A few weeks ago, I hopped a flight to London for a weekend jaunt, arriving Sunday morning to a clear sky and a quiet walk from the tube to my hotel near shiny gates of some renown.

And taking a cue from the statue, off I went, exploring,

through dappled sunshine (it really was) in parks,

and landmarks, and fountains,

past impressive buildings,

all on the way to find a gift my friend Ben hid for me using my new mobile app for hiding and finding gifts, Galvanize. Here’s what happened with the gift:

After dinner with new friends, I woke up on Monday ready to continue my walking tour of London, starting in Notting Hill. I noted the food vendors on Portobello Road,

and stopped into the loveliest shop with prepared foods I have ever encountered, The Grocer on Elgin, for a sandwich, local milk, and an intriguing package of Pavlova Magic.

From Notting Hill, I ventured toward Smithfield Market,

near to food pilgrimage site St. John, where I beamed through a beautiful late lunch of nettle soup with snails, bone marrow salad, and Eccles cake served with cheese (pictures wouldn’t do it justice).

Then, it was to Westminster Abbey, of course,

and to wave at Big Ben and Parliament,

and watch the London Eye slowly rotate (it’s fun being a tourist),

then walk the Thames,

as falling leaves skittered across the paths and the dusk settled in,

over the London Eye’s continuing rotation and the bagpipes playing,

as I went off to Oxford Circus for more adventures (and most notably, delicious raw milk gelato at Scoop) to complete a wonderful quick trip.

London, thank you for the fair weather, and I hope to see you again soon…

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On Saturday morning, I walked the familiar stands of the Charlottesville Farmers’ Market;

the squash, peppers, and eggplants of Waterpenny Farms were shining, as were their beautiful tomatoes,

near heirloom Virginia apples, as that season is in full swing.

Walking beyond the market, I found Surryano ham (a version of Serrano ham made in Surry, Virginia, where the pigs are fed local peanuts) at Feast market—perfect for an afternoon winery tour with old friends.

Tricia arrived with balloons,

and Helen corralled everyone (many had driven in from out of town) onto the bus for her birthday celebration.

Our first destination was Cardinal Point Winery, where Sev and I mused over what the ideal wine tasting would be like,

and while the crowded Veritas tasting room (our second destination) leaves much to be desired, the lovely grounds have the makings of a perfect afternoon.

Sev poured for Ben and Jeremy (seems we all coordinated our outfits for the occasion),

and the Veritas Cabernet Franc Reserve 2008 was the bottle of the day (Cab Franc grows well in Central Virginia).

Before too long, I took my glass out to the lawn, watching everyone compare vintages and grapes,

and a child chase an errant chicken,

that pecked behind Ben as he was delivering his usual wry commentary after joining me on the grass.

And we relaxed into our final destination: Flying Fox Winery,

where we toasted to lovely Helen, whose sparkling laugh and infectious energy are always a reason to celebrate time with her.

Early the next morning, I breathed deeply as I drove back to Brooklyn through the mountains, as the sun slowly rose over the Shenandoah…

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Although I threw a fried green tomato party lately, the post was without fried green tomatoes—mostly because we were all having too much fun by that point, and partly because it was actually my talented friend Dan who worked the pan on the party greens while I circulated with bottles of champagne.

And so this past Friday, I took a last green tomato, sliced it, and fried slices coated in a mix of flour and cornmeal in the renderings of country bacon,

piling them into a favorite sandwich of drizzled buttermilk ranch (homemade aioli, buttermilk, scallions, lemon juice) on top of crisp butter lettuce, squash blossoms, and Broadbent’s Kentucky bacon.

Then yesterday, Dan and I set out on an adventure to the fi:af Farm City Fair at the Invisible Dog Gallery in Brooklyn.

We found fun buttons,

one that later Dan decorated his bag with,

and we were just in time to experience the Asphalt Orchestra (part of Bang on a Can) performance where the musicians really interacted with the crowd,

spreading out, reforming, using megaphones, spinning around themselves when the moment moved them to the great joy of everyone there for the festivities.

There were hydroponics on display from the Boswyck group in Bushwick,

and the scene was really around the distributor of balloons,

as you might imagine.

Wonderful local food vendors were serving foods about to disappear with the end of summer, and Marlow and Sons delivered with a beautiful fried corn that shone with butter, perfectly warmed pear tomatoes, and mint.

Dan and I were also there to learn about wheatgrass artistry from Mathilde Roussel-Giraudy—this piece is a stomach,

and these figures took a week to grow (you are to be impressed at this).

Out in the garden there was a colorful compost pile,

and inside were demonstrations, my favorite being the one from BK Honey,

where combs were sliced and the honey extracted, sparkling as it was released from its cells.

As we left, Dan and I met a vocal “expert” composter with impressive newsprint millinery,

and had a lovely long walk back past painted murals (Dan took this one of me),

robots that we couldn’t help falling for (and I adore Dan, by the way, we had such fun),

and after I hugged him goodbye, the rain started to fall in the neighborhood.

I decided to make gazpacho andaluz,

while I roasted new potatoes and a chicken.

As usual, I think the simplest recipe best, so to make gazpacho andaluz for two on a rainy Sunday afternoon at the end of tomato season,

take four large ripe tomatoes (for this, choose classic red tomatoes grown with care instead of heirlooms). Chop one tomato with the skin and set aside in a bowl.

With the food processor running, drop in two cloves of skinned garlic, then three spring onions (green and white parts), then the three quartered, cored tomatoes. Let one slice of pullman loaf soak up the juice on the cutting board from the tomatoes and then add it to the processor. Add 1 tbsp good sherry vinegar and 4 tbsp olive oil as it spins. Season and spice it as you like; many serve chopped peppers and onions as condiments alongside.

If you have time, chill the soup (you might set the serving bowls over ice for a few minutes), then ladle it into bowls, topping with the chopped tomato and any garnishes. I’m happy to report my taster enjoyed his without garnishes and ate part of my bowl too.

For more on the City Farm Fair, please watch Dan’s excellent and hilarious video and read his Renegade Kitchen post about our magical day:

Farm City Fair from Renegade Kitchen on Vimeo.

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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…

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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…

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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…

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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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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…

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Last night was another magical Thursday summer salon at Fairy-Tale Farm in Santa Cruz,

and the crafts table was soon crowded with feather artists and those skilled in the ways of pink fur.

Margaret’s daughter Zsa Zsa (wearing a pink dress that matched her zebra jacket) showed us her flower clip creation,

and I noticed the wonderful sticker affixed to the front of the rickshaw that is a new addition to Fairy-Tale Farm (what a great Santa Cruz organization name).

And then, as the Old Spice Man, who owned the Internet this Wednesday, might say, I’m on a rickshaw.

And then my friend Mike was on the Fairy-Tale Farm rickshaw (and later, so was the open source coder, angling her guitar to play from the cart).

The farm market continues to be part of the salons, and I was happy to have fresh strawberries and butter lettuce,

as well as Aslan’s wild nettle pesto and raw goat’s milk cheese with herbes de Provence and lavender. I always trust people with fantastic millinery and retro apron skirts, and Aslan also makes olallieberry mead, so I hope her lovely wares will be at the farm market again.

Hosts Debora and Karsten made great rice with pine nuts and almonds along with vegetables and the plum pie was warm,

drawing all of us toward the table near a large basket of plums.

Later, another plum pie, this one with a lattice crust, emerged from the farm kitchen and I cut a slice of that one, catching up with Margaret and Mike on all the Bastille Day antics in town.

Throughout, Madeline revealed herself to be the Chicken Whisperer, holding one, and then another, the new white, and two at once, persuading everyone to walk around with a chicken tucked under an arm.

Margaret pointed out grapes growing on a trellis near the roof, and I knew that Debora and Karsten would continue to surprise as organic curators of this weekly event and their space,

just as Margaret’s son Roman would continue to surprise with his joy at new toys and accessories.

Back in my kitchen, I took my collected treasures from the farm and made a fairy tale of a salad,

breaking the soft lettuce into smaller pieces, tossing the leaves with a little of Sciabica’s olive oil Kassandra thoughtfully brought me from the Embarcadero market last weekend, cutting in strawberries and crumbling in the herbed chèvre,

using the rest of the strawberries this morning on hot biscuits (Mica, this picture is to remedy the regrettable lack of biscuit documentation in the last post),

Both times, while eating the strawberries, I closed my eyes like the crafters last night and reveled in summer…

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3. artichokes, breaded and trimmed

The rocks on the beach in Nice are worthy sunning spots for mermaids, I think, who must certainly visit this place that is as beautiful as you imagine.

Last week, Kevin and I walked past the impressive opera building, and deferred climbing the stairs to the view from the top of the white circular structure,

deciding instead to spend all of that Thursday afternoon in lounge chairs a meter or so from the water.

First, though, lunch was in order, and we stopped to check the time at the sun dial,

with wonderful explanatory letters about the numbers,

and then followed the curving road toward the boats.

While servers brought glasses, musicians were playing in the courtyard of the Cours Saleya to diners choosing between local seafood,

and the market vendors had more seafood and cases of cheeses,

eggs,

Corsican jams,

jellied fruits,

and marzipan of fruits (and pigs and crocodiles that seemed disturbingly popular).

Fun to see real sea sponge at the market,

near a shaded string of flower stalls,

and we wandered on toward municipal buildings and large squares,

where we witnessed the most spirited rendition of “Tutti Frutti” (the man in black danced his heart out to the enthusiastic crowd) either of us is likely ever to encounter.

Down streets that, thrillingly, looked just as I had hoped they would,

and then to a little Corsican restaurant,

where Kevin ordered sardines (a good order),

I the petite friture (loved these “fried little fishes”),

both of us smiling at the place and the food and sun and vacation.

I learned that Corsican toffee cake is a semisweet cheesecake with a caramel sauce,

and that Corsican coffee arrives with ice cream—coffee or chesnut flavor, I think. (Kevin was surprised too.)

Then we strolled back to the beach, to those chairs set up on the rocky shore, where I fell asleep and kept waking up, happily, still in Nice…

And settling into a memorable last meal in town that night, we finished the oysters and glanced at each other across the table at Cafe du Turin (5 Place Garibaldi), racing to employ the slender, forked, knitting needle utensil to draw whelks (the French call them bulot) from their shells with grace.

Then we graduated to even smaller shells, extracting the tiny insides with small sewing pins, a new skill we are quite proud to have acquired together on this lovely trip to France.

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Just inside the gate at Fairy-Tale Farm last night, the first summertime salon was commencing,

with beautiful glass jewelry and buttons,

treats and a bright, slightly herbal punch,

and jams and produce for the urban farm market part of the event—all in keeping with the organizers’ wishes: “Our intention is to grow a farmer’s market for the DIY community who doesn’t make enough to sell at the Farmer’s Market.”

Karsten showed my wonderful friend Margaret and me the rest of Fairy-Tale Farm,

and as we were about to venture beyond the fruit trees and the hives,

Karsten’s lovely wife Debbie, wearing a dress I covet, serenaded us and asked that he let the chickens out,

and so Karsten did, explaining about the laying cycles of late in this coop, fronted with a repurposed circus board,

as the ladies went scurrying into the yard,

and gently, he lifted one who likes to stay in the coop out.

There were a few new beautiful blue eggs,

and more of the farm to see—some new things growing where tables for underground dinners used to be set up,

and you will find you are surrounded by circles, the most special being the circular area in the center of the garden, just large enough for one table (what you can’t see in the photo are the girls sitting in that circle, perhaps holding forth in their own club, surrounded by string runners for peas and tall, swaying plants).

Heading back to the salon behind these two noted open source software advocates, I noticed the table set up for collage work with seats of orange pillows on hay,

and smiled at these two in the foreground, clearly intrigued by something (capturing a chicken?) off to the right as the food table busied,

laden with cauliflower of a Madhur Jaffrey recipe to go with basmati rice,

near pan bread with lemon cheese and apricot chutney, two sizes of biscuits, butter, and jam.

Margaret and I agreed that the biscuits were made with a great starter (Margaret has expertise on biscuits and the deep level of commitment it takes to start and build communities, the same way bread requires proofing),

and the maker of the excellent jams encouraged sampling,

as someone left, smiling, with his arms full of basil,

and the grower of the basil, her hands full of sweet peas,

let me try one of her alpine strawberries (these are also known as fraises des bois and they are magic).

Margaret and I found a little bench tucked away behind the collage table to catch up from our travels,

and as we left this wonderful place full of the sort of people that make Santa Cruz exactly where I want to be this summer, a maker of pastel marshmallows appeared,

reminding me of the colored marshmallows at the markets in Nice last week (more on those adventures tomorrow) and of how makers and markets all over love to share why they make what they make…

Update: July 2, 2010: Karsten posted on the urban market, explaining the concept and detailing the makers and musicians who came with clear passion. He also said some really nice things about this post (thanks, Karsten!) For more on Fairy-Tale Farm, follow their site.

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Arriving in Cannes last week, Kevin and I listened to a gazebo full of musicians,

just past the carousel,

as we ordered what turned out to be quite a large seafood paella complete with langoustines—and mussels while we waited—at Le Rendez-Vous (35 Rue Félix Faure) before drinks with friends nearer the sand.

On Tuesday morning, I found my way to Marché Forville,

with gleaming red currants in boxes with little handles,

other fruits (I was most interested in the apricots),

silver bowls of marinated garlic and olives,

red garlic heads,

and bouquets.

Leaving lovely cases full of pâté and cheese at the market, I wandered windy streets until I found rue Meynadier,

and the traditional French cooking of Aux Bons Enfants (80 rue Meynadier), where I sipped rosé as accordian players and children passed,

began with terrine (the ingredients are chopped less finely than in pâté) and onion confit,

then a very good blanquette de veau, with the softness of the famous stew against the crispy edges of the potatoes,

and finished with blanc manger under apricots that I spooned slowly, stretching out the perfect lunch.

Intriguing salts rewarded further walking, and close by is a wonderful cheese shop, Ceneri (22 rue Meynadier) as well as Jean-Luc Pelé (36 rue Meynadier),

a dazzling store with glittering cases of macarons—

my favorite of these three was the vodka citron, but do try the pale fleur de sel macaron filled with foie gras for the experience.

Back toward the Palais, badges fluttered for the Cannes Lions festival all week (awarding excellence in advertising),

and equally interesting, on the beach near the sessions, excellent sculpting shaped grinning large heads in the sand.

At an event put on by the Swedish contingent at Lions, Kevin’s delightful friend Nick smiled while he checked voicemail and Kevin concentrated on responding to texts, both blithely unaware they were the only ones still working as the waves crashed and everyone traded in little Swedish flags for drinks.

Then, Nick’s friend François arrived, more interested in the ocean than the party, and I watched children learning how to swim with the undercurrent as François borrowed my camera to take this one of Nick and Kevin in conversation (they aren’t always so serious),

and this one of me, daydreaming about my afternoon on Île Saint-Honorat that I will tell you about tomorrow…

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With beautiful sashimi-grade fish sold at the farmers’ markets in Santa Cruz, I often buy yellowtail to slice and then make dandelion-leek miso soup; this afternoon, I flaked the yellowtail under crema mixed with my aioli,

and the beautiful curled brackets of red cabbage from Route 1 Farms softened slightly, shredded, when mixed with vinegar,

inside a local corn tortilla warmed in the skillet that warmed the local avocado slices as I folded the circle.

Next time I may batter the fish with local Seabright Brewery beer, but this way worked this sunny afternoon…

Your fish taco preferences?

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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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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.

Related posts:

1. chicharrones, alliums, an opened garden
2. the market dressed in spring
3. a path strewn with yellow flowers