It took me a good minute before I saw them.

Young fiddleheads in a tight huddle with shiny brown wrappings over them.

Near one cluster was another, and then another.

Soon, all of them would stretch up and out of foraging range, in their quick season.

Settling in for a sabbatical, I learned that dandelion petals bring a brightness to morning eggs (the time to pick the flowers, just the yellow, is in the early morning). And their leaves are less bitter before the flowers arrive.

Spring descended on Maine a month into my stay in showy bowers, and I spent my mornings in the cottage kitchen working on the next issue of Saucy magazine and watching everything bloom outside the sun room.

I spent hours trying to understand how to bring forward texture in a photo, examining the way light changes throughout the day.

My sabbatical cottage is filled with my wise friend Keryn’s energy – now she lives with her husband Mike in a beautiful barn near blueberry barrens that look red as the sun sets.

I frequently just drove, down roads that had no outlet, and crossed quiet scenes I would pull over and sit and admire.

A favorite walk has been the one up Beech Hill Preserve where a house with a living roof sits, providing a reason to hike the hill and look out on the wooded islands and coastline.

Most frequently in these two months, I would walk the breakwater to the lighthouse in Rockland.

And then I would look back at the mainland, and decide to return.

I would pull into coves on the way back to the cottage,

to walk around flowers as I had circled the lighthouse.

And now it is time for this Prodigal Daughter of Maine to return to Brooklyn for a bit, grateful for my time reveling in this beauty, and especially for my Maine friends, who shelter me and take me in when the city overwhelms…

A real vacation, we said, and this time last week, we were hiking through rainforest on a small Caribbean island.

The forest floor was mossy, that greenest of green,

strewn with leaves as big as both our hands, as if the trees were operating on another scale as they grew from the volcanic rock,

and small white flowers, fallen from mountain cabbage plants (that lean on the sides of trees) dotted the path.

We were quiet, using sticks to guard against mudslide areas, and a little talked out – as happens when you have whole days to dream aloud together.

Suddenly, up ahead a goat appeared, as if to guide us through,

leading us into the sun,

to a good vantage point on the island’s runway, the shortest in the world.

Back in the rainforest, we felt as though we might never emerge, the way true vacations transport you from the life you know.

Soon after, we would glimpse translucent fish, pearlescent coral, and a sea turtle in a protected marine park dive in blue, blue water, and eat local Wahoo and Red Snapper our guide had caught.

Just then, though, was all green,

and we found spider webs. You know how I feel about spider webs…

If you do visit tiny Saba, the Queen’s Gardens Resort is the place to stay. We were well looked after; the property managers’ competence is unparalleled. The entire island is an excellent example of ecotourism. Thanks to K for a beautiful week.

The road to Maine started in Atlanta, with my sister Kassandra and her husband Sean’s garden spilling over the fence, as the spinach grew thickly near the peppers and watermelons behind their new house.

I drove down to Atlanta after Annie and Andrew’s wedding, and then back up to New York the following day, pulling off the road for this eatery’s encouraging sign:

And then it was off to Maine, and to an island, passing the Coast Guard,

as well as bobbing boats in the harbor as I chatted with Keryn about ferries in the afternoon sun.

Keryn’s friends keep chickens, they couldn’t say exactly how many,

near beautiful male goats that perk up their ears in unison and wander toward you, bells swinging.

On Saturday afternoon, we gathered with their friends on an island beach,

and I learned how to pour coals into the rocks and set the grill cover over, and patiently wait.

As usual, it’s the guys hanging around the grill.

More friends joined us as the sun began to drop…

and there were crazy discoveries to be made in tidal pools (“Look, Mom!”)

and friendships renewed.

My friend Keryn sat serenely as the children ran about, with her usual calm that belies spontaneous dance moves that occur with some regularity while in her orbit.

I had a hard time leaving the beach, watching as we heaped the grill with seaweed, and looking back over my shoulder again at the sunset on the quiet beach.

At the farm Keryn’s friends caretake for, the sunflowers are at their height,

the garlic is drying,

and they sent us back with piles of springy rainbow chard, cucumbers, and tomatoes,

that made beautiful cucumber sandwiches and colorful couscous across the water, back on the Maine mainland, this dreamy area of the country I love to visit…

On Sunday morning, a few Sundays ago, Keryn and Mike were the perfects hosts, indulging us with Mike’s wonderful pancakes and letting us sleep very late (that’s Kate’s butter, of course).

Note: This is the third in a series of three posts about Maine. You might start with the first or second post.

Keryn likes her pancakes with blueberries throughout and on top (and with these native wild blueberries, I heartily agree with her preference),

and Fil and I smiled at all the fun of the day before.

Late that afternoon, Keryn arranged the perfect spread of charcuterie and cheese, and a little while later, we were off to the ever-crowded Primo for their oyster night.

On Monday, I went foraging with my friend Evan on an island, gathering berries,

happening upon chanterelles,

and some of the rose hips that grow all over the area.

Monday night, Keryn (who even manages to rock rain boots) drove us to Ladleah and Shane’s,

where Ladleah’s gardening skills were in abundant evidence.

Ladleah had made a lovely blueberry buckle for the next morning’s sailing outing,

in a spare moment after making her famous salsa,

and then she showed us her gardens (Ladleah gardens for others as well, so these are her personal gardens that she works on in her free time).

I haven’t seen tomatillos on the vine before,

and Ladleah introduced us to an heirloom cucumber she adores.

We glimpsed the dramatic hanging purple beans,

and the first apples on the tree in the future orchard.

Before we left for dinner, we all smelled the mint on her porch, a scent I now associate with Maine, and its crisp air, and the beautiful people I am lucky to know there.

On our way back to Brooklyn on Tuesday, Fil and I drove through the Berkshires to visit Ethan and Rachel and meet Drew (Ethan drew us a map for the way back and recommended his favorite series of highways).

In their unique and incredible house, we marveled at the view that goes on and on, appropriate for a couple that is wise and witty in equal measure (and one I am excited to return to visit for longer).

Just as Ethan had said, we passed sculptures too intriguing not to stop for,

and we made a note that more exploration is necessary of this place,

and perhaps also of the miniature golf at the Red Rooster Drive-In next time the drive includes these roads…

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…