As summer gives way to autumn, the foods transition too—lately, I’ve roasted portobellos with tomatoes and cauliflower, adding grainy mustard and arugula to the toasted brioche bun (now that we’re more likely to turn the oven on).

And this recipe for a grape cake finds use for the Concord grapes now at the Grand Army Plaza and Union Square greenmarkets, also yielding a grape syrup I find lovely for stirring into a glass of cava.

For a little party on Sunday that celebrated fried green tomatoes, I also made a peach pie, filling the crust with spiced yellow peaches,

making pimento cheese (a classic sandwich spread in the U.S. South),

and an hour later, pulled a bubbling pie out of the oven, proudly smiling at the lattice crust that Kevin helped fold (seems art school prepares you for working with all sorts of textiles).

On Labor Day, we all walked through costumed marchers in the West Indian Day Parade as it dispersed around Grand Army Plaza,

feeling a bit like the bright figures might be apocalyptic messengers or heralds that belong atop Grand Army’s triumphant arch,

and Kevin and Nora trailed behind, talking,

as Elle dragged Baratunde ahead of the group,

until Baratunde considered starting a relationship with Nora’s purse.

Almost at our destination: Sweet Revenge, for a holiday pig roast, Kenyatta convened us on a stoop.

Tricia introduced us all to the gracious Ricardo, who owns Pilar (the nearby Cuban “eatery”) with his wife, and who was in charge of the pigs being roasted.

Kevin’s friend Michael was the hand model for these empanadas with chorizo and potato that we ate while counting the hours,

as Tricia and Baratunde danced in the sand,

(and Tricia danced joyously throughout, really,)

interrupted only by the tending of the coals and finally, the delicious meat was portioned out and served in a wonderful swirl of people and Mojitos and toasts to a memorable summer behind us.

Still not quite ready to let it go, a warm afternoon yesterday led me to celebrate the coming cooler days with the crispy crust of homemade fried chicken and think about all the recipes ahead…

Zsa Zsa had patriotically painted her toes and her fingers for the holiday,

and with her brother Roman, sister Madeline, and her mom (my friend Margaret), we all watched the parade at Wilder Ranch yesterday at high noon.

The park was outfitted for the year 1910 for “an old-fashioned Fourth of July” celebration,

and Suffragettes marched with banners,

and signs and chants, demanding their right to vote,

and drummers and little red wagons marched close after—I think this woman below turned an actual flag into a tunic, and I salute her literal interpretation of the day’s dress.

One small DFW-ish note: The Wilder Family houses in the park are preserved to how they may have looked around the turn of the twentieth century, but it’s unclear to me why the celebration is fixed in the year 1910. My personal theory is that the docents are really into dressing up like Suffragettes, and I can support that.

Exchanging 2010 money into 1910 currency, we bought popcorn first,

and threaded our way past the decorated bikes and lawn chairs,

as everyone gathered for the addresses:

the flag raised to “The Star-Spangled Banner,” a stirring oration, and the reading of the Declaration of Independence by Bill Fitzgerald.

Margaret’s children disappeared into the giant plant (that eventually returned them),

and we visited the animals grazing, the chickens,

and deferred the wagon rides until later—

since the dust the wagons picked up was no match for Roman anyway,

who raced around the picnic blanket with a streamer like a torch,

while Margaret and Zsa Zsa were examining the palm leaf plates (verdict: we like them).

It’s wonderful to be able to make food for children without worrying about toning down flavors or that they won’t eat healthy foods (excellent parenting by Margaret and Rudolph), and we all ate salad with a balsamic dressing, bocconcini, and peaches along with snap peas, edamame, and chevre. The girls are vegetarians; Margaret and I tore prosciutto over ours.

And a pesto pasta with tomatoes and summer squash kept all afternoon as we played lawn games and wandered the property.

Madeline helped Roman with his spinner, as big sisters do,

and he sat still for just a moment,

very like the conductor leading the musicians in the Society Orchestra yards away from our picnic.

Later, it was hard to tell which side would win the Tug of War,

and I looked at the utensils in the Wilder Ranch kitchen, thinking about vintage kitchen tools.

Shortly before a round of the Cake Walk, Margaret modeled the family’s new bonnet,

as the docent explained the history of the tradition and the numbered tags were sorted out.

The family that cakewalks together…

(To Margaret’s mom: Hello! These two are especially for you.)

And the poised Madeline struck a pose as the music ended; soon we were off to the next event of the day, the destination for the second batch of pesto pasta:

a barbecue at Nadine and Jason’s lovely house, where the sun shone brightly on the back patio.

With a table full of good side dishes, I knew immediately that these guests took food as seriously as our hosts,

who were utilizing all the shelves for different meats in their new smoker (Nadine is separating the excellent ribs here—she’s fabulous, and you’ll likely see her again on this blog).

I believe these are the tomatoes with burrata (others had mozzarella) that I returned to, sipping a limoncello margarita,

and Mike arrived with homemade potstickers filled with pork and crunchy bean sprouts,

before a wealth of desserts appeared: mascarpone cheese with fruit in a balsamic sauce near Nadine’s chocolate Guinness ice cream that went very quickly,

and everyone had the peach ice cream with big chunks of peaches, another perfect dessert for the day,

before the bread pudding with cherries and whipped cream appeared on the counter.

It was a big, merry crowd for this party that was also the housewarming no one wanted to leave, and by the time I left with the Rosas family, it was almost dark enough for the fireworks.

In the most exciting display I’ve experienced in recent years, soaring hisses and snaps crackled from all directions as we watched the big color explosions from the beach—many immediately overhead, some lit just meters behind us, others set off across the water—all a surprise in a cacophony that continued into the night.

Such a colorful day full of small, funny moments with one of my favorite families (and part of my Santa Cruz family)…

More images in the Flickr set.

The red blooms of Bottlebrush trees (Callistemon rigidus) bloom everywhere in Santa Cruz right now, and I’ve been inspired to cook red and orange foods in my cabin kitchen, like young dandelion greens with bacon and spring garlic (I added poached eggs for a frisée aux lardons riff),

steel-cut oatmeal with local apricots,

and migas with local eggs, Early Girl tomatoes, avocados, and squash blossoms.

When I first moved into the cabin a few weeks ago, it rained in the mornings on the garden’s roses,

and raindrops sparkled on sloping plant leaves.

Lately, the sun has been out early, like these bright flowers at the Cabrillo Farmers’ Market last Saturday morning,

where local producer Farmhouse Culture set up small barrels of tempting sauerkraut (I am partial to their garlic kraut that I like as a probiotic beginning to the day’s cooking—I haven’t started taking their popular kraut juice shots yet).

Meeting my friend Margaret and her family at the market, Roman decided he wanted an elevated view as he ate his carrot (Margaret is such a fun mom),

and I took an aerial view of my soba noodles with scallion sauce later that afternoon, grating carrots over daikon, adding sprouts,

and taking the bowl with some quick pickles I made shortly after to Renata’s house for a women’s potluck, I was surrounded by company as good as the food they had brought—artichoke bread from Pescadero,

salad with blossoms and vegetable curls,

and all the conversation that went on for hours,

with the fourteen of us preparing plates and then sitting in a circle, talking,

pausing only, really, for dessert (this is a beautiful gluten-free bavarian tart that a feng shui accountant brought).

On Sunday, I pulled off Highway 1 for local cherries for the drive to Los Angeles,

marveling, as I always do, at the views around Big Sur,

and smiling to see my good friends Ben and Jeremy, who pulled a homemade vegan pizza out of the oven soon after I arrived at their East L.A. apartment.

We reminisced and caught up on the news about our shared Charlottesville friends, and Ben told me about his spring semester classes that are ending and how the upcoming summer semester looks, calm as he always is, with much to impart to his fortunate students.

I woke to a quiet Memorial Day morning in their neighborhood before heading to Laura’s apartment in Venice,

where LJ joined us later in the day and found her new hula hoop (in appropriate holiday colors).

Laura effortlessly made a simple syrup for mojitos with mint from her herb box that we sipped from Mason jars,

while she added the crucial ingredient for the shrimp boil: Old Bay,

that did give the shrimp and stock a Maryland flavor,

and Laura, LJ, Allison, Jessica, Daniel, and I dipped bread in that nice stock and told memorable stories over the shrimp, andouille sausage, potatoes, and corn (that was even better in leftovers the following night).

Tuesday, Laura introduced me to Venice Beach Wines for lunch, and her sandwich with brie and grapes was almost as beautiful as mine,

with whitefish and pickles, another reason it was hard to leave yesterday morning, knowing how much of the menu I still needed to try (and Laura is always working on new projects and incubating new ideas, which is inspiring).

Back in my Santa Cruz cabin late in the afternoon, the spider webs began to glow on the deck as the sun faded;

and I made a sunny provençal sauce (my recipe) with Happy Dan chicken, overripe tomatoes from the market, local Sonoma sea salt, Gayle’s olive sourdough for the rest of the sauce,

that held a splash of Salinas, California’s Morgan Winery Pinot Gris.

I raised my glass to Louise Bourgeois (video, images), known for her spider sculptures, who died over the weekend at 98,

and I wished for the strands of my life to yield art as nearby spiders continued to spin furiously…

On Saturday morning, red leaves of Park Slope streets filtered the sun,

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.

Easter weekend cooking began with Thursday night linguine, an alfredo sauce that gave a sheen to peppery smoked Maine salmon my friend Keryn brought when she visited, peas, pearl onions, and a grating of nutmeg,

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…