The birthdays were coming, so I flew to Los Angeles to celebrate with Laura and with Ben. After a rainy Friday night, Saturday shook off the rain and brightened outside while Laura, Vera, and I brunched at Bouchon, before walking Rodeo Drive and then watching the sun set over the Santa Monica pier.

During the day, we walked by a house covered in mosaics with fruit trees on front,

almost as big a contrast to the houses surrounding it as the sun was to the clouds on the pier,

as the Trapeze Schoolers attempted derring-do, and we flew back to the Viceroy Hotel to change for Laura’s big birthday party.

LJ joined us for dinner,

where we led with protein,

and then the staff emerged with our box, boldly labeled and destined for our next destination.

As Laura’s guests arrived, our dedicated server whisked the cake away to the kitchen to cut and return the Fleur de Sel chocolate slices with Laura’s requested hot pink icing from Vanilla Bake Shop,

and toward the end of the night, we sang to our very favorite vagabond news junkie.

The next morning (the evening ran until early with much more toasting, a red convertible, and a yoga mat), I set off for the Santa Monica Farmers’ Market, where Ben met me, after I found an interesting potato mix,

a sausage vendor intent upon the scramble,

a wonderful mix of chorizo, spinach, eggs, potatoes, and cheese.

Market finds included bundles of slender asparagus stalks,

raw pistachios for David and roasted corn for our picnic,

at Cielo Wine Bar in Malibu that followed a drive along the PCH with birthday boy Ben in the driver’s seat.

LJ met us there, as Ben dispensed wisdom, smartly analyzing situations, as only he can,

Jessica considered broccoli after picking Rosé,

the perfect choice for a celebrity sighting of Pink and her husband,

and with s’mores bars from Vanilla Bake Shop.

Inside the rustic wood cabin where the wine flows from, LJ modeled the garb on offer,

perhaps an omen of the strangeness ahead as Laura and I met David at Encounter, a retro restaurant of the future (the lava lamps are still) hidden somewhere in LAX—fresh from travel to Austria and Portugal, David ordered a “Cosmos” (to complement his shirt?) and together, we all examined the “Halo” Caesar salad that arrived with a crouton ring.

Flying back into a wintry New York, I smiled at the fun of the occasion, the reclamation of Rosé, and how nice it is to still feel close to good friends on the opposite coast, marking important days with wine and fancy dress, and casually, other important days with memories of a road trip and long, winding conversations to continue…

In my continuing efforts to create bright and shining foods, I have a new ally: candied kumquats.

Slice the small citrus and simmer them in a simple syrup (ratio of 1 sugar: 2 water) for ten minutes or so (the kumquats will flavor the syrup, making a nice cocktail ingredient) and you will have softened the fruits into sweet, flexible discs.

Like the kumquats, the air was sparkling as I walked back from yoga last night, and I woke to inches of snow outside my window.

I have the enviable task this morning of deciding which leftovers to heat gently from a dinner on Monday night with my friends Jean Marc and Danny, who were visiting from Miami, and my friend Solana, who has returned from a trip to Germany.

I met Jean Marc and Danny at a Slow Food Miami event last year, and I knew immediately we would be friends beyond the love we share of thoughtful food.

Knowing their culinary tour of New York included many stylish Manhattan restaurants, I decided to make what an Italian grandmother living in Brooklyn might, simmering sauce for hours until it cooked into a pork sugo that I baked with orecchiette.

I’ll reduce the wine less next for more liquid in the sauce as I make the sugo my own, although the dish still won’t photograph well—it’s about the beautiful moment where you close your eyes and really taste the pork shoulder and oregano and carrots.

For the next course, inspired by a raw salad at the recent Underground Food Collective dinner, I cut fractal cauliflower and peeled purple haze carrots, tossing the colors with oil, then a gremolata to wake the cauliflower.

We finished the Barbera d’Alba and opened a Vin Santo to toast to Danny’s birthday on Tuesday, and the candied kumquats adorned a torta della nonna (grandmother’s tart) with a ricotta filling and pine nuts and Fior de Latte gelato from Brooklyn Larder.

I rarely have dinner guests on Monday, so having Jean Marc and Danny over was an especially nice way to begin the week. Letting the dishes soak, I felt like an Italian grandmother as I cut another slice of tart late that night and peered at the kumquat rinds with beautifully large pores from the candying.

This past weekend, I also leaned in to see the detail on the membrane of flounder roe I found at the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket from Seatuck Fish (I bought skate from them the weekend before).

Crispy and with a scallion sauce, the pieces of roe started a mysterious night of revelations over drinks with Liza and then an underground party, where I wore a vintage Jonathan Logan and antique earrings that belonged to my grandmother.

See more of my dresses on The Serendipity of Boise blog.

The crab salad appeared again during the weekend, with pea shoots,

and on Sunday night, Solana came over before I candied the kumquats, in the middle of the sugo, and we made what I am craving again this morning: cooked ramen noodles with sliced pork, shiitakes, a poached egg, a Momofuku mother sauce of ginger and scallions

(2.5 c sliced scallions, 1/2 c minced ginger, 1/4 c neutral oil, 1 1/2 tsp usukuchi or other soy sauce, 3/4 tsp sherry vinegar, 3/4 tsp salt—let it sit for 20 minutes),

and quick homemade pickles (very thinly slice 2 Kirby cucumbers and coat with 1 tbsp sugar, 1 tsp salt—let sit for ten minutes).

Without noodles, I have instead a delightful dilemma of how to allay the chill of the morning: savory slow-cooked pork? Cake and kumquats? Or, as I glance up at the window,

gather snow from the steps of the fire escape,

pour a little milk, cream, vanilla, and kumquat syrup over (try maple syrup, honey, or agave nectar instead of sugar),

and stir: snow ice cream, the resolution in an embrace of this icy day…

I woke up this morning to see snow outside, so I pulled a plate to create what I wish snow tasted like—

a quarter of a poached pear, steeped in its cinnamon poaching liquid, a quenelle of Fior de Latte gelato from Brooklyn Larder, and a small bit of crème fraîche. Like the snow, it melts quickly, urging me out and into the day.

The Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket still held green things, though I thought the tiny brussel sprouts might fill the air, lifted by the whipping winds,

and I bought fresh eggs, portobellos, parsnips, spinach, acorn and butternut squashes, fractal cauliflower, those little sprouts, polenta, and whole Milk Thistle milk.

Yesterday, I assembled the components of Hoppin’ John, (rather than my usual Hoppin’ Jonatha variation on this traditional New Year’s Day food: black-eyed pea cakes with aioli over collards), stirring the soaked peas into the collards and their released juices, frying Burgers’ Smokehouse bacon to crumble on top.

And, crossing my fingers for even more luck, let’s begin this year of cooking…

Although Thanksgiving at my mother’s house usually begins with butternut squash, this year, I thought we would start in Brooklyn with cauliflower from the farmers’ market, with the local markets as the beginning for all of this holiday about food.

Imagining orange and purple cauliflower I found at Union Square Greenmarket swirling in a soup, I then found crosnes—small, white tubers from the mint family—that resemble tiny Michelin men. Sneaking one at the stand, I decided these were the crisp surprise topping for a salad.

Before the sun rose on Thursday, with one oven to work with, I prepped dishes on the stove while rotating pans in an out of the oven.

Grateful to an oven that hummed away at a consistent temperature, my proudest moment came stirring homemade buttermilk and homemade butter into smashed Adirondack potatoes from Evolutionary Organics, their blue and dark pink skins tingeing the bowl.

With the kitchen smelling of spices, I set the table, placing vintage glasses around the kale centerpiece from the Prospect Park market and carefully lining up my great-great grandmother’s silver.

The amazing Solana arrived to apply her ninja skills to peeling carrots and final prep, then Jessica brought her incredible energy and her boyfriend Matthew (he’s lovely) into the apartment, and a little later, Jenne carried fabulous in with a chocolate mousse cake and killer bangs.

(I should also mention that Solana has a gift for texting—see our text exchange that morning below.)

Solana: I’m going to dress like a pilgrim today. Or an Indian.

me: AWESOME.

S: That means you have to dress like a turkey because there are no other characters left.

me: I promise to wear feathers.

S: Ooh feathers.

Solana did indeed rock Pilgrimesque style, competing with the quince on the table for Most Traditional Dress.

Toasting with cava, we started in the kitchen with silver lusterware bowls; Jessica bravely poured orange at the same time I poured purple, and filling the bowls from both sides, we used the oven thermometer as a wand to swirl the recipient’s initials into each vessel of cauliflower (next year, crunch from croutons of some sort will return).

Next, all of the salad in a large white bowl made me happy as I set it on the table—those tiny lettuces and radishes from my expedition to Rooftop Farms mixed with Patches of Star’s goat cheese (she sells at Union Square Greenmarket) and the strange and wonderful crosnes.

One of the nicest parts of Thanksgiving with friends is the casual way you can set out the many bowls and pans of carrots with a pesto of their tops, smashed potatoes, mustardy peas and pearl onions, and roasted brussel sprouts and fennel.

We all agreed that Matthew did an admirable carving of the DiPaolo turkey (I highly recommend them—they are a fixture at the Prospect Park Farmers’ Market on Saturdays), but the real focus was Thomas Keller’s leek bread pudding (I subbed a fennel-parmesan loaf from Brooklyn Larder in for brioche).

And we went back for second plates,

and I felt grateful for these friends to celebrate with as the afternoon light filtered in.

Laughing, we put an embarrassment of rich desserts on the den floor and opened more red wine (everyone pictured here has excellent taste in wine—Matthew’s “Carpe Diem” was my favorite label),

Jenne’s chocolate mousse cake, Jessica and Matthew’s pecan pie, pumpkin bread in the center with Patches of Star goat yogurt, chocolate squares with pistachios and prunes, and croissant pudding made for lazy conversation as we sat in a circle and talked and ate and talked.

Yesterday afternoon, I made a tall sandwich with the leftovers that keep on giving,

and the fennel-parmesan bread slices spread with chicken liver pâté on one side and carrot top pesto on the other, with turkey, skin, cranberry sauce, and roasted fennel between stood as a reminder of how very fortunate I am to have these friends in my life, these ingredients where I live, and small remaining portions of each dish still in the refrigerator…

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…