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…

When I wake in Miami lately, I look out the big windows of the cottage and see mangoes reddening, preparing for their earthly descent.

Outside, I look up–how many mangoes do you count here? (Hint: there are more than five. Click on the picture to see the bigger version.)

Some of them are in clusters, like this small bundle the homeowners are up on ladders twisting off the branches as I write this.

And it’s also the season for meeting friends for dinner on patios–I had a wonderful time last night with Jean Marc, Jay, and Daniel at Bueno Vista Bistro a little past the Design District (Jay’s a great date, and Jean Marc simply glows with cleansed energy and dinner prep ideas),

oh, and for red cars and accelerated driving (adore the way Jay narrated the story behind reclaiming his car here):

Nearby on the warm Miami night, I met Jess for a moment at Sweat Records where the air conditioning was out, but enthused local musicians and artists were in and around—one comparing my dress to a Stereolab album;

for a certain set, Sweat Records is a community space model unique in Miami that connects through poetry readings, music, ironic shirts, shared pie, and Peeps on the craft table for peeps of all sorts—

Note: that’s Sweat Records owner Lolo smiling at the end of the above video.

Last night, I watched eight philosphers riff on meaning in the film Examined Life playing at the Miami Beach Cinematheque on Espanola Way. Likely I’ll frequent this ongoing film festival and the crêpe place next door, where my fabulous friend Dianna and I discussed the film, and deliberations, community spaces, and the transient realities of Miami.

This morning, I woke hoping to find the purple, diaphanous dress of my dreams (where is that sewing machine?) in the closet to match these Janus-like water hyacinths that bloom in the ponds around the magic cottage in April and August.

Last year, I compared these to a data visualization using the Many Eyes tool; this year, upon closer examination, even the stems seem to sparkle—stunning the closer you lean in (see the larger version here).

From one stem, the petals face in many directions (Janus was the god of doors and beginnings) like the stance scholar Kwame Anthony Appiah takes in the film and his work that the cosmopolitan citizen understands multiple ideologies and ways of sorting the world as equally valid.

And in our continuing coverage of spider web season, here’s a new web for your Saturday—