Last Sunday I returned to Brooklyn after a few months in Santa Cruz, and I traveled back in my favorite mode: a circuitous roadtrip. (This is the first post of eight, one for each day of the trip.)

Leaving San Jose on August 1st in the quiet of 5 a.m., I took my friend Matt’s advice and stopped at Ikeda’s in Auburn, California a few hours later, looking at the morning sky and leaving the market with granola, homemade fig bars, a bagful of peaches, and a razzleberry cobbler of raspberries and marionberries.

On into Nevada, I passed Reno and went on to Winnemucca, smiling at the retro lettering on the Sundance Casino,

and then the rows of classic cars at their Sunday afternoon town festival (sadly, Chico’s Formal Attire shop behind this car wasn’t open).

I found Nevada full of strangenesses—faded painted letters in Elko advertised “neon,”

while a nearby cleaners I would happily patronize had letters that seemed more likely to light up.

I crossed the border into Utah and a lighter brightness as the roadside began to shimmer at the Bonneville salt flats. One of the most beautiful drives I’ve ever taken, the afternoon light and the whiteness of the salt flats drew me down the highway,

and toward the great Salt Lake as I raced to pick my friend Karen up from the Salt Lake City airport on time—in an amazing gift of time and trust, Karen had only booked her flight two days before as I finalized the first day of the route.

Into hilly Salt Lake City we drove, staying at a historic b&b and sampling mole at the excellent Red Iguana. I sipped Devastator Double Bock Wasatch beer (seemed appropriate) and we caught up, talking about the days ahead,

and driving out early on Monday morning, we passed the Temple spires on our way to Colorado where we would end up staying in a castle…

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…

Last Thursday evening, I delivered homemade ramp butter from my Brooklyn kitchen safely to my wonderful friend Keryn’s house in coastal Maine. Ever the fabulous hostess (I am finding it hard to leave Maine), there was a table filled with food and wine and very good company, the perfect end to a day’s drive through parkways and small villages.

On Saturday morning, we drove onto the ferry toward North Haven, an island just across from Rockland,

and Keryn pointed out the other islands as we passed them on our ferry hour.

Once on North Haven, she introduced me to Little Lad’s, the herbal popcorn produced locally that is difficult to stop eating,

and slipped the new album from local band the Toughcats in for our island tour.

We did see traps in driveways,

but more interesting, we read the signs on this community billboard that everyone driving the island passes (the one-way street makes it so), and I noted the invitation at the bottom of the farmers’ market sign, welcoming everyone to buy or sell.

Keryn deftly steered us out to Turner Farm, where farmer Jen Porter (who we saw on the ferry returning from “cow shopping”) moves the greenhouses on skids (the Eliot Coleman way) and we sleuthed which of the greenhouses had been moved that week.

Inside, the greenhouses were warm with the future plantings,

herbs and lettuces small and fragrant (Keryn leaned in to smell the basil),

and sunflower seeds were dark against the leaves.

We found the inspiring garden plans and neatly organized charts with dates and locations,

and I looked again at the green sprouts destined for great things,

learned that even leeks flower.

We walked up the hill to the beautiful posts and beams in the barn being built by John Libby,

and then, strutting among the chickens,

I found Lady Gaga Chicken, holding her own with an impressive head pouf,

while her fellow chickens had beautiful feather patterns (but no feather headdress pouf).

And on we drove to Doreen’s,

where little lambs ran up to meet us,

and one insisted upon being photographed alone (maybe she knew we had just met Gaga Chicken?)

Doreen, who tends her many animals with great affection, took us to her pasture tucked away in the back of the property,

where her goats and kids roam, occasionally corralled by Flossy.

Crunching over green that the goats will eat later this season,

I paused at the deep green moss on overlapping roots,

and Keryn and I were both quiet and thoughtful as we wandered back to the beach crusted with purple shells by Turner Farm.

Back on the mainland that night, Keryn made a lovely risotto with local smoked shrimp and greenhouse pea shoots,

sprinkled salt on top,

and with her husband Mike, we talked of arancini, ferry travel, island exploration, and the greenness of spring in their house.

As we corner in on a long weekend, the rains have increased to their usual frequency for this time of year, bringing out spiders,

and reviving plants I watched wilting earlier in the week.

Here’s to a few days framed with sun, as we turn toward restorative summer—

I heard a knock at the door, and opened it to find one of the homeowners handing me four mangoes–two that are ripe, two that need another day or so.

We started talking about the coconuts that he harvests from the street, and that led to a machete and a handmade, welded striking implement cracking open coconuts on the porch, draining the milk, admiring the meat (which you score and then scoop out), and an explanation of how to make coconut milk—blend quite a bit of coconut water, a little coconut meat, a date and a dash of cinnamon for sweetness.

As a storm rages outside, intermittently lighting up the cottage, I am drinking it all up and in, sipping the milk (fresh coconut water tastes infinitely better than the packaged product, as you can imagine) and shaking my head at all the years I let a terrible cake experience with sweetened, shredded kind of coconut hold me back.

I prescribe fresh coconut.

If we can imagine meat—the word itself, without its weighty moral baggage and simply referring to these hairy things that hang from tropical trees—as a delightfully firm, silky white layer hidden inside a shell, perhaps spritzed with a little lime, we may all feel a little better…