chatted with Keryn about ferries in the afternoon sun.

Keryn’s friends keep chickens, they couldn’t say exactly how many,

near beautiful male goats that perk up their ears in unison and wander toward you, bells swinging.

On Saturday afternoon, we gathered with their friends on an island beach,

and I learned how to pour coals into the rocks and set the grill cover over, and patiently wait.

As usual, it’s the guys hanging around the grill.

More friends joined us as the sun began to drop…

and there were crazy discoveries to be made in tidal pools (“Look, Mom!”)

and friendships renewed.

My friend Keryn sat serenely as the children ran about, with her usual calm that belies spontaneous dance moves that occur with some regularity while in her orbit.

I had a hard time leaving the beach, watching as we heaped the grill with seaweed, and looking back over my shoulder again at the sunset on the quiet beach.

At the farm Keryn’s friends caretake for, the sunflowers are at their height,

the garlic is drying,

and they sent us back with piles of springy rainbow chard, cucumbers, and tomatoes,

that made beautiful cucumber sandwiches and colorful couscous across the water, back on the Maine mainland, this dreamy area of the country I love to visit…

Related posts:

1. green on and off the island
2. an island of chapels near cannes
3. a return to charming maine

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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On Sunday morning, a few Sundays ago, Keryn and Mike were the perfects hosts, indulging us with Mike’s wonderful pancakes and letting us sleep very late (that’s Kate’s butter, of course).

Note: This is the third in a series of three posts about Maine. You might start with the first or second post.

Keryn likes her pancakes with blueberries throughout and on top (and with these native wild blueberries, I heartily agree with her preference),

and Fil and I smiled at all the fun of the day before.

Late that afternoon, Keryn arranged the perfect spread of charcuterie and cheese, and a little while later, we were off to the ever-crowded Primo for their oyster night.

On Monday, I went foraging with my friend Evan on an island, gathering berries,

happening upon chanterelles,

and some of the rose hips that grow all over the area.

Monday night, Keryn (who even manages to rock rain boots) drove us to Ladleah and Shane’s,

where Ladleah’s gardening skills were in abundant evidence.

Ladleah had made a lovely blueberry buckle for the next morning’s sailing outing,

in a spare moment after making her famous salsa,

and then she showed us her gardens (Ladleah gardens for others as well, so these are her personal gardens that she works on in her free time).

I haven’t seen tomatillos on the vine before,

and Ladleah introduced us to an heirloom cucumber she adores.

We glimpsed the dramatic hanging purple beans,

and the first apples on the tree in the future orchard.

Before we left for dinner, we all smelled the mint on her porch, a scent I now associate with Maine, and its crisp air, and the beautiful people I am lucky to know there.

On our way back to Brooklyn on Tuesday, Fil and I drove through the Berkshires to visit Ethan and Rachel and meet Drew (Ethan drew us a map for the way back and recommended his favorite series of highways).

In their unique and incredible house, we marveled at the view that goes on and on, appropriate for a couple that is wise and witty in equal measure (and one I am excited to return to visit for longer).

Just as Ethan had said, we passed sculptures too intriguing not to stop for,

and we made a note that more exploration is necessary of this place,

and perhaps also of the miniature golf at the Red Rooster Drive-In next time the drive includes these roads…

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3. festive puffed pancakes for shrove tuesday

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…

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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…

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1. bargaining for potatoes
2. you are awesome and beautiful
3. artichokes, breaded and trimmed

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…

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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…

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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…

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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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I heard the sea spray as our little ferry rocked to and fro last week on the way to Île Saint-Honorat.

One of the Lérins islands close to Cannes, Île Saint-Honorat is dotted with small chapels and a modern monastery.

One resident monk (there are thirty in this Cistercian community) was on the ferry with us, perhaps to officiate the service later that afternoon, or returning to tend the island vineyards.

There is a grand archway that stands alone near where the ferry docks, and beyond it lay mostly trees and native plants;

butterflies flutter everywhere in the tall grasses in a way that feels eternal.

Leaving the shoreline,

and the blue, blue water of the Mediterranean,

I ventured into some of the vineyards (please don’t tell the monks),

and then headed toward the abbey beyond.

Somehow, it felt strange to see cacti in this quiet place,

but the island has fended off invaders for centuries, and some paths are pricklier than others;

ducking into the wide space under this tree branch,

I found a startling view.

And then I saw the fortified monastery and took off (it’s probably a lovely swim too) in that direction.

Inside, there are the small openings that let in the breeze,

hint at the blue water surrounding,

a chapel within, beautifully signed,

and the archways provide shade on the lower levels,

but climb the structure’s single spiral staircase for the view from higher archways,

and to see the entire island.

I watched the shadows below, thinking about what it must be like to live as part of the order here,

and to see each afternoon the lavender bend in the wind, filling the air with its peaceful fragrance.

Near the lavender, carefully planted beds flank the path to the abbey,

with leaves shading the walkways,

and I heard the gentle swish of robes before I saw them as time for afternoon service approached. I wandered back toward the ferry, through the archway, past the flowers that seem imbued with meaning.

Noticing an ancient little chapel tucked in near the archway, I thought perhaps with views so grand, only a tiny place to kneel is needed, if only to study the contrast.

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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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On Saturday morning, we drove onto the ferry toward North Haven, an island just across from Rockland,

and Keryn pointed out the other islands as we passed them on our ferry hour.

Once on North Haven, she introduced me to Little Lad’s, the herbal popcorn produced locally that is difficult to stop eating,

and slipped the new album from local band the Toughcats in for our island tour.

We did see traps in driveways,

but more interesting, we read the signs on this community billboard that everyone driving the island passes (the one-way street makes it so), and I noted the invitation at the bottom of the farmers’ market sign, welcoming everyone to buy or sell.

Keryn deftly steered us out to Turner Farm, where farmer Jen Porter (who we saw on the ferry returning from “cow shopping”) moves the greenhouses on skids (the Eliot Coleman way) and we sleuthed which of the greenhouses had been moved that week.

Inside, the greenhouses were warm with the future plantings,

herbs and lettuces small and fragrant (Keryn leaned in to smell the basil),

and sunflower seeds were dark against the leaves.

We found the inspiring garden plans and neatly organized charts with dates and locations,

and I looked again at the green sprouts destined for great things,

learned that even leeks flower.

We walked up the hill to the beautiful posts and beams in the barn being built by John Libby,

and then, strutting among the chickens,

I found Lady Gaga Chicken, holding her own with an impressive head pouf,

while her fellow chickens had beautiful feather patterns (but no feather headdress pouf).

And on we drove to Doreen’s,

where little lambs ran up to meet us,

and one insisted upon being photographed alone (maybe she knew we had just met Gaga Chicken?)

Doreen, who tends her many animals with great affection, took us to her pasture tucked away in the back of the property,

where her goats and kids roam, occasionally corralled by Flossy.

Crunching over green that the goats will eat later this season,

I paused at the deep green moss on overlapping roots,

and Keryn and I were both quiet and thoughtful as we wandered back to the beach crusted with purple shells by Turner Farm.

Back on the mainland that night, Keryn made a lovely risotto with local smoked shrimp and greenhouse pea shoots,

sprinkled salt on top,

and with her husband Mike, we talked of arancini, ferry travel, island exploration, and the greenness of spring in their house.

Related posts:

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2. an island of chapels near cannes
3. sunday supper at salt water farm

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…

Related posts:

1. all for a local butcher shop
2. America Day II: Rock and Roll Dreams Come Through
3. the shore, the yolks, and the brightness

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.

Related posts:

1. treasuring the brooklyn flea
2. all roads lead to brooklyn
3. victorious community gardens

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—

Related posts:

1. after the morning rain
2. canopies of suspended rain drops and culture modding
3. a miami year