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…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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…

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…