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…

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The theme was peacock feathers. And so the programs being powdered (before embossed with a special gun) were cut into feather shapes, secured with a fastener, and then decorated so they could function, cleverly, as a fan in the extreme summer heat.

That night, a few days before the wedding, my youngest sister Kassandra, returned to the house, filled with her amazing friends from all corners of the world wrapping the wedding hotel guest gifts, to regale us with stories of her own about her recent adventures with her fiancé, Sean.

Surprises dictated the week, as a dear family friend continued to cinch the wedding dress in tighter for the big occasion.

The bachelorette party, 14 strong, each shared a story over dinner; Kassandra defended, Sierra winced, and David covered his face.

Until Sierra took her turn and almost made the bride fall out of her chair with laughter.

The bachelorettes called Kassandra ‘The Tay,’ and that became the bride’s codename for the week, adorning cupcakes for the bowling party that followed dinner,

where their bowling warm-ups revealed how many dancers were in the mix.

And how many performers.

We all wore our pink sashes proudly; Kassandra has surrounded herself with a group of individuals that are delightful to be around bowling, dining, or wielding embossing guns.

(Kat took this picture and many below. I’ll indicate her photography underneath; one of her many talents is a very fine way with the camera).

And the following groggy morning (dancing continued late into the night), we all gathered at Kassandra and Sean’s beautiful new house to picnic and toast to the two days ahead.

photo by Katrina Taylor

Following the picnic, the bridal party headed over to set up the venue space and place the bride’s handmade candles and vintage cameras on the tables,

photo by Katrina Taylor

and a few hours later, the rehearsal began.

photo by Katrina Taylor

photo by Katrina Taylor

photo by Katrina Taylor

photo by Katrina Taylor

and Grampa made everyone laugh in agreement at his approval rating for the wedding.

photo by Katrina Taylor

photo by Katrina Taylor

photo by Katrina Taylor

The following morning, the bridesmaids and mother of the bride assembled in her childhood room to pin the veil,

and then we all dressed and met Kassandra, with her wonderful college roommate Caitlin doing her duty and holding the train above the grass,

photo by Katrina Taylor

while I chased antebellum umbrellas across the plantation house’s lawn,

photo by Katrina Taylor

and then dashed off to meet the talented musicians: Amber, who was also the Mistress of Reception Ceremonies (and who you will recall from family holiday videos), and my handsome Facebook husband Stewart Pillow who composes and sings. The two sing well together, which is another happy happenstance of the weekend.

Soon, it was time for Kassandra to take up her bouquet of vintage brooches that our aunt Pamela Aiken created,

photo by Courtney Rosen

and for the exchange of vows and music in a ceremony the two wrote together (including music that Sean composed and his sister played during the procession).

photo by Courtney Rosen

The bride and groom beamed at each other, at the family and friends in attendance, and then entered the hall,

photo by Courtney Rosen

and after dinner, I started the toasts (look how dashing Stewart is at his piano on the left!),

photo by Courtney Rosen

shocking the groomsmen with Kassandra’s impressive pull-up record in elementary school – proof that she has always been fierce.

photo by Courtney Rosen

The dancing went on and on, as it will in a room of dancers and instructors, and the couple ran through sparklers (note Kat’s choice of alternate fiery accessory) to pull away in a beautiful vintage car.

photo by Courtney Rosen

Happy wedding, and happy marriage, Kassandra. Know that no matter what, your bridesmaids are here for you as your special police detail…in sickness and in health, as long as we all can steal mirrored sunglasses off boys…

photo by Courtney Rosen

All the images (except those by Courtney Rosen) are in this Flickr set. Thanks to Kat for taking such stunning photos, as always, and being there for me during the week too.

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On Thursday, to celebrate the last warm day of the season, I convinced Tricia, Dan, and Tarikh to picnic with me in Brooklyn’s Ft. Greene Park.

Tricia sparkled with her wonderful energy as we walked through the crunching leaves,

and met Dan at the monument, where he was waiting with his usual delicious food—

this time, veg sushi with a brilliant dipping sauce (that I sneaked extra spoonfuls of).

Tarikh biked off to find a corkscrew, and we unwrapped my picnic supplies for the occasion: quinoa with squash and harissa, rice noodles with pea shoots and mung bean sprouts tossed with the Momofuku ginger-scallion sauce, which shared plate space next to Dan’s hand-rolled sushi.

It was a day to savor and to wrest the final dregs of summer sunshine, but also a day to embrace new skills—

I am happy to note that all of our picnic was gluten-free (gfree, in common parlance) food, a personal goal for me since I met Dan this spring and learned about his impressive food that is within these parameters.

And we all embraced taking a few hours away from work in the afternoon, to laugh and talk about what the rest of the year might bring… (prediction: likely some wonderful things for these talented three friends of mine…)

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A few weeks ago, my friend Fil and I drove from Brooklyn to Maine, taking an unplanned detour through New Hampshire, where we came upon this farm,

and this roadside restaurant,

which led to a tasting of grape nut ice cream,

and a bucket of native (in this area of the U.S., “native” is used for “local”) chicken and fries that really tasted like potatoes.

Shortly before our destination, we celebrated crossing into Maine with lobster rolls,

and shortly after, we hugged our friends in Camden, watching the light play off the water at a big dinner at a lake house with wonderful people we cannot see often enough.

When I am in Maine, I usually wake with the sun in Keryn and Mike’s cheery sunroom, looking up at the star lanterns and daydreaming about how long I could extend my stay.

When Fil woke we ventured to my favorite store of local products, Farmer’s Fare, and went silent sitting outside, rapt with the crunchy crust of their focaccia,

and the glorious raw milk of my favorite dairy producer in the area, Keene’s.

We made our way to the Camden harbor a bit later, napping in the sun as all good long weekends away require,

and waking, we followed Keryn and our friend Emily to Harbor Dogs,

home of the dog with apple chutney (very good),

and a solid fish taco.

Emily surprised us with an invitation to take our lunch to her family’s boat docked in the harbor,

and she skillfully maneuvered us onto the dock next to the gleaming hull,

and we had such a fun hour talking and laughing in the shiny interior.

For our afternoon adventure, Fil and I decided since everyone had told us we had to visit Beth’s, we should drive out to this expansive market full of local food, (after a brief photo shoot on the lawn with a photographer who approached us admiring Fil’s jaunty hat).

Marveling at the piles of garlic,

enchanted by the fancy cream,

delighted by the real popcorn, we threaded our way down each aisle, stopping to read the signs with personality and stocking up on bacon.

That night, we went to the new Shepherd’s Pie restaurant in Rockport,

and Keryn joined us after a first round of blueberry-rosemary gin cocktails,

and rosy oysters,

leading us around the harbor and back to the house, where we rested for another day of Maine adventures…

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Sunday morning began with my sister Kassandra waking early and a trip to the grocer near my apartment for a few brunch things—some housemade sun-dried tomatoes to go with fresh pear tomatoes, arugula, and buffalo mozzarella (that’s the white) on top of a frittata,

and sugar plums from Red Jacket Orchards that exude a glossy syrup when roasted.

Catching up with my friend Solana over brunch (I’m happy she’s back in Brooklyn) filled my kitchen with laughter, and then she was off into her day, followed by Kassandra, who I see all too infrequently, leaving to drive to Philadelphia for her flight (she was in NJ this week setting a choreography and spontaneously rented a car to drive up for the weekend).

In the quiet kitchen, I turned to making a goat cheese cake for Tricia and Kenyatta‘s afternoon picnic, letting it cool by the open window,

before slicing figs across the top and drizzling it with honey from Brooklyn bees.

Arriving at Fort Greene Park, I found a sprawling group of artists, librarians, researchers, and videographers, everyone new to me and—unsurprisingly for friends of Tricia and Kenyatta—fascinating and creative.

The gracious Tricia poured me a mimosa and smiled with Kenyatta, who was in the center of the group, as I found an unoccupied patch of blanket.

The cake went quickly,

with the beautiful Elle waiting patiently, entranced by squirrels, before neatly nabbing the last slice,

and all too soon, it was time to fold the blankets—like Audrey, I wondered why summer Sundays ever have to end—

but then again, how nice it was to have spent the afternoon reveling with this crew…

More fun images and video in Tricia’s Flickr set—

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After roping a dummy steer the night before, everyone went to sleep early so that we could rise before dawn and head to the zoo,

where Karen’s uncle Steve (also known as El Hefe Mucho at the San Antonio Zoo) has created a really special place that feels much more like walking among the animals. These below were skittish as the light began to steal over the trees,

And Karen and I watched a joey emerge from a mother kangaroo,

amazed to watch the little kangaroo stretch its legs and hop about its business.

Then Karen’s uncle joined us and directed our wanderings,

taking us up close to the elephant being fed,

(elephants are hairier than you think! I discovered while petting this one—thanks to Karen for taking this picture so early in the morning,)

and ushering us inside the hippo exhibit with another keeper,

that we later saw from the outside as a visitor usually does. It’s a beautiful space for these very intense animals, and fun to watch the bright fish swim near the windows.

Reluctantly leaving San Antonio, Karen and I headed out of Texas by way of a small diner far off the highway,

where the pancake quest continued,

I ordered biscuits and sausage gravy,

and then we ordered a slice of each type of pie:

coconut with crunchy bits on top of the meringue,

and chocolate silk, acknowledging that pie for breakfast is an excellent thing.

Driving through Houston we found a building of air,

and we watched as the landscape shifted into the blue of the bayou,

arriving at the famous Columns Hotel in New Orleans that Thursday night.

A meandering walk took us past a cluster of pastel buildings,

a workshop with music as loud as the creative energy waves that rolled over us as we paused,

leading us to happen upon good food and great cocktails (we started with Sazeracs, of course, and then discovered the classic French 75) at Coquette.

The next morning, we recalled sitting on the lively porch for a late round of champagne as we took the stairs at the grand old hotel down to breakfast,

before meeting up with my friend Brian, a wonderful ambassador of community and the goodness of local lore, as we continued our tour of the Deep South, full of things and people that are keepers…

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“Blue!” Karen would say again and again as we drove through Colorado a couple Tuesdays ago, referring to the wonderful shades and shapes of the clouds of Western Colorado, the wide sky an airy tableaux too large to fit in one frame.

(Note: This is the third of eight posts on this recent road trip. You might start at the first or second post.)

We happened upon Ouray, Colorado (learning the town’s pride in being the “Switzerland of America,”)

and glimpsed the windy roads ahead of us on a spectacular drive that I navigated while Karen’s shutter clicked in documentation (I’ll link to her images later),

until we arrived in the Land of Elk and Honey (and had quite the gift shop experience with a clerk pushing whipped chokeberry honey).

Pulling into Durango after the famous Durango Diner had closed, we took their advice and crossed the tracks to another diner nearby, where Karen proceeded to carboload her veggie burger (roadtrips are all about endurance).

That afternoon we marveled at the red rock formations,

the land being watered (these might be my favorite machines for the garden),

and, in very dramatic fashion, narrowly missed being struck by lightning as the clouds lit up around us.

Dodging further electricity in New Mexico, we entered the Owl Cafe as the sun set, impressed by the wall of badges and the cafe’s alarming embrace of orange cheese product.

Welcoming the warm mineral baths of the Sierra Grande Lodge in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico that night, we rose to see the stone circle,

and cacti in the spare landscape as we took the spa’s vegan scones and headed back on the road…

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Well, I usually make this salad with octupuses.

(Look for the little red Matiz Gallego boxes of tinned octupus and sauté them in olive oil.)

Instead of octupus, yesterday I found beautiful local squid at the market that I battered in a 1:1 mix of flour and beer, fried in a shallow pan of olive oil, and placed on top of roasted haricots verts and quartered fingerlings (try 425 degrees for 20 minutes, shaking occasionally) and chopped purslane.

Toss the roasted beans and potatoes with olive oil, salt, and pimentón or crushed red pepper, then add the seafood and squeeze a few lemon wedges on top.

With the fried squid (it makes me sad that Americans usually associate calamari only with a tomato sauce, as it’s so lovely with yogurt or pesto or on its own), the delicate batter crunches, then the roasted potatoes give way, and the green beans snap.

Purslane, when you can find it (usually near the herbs at the market—be careful not to pick spurge when you are foraging for purslane) is perfect raw here, with tart, crunchy little leaves and buds sprinkled on at the end.

It’s about as composed a salad as I can stand, and you can let guests mix their portion on the plate if you like.

Similarly composed is my friend and former PBS colleague Cameron, who just arrived in Northern California. It’s great to watch Cameron and Morgan transition to this coast, and he was rocking an urban alpine look earlier this week,

maybe more likely to scale the mountain of green beans at markets (quite seriously, those two handle every new adventure, outdoorsy or otherwise, with aplomb).

The table of green did inspire me to make the octopus salad as I roamed this week’s largest farmers’ market. Pictured are green beans; I keep a sharp eye for slender haricots verts that work better in salad and located them at a neighboring vendor.

The downtown Santa Cruz market always has dramatic bouquets,

children dancing, somewhat mellowly, to local musicians,

and a stand with noteworthy flavors that change with the market offerings from frozen geniuses Scream Sorbet. This is their roasted corn sorbet.

At markets across the country, I always see the longest lines and happiest vendors at seafood stalls, which seem continuously busy during market hours.

Accordingly, my favorite stand at the local markets around Santa Cruz is H & H Fresh Fish, where I found the squid from Monterey Bay for yesterday’s salad, and on Wednesday,

with half the stand shucking oysters I find impossible to pass up,

I saw coon shrimp, often used as bait. (See the lovely squid above them?)

The shrimp’s stripes match the lines of thin noodles, and Wednesday night I made the dish I hold is better than scampi—hot or cold soba noodles with Momofuku scallion sauce (recipe) underneath sautéed shrimp that go well with the green onion tops and ginger.

Note: With these colorful shrimp, remove the shell, but keep the heads on for flavor (like crawfish, there is a specific way to savor the heads I’ll leave you to discover).

All of summer produce is cause for celebration, and with tomatoes also at their height of flavor, I made a California Caprese salad this week with lemony sorrel rather than basil between buffalo mozzarella and slices of heirlooms,

thinking how one small variation to a recipe can make it new, yet again…

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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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From the afternoon’s market in downtown Santa Cruz, I tossed corn kernels and split cherry tomatoes for a minute or so in a hot pan, sprinkled salt, minced garlic, and Parmesan on top, and seared large scallops like extruded new moons in the empty buttered pan.

A pulse of Lisbon lemon, also from today’s market, finished the simple summer dish,

and some time later, I let the Camembert sit out, and I pulled soft figs apart, dreaming of last week in France, spent in Nice and Cannes, yielding to the beautiful pace of the Mediterranean.

Adjusting the deck chair toward the late afternoon light, I read W.S. Merwin’s poem “Youth” from his stunning 2009 collection The Shadow of Sirius with a blue-tipped feather that fell into the pages from the tree branches above, if you can believe the magic that surrounds this quiet structure—

knowing that this magic is what the stars, now appearing above the cabin, are made from—as the final line of the poem (“from what we cannot hold the stars are made/”) suggests…

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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…

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When yogurt crosses over to the savory side—not merely tangy or as a counterpoint to sweet, interesting things happen. Yesterday afternoon, I stirred a little tahini and a few cloves of minced garlic into Saint Benoît Yogurt (sometimes I crisp chickpeas with cumin and sprinkle them on top when I make this) and spooned it over rainbow chard, drizzling hot oil over the yogurt in a circuitous path.

Looking at the chard pieces that shine like jewels when sautéed, I laughed at precious food labels and had a bit of fun, making the shape of a cross with boquerones as the yogurt sauce spread over the chard like a halo. This yogurt’s consistency differs depending on the season, slightly thinner in the summer months when the ladies drink more water in Sonoma County.

I thought of my friend Holly (you should read her book), who never takes herself too seriously as she covers weighty topics in food politics (she was, at one time, an AP journalist) and creates beautiful, healthy food that she writes about with humor and grace.

My favorite part of this recipe (and the part I think Holly will especially appreciate) is massaging the chard leaves with salt (dice and sauté the chard stems, with carrots if you like, during the leaf massage), feeling the leaves’ bouncy greenness; after a few minutes, rinse off the salt and squeeze out excess water before wilting the leaves in the medium-high pan, where they retain their color. Meanwhile, warm pitas or naan to dip in this meze (lavash is the more correct bread here, but I find naan easier to make or locate).

Though I rarely see Holly to eat together in person, I always feel my kitchen is connected to hers, even as we both travel and cook in new places—

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It was a beautiful morning at Santa Cruz’s Westside farmers’ market, what with the produce at Happy Boy Farms (springy chard leaves and rotund baby squash),

a crispy quesadilla from the Garcia Family stand topped with avocado and crema, filled with pork and mushrooms,

and variegated Eureka lemons from Route 1 Farms.

My moment of discovery arrived this afternoon, when I hit upon the right combination for a tuna melt, a classic sandwich much maligned in recent decades, and sadly relegated to scoops, spreads, and salads.

The best version I’ve had since childhood was at Portland’s Bunk Sandwiches a few weeks ago; mine is made with sourdough from Kelly’s Bakery, hook-and-line caught albabore from local producer Dave’s (they sell at the Cabrillo Saturday market, and some of their product is canned in its own juices without water or oil), sharp cheddar, homemade aioli on one side, grain mustard and sliced dill pickle on the other, and spicy local microsprouts in the center.

When the tinned tuna is local and preserved with care, it seems to melt in this sandwich too.

Just across from my chair on the deck, I noticed a step on the trunk to the branches, a good reason to resume climbing trees, another fond memory from childhood…

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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…

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Circling Madison, Wisconsin’s campus a few hours later, we stopped and ate cheese sandwiches at a free trade coffee shop, thrifted, and heading back to the road, were surprised to find Minnesota very beautiful for an afternoon drive, happening upon rows of turbines,

that we opened up the moon roof to capture,

and continued to pull over and watch as the sun set behind them,

a line of trees,

and a town near Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

Rising early, we were lured off the highway by signs for a Corn Palace.

Kat obligingly posed with a large ear of corn,

and shortly after, we pulled into Kimball, South Dakota on a whim, looking at the Ponderosa Diner and feeling very western indeed,

ordering a “cake and egg” plate (there’s a kthread cooks episode on this naming convention in the farther future), and smiling at regulars who wanted Kat to take their picture with her manual camera.

As we left, talking about the oil spill around Louisiana, our eyes widened to see this truck pulling out in front of us.

We found a store that opens sometimes, occasionally,

a church that has seen dozens of generations,

and even Kat examining the map couldn’t prepare us for the upcoming roadside attraction,

of 1880 Town, with many, many props from the movie “Dances with Wolves.”

I liked the Feed & Seed building,

and then all the machines in the garden—the technology of America past,

and we pulled ourselves away from the restored saloon and livery stable of buggies and carts emblazoned with signs for elixirs to light out for the eroded columns of the Badlands,

the caked cracks similar to my shoes,

and the striations in the rocks looking like the grainy lines on old television sets.

Deciding it was a moment for the supplies of fruits and nuts, we drove further,

stopping to stare in silence at the quartet of stony faces that had chiseled American policy and legacy.

The evening’s drive took us to Black Hills and Bighorn National Forests, through snowy banks on the roadsides,

until we saw snow on mountaintops in Wyoming,

passing the town of Ten Sleep ready for our own…

Related posts:

1. chicharrones, alliums, an opened garden
2. spinning in the sun
3. victorious community gardens