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…

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…

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.