Leaving Atlanta incredibly early on Saturday a few weeks ago, Karen, Kevin, and I pulled into the incredibly local farmers’ market of Carrboro, North Carolina around noon to meet my sister Kassandra and her boyfriend Sean (here, at left).

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

We found crowder peas and field peas,

beautiful tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers proudly displayed in individual containers from one of the many farmers in the allowed fifty-mile radius of this town within Chapel Hill that set up at the market.

Walking over to the Weaver Street Market food co-op, Kassandra and Sean looked for groceries (they both live in a neighboring area),

and Karen found the Carrboro raw truck to begin neutralizing the roadfood of the past week.

Carrboro is generally good at nurturing health, and Kass and Karen were serious about filling their plates with good food as we sat near happy dogs hoping for dropped food and children learning how to walk,

(this is Karen’s plate) before hugging Kassandra and Sean goodbye and continuing on to an underground Indian dinner in Washington, D.C.

That night, we arrived at an Indian dinner orchestrated by a Jain,

that one of my favorite people, Nina, told us about (I surprised her here with the camera flash),

—and learned that Nina has different spices in her spice box than our host. I actually learned a great deal about making a spice box of one’s own as a way to indicate heritage.

The courses continued, interspersed with commentary on the background on this cooking style, but I was too happy to listen, surrounded by very good friends,

and knowing their friendship, like the bread passed throughout, are what anchors me, wherever I am.

Pausing to remark that sometimes this city surprises us, Karen, Kevin, and I headed back to the quirky Tabard Inn, where we prepared for the final leg of the drive back to Brooklyn…

I am surrounded by tall trees I can see from windows all around the cabin in Santa Cruz, but early in the morning, birds tap at the windows, urging me out into the day and toward even larger trees—

butterflies flutter about too, landing where I can watch them slowly open their wings slightly, drawing me outside to watch them alight on branches and plantings,

and then I do wander into the woods, passing fruited trees,

pausing for church flea markets like this one in Felton, California,

with homemade candles,

all manner of miscellany,

and aqua wine glasses that I felt the cabin needed in her kitchen cabinets (quite worth the expenditure).

And then I pass into Henry Cowell State Park to visit a spell with old-growth redwoods, stately in their bark of many colors,

fielding avian interruptions as I walk and birds hop on close posts, anxious to talk (my friend Karen, who knows this area of California well and cultivates a bird following, would enjoy these discussions).

The Zayante Indians once lived in the area, and the trees are between 1400 and 1800 years old; their majesty defies capture, as the trees twist away from the camera,

and I cannot show you the bits of softly falling leaves in the light,

I can only suggest the way a stand of trees seem to bend into each other, conspiratorially.

When I have looked up for a long while, I go to find spongy moss growing on logs,

the plants growing at the base of trees, spotlighted as sun filters in through serious branches,

and, my mind quieted, I look back over my shoulder as I leave these trees that will stand resolute, grandly implacable, the same way they will stand when I inevitably return, again and again…

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.

Do you ever crave colors? Tonight, I turned to the stove knowing only that the pasta began with purple.

Soon, slender purple kale stems slicked with olive oil rested on top of strands laced with minced raw garlic from purplish paper shells, roasted cauliflower, and Italian tuna packed in oil from an oblong tin, a treasure from the cupboard.

This particular purple kick can be traced to a fish taco on Saturday at the Brooklyn Flea, where purple cabbage was a vehicle for tomatillo and crema sauces—I consider the fish taco my lucky flea market charm that led to a handmade vintage dress in a piscine pattern (I’ll point it out in a future post).

Heading into Manhattan, I watched as words floated in the rain as this artist set up mobiles in Union Square, the adjectives attaching themselves fleetingly to tourists as they ducked past, and I walked into the wholly wonderful new film about fantastic foxes that felt as vintage as that dress.

On Sunday, I stepped past Sweetgums in their frantic final burst of color,

marveling at the difference a side makes (I tend to like the B side of leaves),

and the fruit that I have never understood.

In DUMBO in Brooklyn, still suffering from lobster withdrawal from my stay in Maine, I yielded to lobster grits at the Red Hook Lobster Pound stand.

And looking at this order much like the red and yellow sides of leaves, I saved the lobster pieces for last, eating the golden grits around them bound with butter and Parmesan.

Now I sit and mull the Thanksgiving menu for next week here in Brooklyn, sorting complementary colors for the full spectrum of food cravings I expect to arrive for a holiday focused on food, the family we inherit, and the family we choose…

I spent yesterday walking Brooklyn, admiring costumed children celebrating Halloween,

concentrating on painting pumpkins and unwrapping candy,

while their parents picked gourds to decorate tables and Brooklyn stoops,

as the foliage in New York began to look like the Maine leaves of last weekend.

In Camden, Maine for the PopTech 2009 conference, I found it hard not to stop and reflect when the afternoon light outlined edges.

Every street has a brilliant tree, inviting long walks to find more.

Last Sunday, on Ethan and Rachel‘s good advice (they were incredible livebloggers for PopTech 2009), I drove from Camden to Belfast, Maine, about half an hour away.

I passed through Lincolnville Beach, with its blue, blue water and sat in the quiet,

then happened upon raw milk near happy chickens running around a large yard.

Fortified, I arrived in Belfast and ordered a lobster melt (I would recreate with: thick slices of toast, lobster piled high, a dollop of homemade aioli to cook through, slight grating of Parmesan, all broiled for a few minutes with tomatoes, if desired),

then walked the Belfast shops before opening the door of Scoops and Crêpes (I join Ethan and Rachel in highly recommending), filled with families sharing sundaes, walls papered with drawings, and long menus of crêpes, ice cream specials, and flavors.

This is the turtellini, a warm popover with pecans and two scoops (pumpkin ice cream instead of vanilla) under chocolate and butterscotch sauces.

Delighting in the difference between well-preserved and precious towns, I kept pulling over on the way back to see what was shining on the side of the road.

And with a last lobster roll on Monday, I left coastal Maine,

chasing the colors back, that subtle trick played by Fall…