Zsa Zsa had patriotically painted her toes and her fingers for the holiday,

and with her brother Roman, sister Madeline, and her mom (my friend Margaret), we all watched the parade at Wilder Ranch yesterday at high noon.

The park was outfitted for the year 1910 for “an old-fashioned Fourth of July” celebration,

and Suffragettes marched with banners,

and signs and chants, demanding their right to vote,

and drummers and little red wagons marched close after—I think this woman below turned an actual flag into a tunic, and I salute her literal interpretation of the day’s dress.

One small DFW-ish note: The Wilder Family houses in the park are preserved to how they may have looked around the turn of the twentieth century, but it’s unclear to me why the celebration is fixed in the year 1910. My personal theory is that the docents are really into dressing up like Suffragettes, and I can support that.

Exchanging 2010 money into 1910 currency, we bought popcorn first,

and threaded our way past the decorated bikes and lawn chairs,

as everyone gathered for the addresses:

the flag raised to “The Star-Spangled Banner,” a stirring oration, and the reading of the Declaration of Independence by Bill Fitzgerald.

Margaret’s children disappeared into the giant plant (that eventually returned them),

and we visited the animals grazing, the chickens,

and deferred the wagon rides until later—

since the dust the wagons picked up was no match for Roman anyway,

who raced around the picnic blanket with a streamer like a torch,

while Margaret and Zsa Zsa were examining the palm leaf plates (verdict: we like them).

It’s wonderful to be able to make food for children without worrying about toning down flavors or that they won’t eat healthy foods (excellent parenting by Margaret and Rudolph), and we all ate salad with a balsamic dressing, bocconcini, and peaches along with snap peas, edamame, and chevre. The girls are vegetarians; Margaret and I tore prosciutto over ours.

And a pesto pasta with tomatoes and summer squash kept all afternoon as we played lawn games and wandered the property.

Madeline helped Roman with his spinner, as big sisters do,

and he sat still for just a moment,

very like the conductor leading the musicians in the Society Orchestra yards away from our picnic.

Later, it was hard to tell which side would win the Tug of War,

and I looked at the utensils in the Wilder Ranch kitchen, thinking about vintage kitchen tools.

Shortly before a round of the Cake Walk, Margaret modeled the family’s new bonnet,

as the docent explained the history of the tradition and the numbered tags were sorted out.

The family that cakewalks together…

(To Margaret’s mom: Hello! These two are especially for you.)

And the poised Madeline struck a pose as the music ended; soon we were off to the next event of the day, the destination for the second batch of pesto pasta:

a barbecue at Nadine and Jason’s lovely house, where the sun shone brightly on the back patio.

With a table full of good side dishes, I knew immediately that these guests took food as seriously as our hosts,

who were utilizing all the shelves for different meats in their new smoker (Nadine is separating the excellent ribs here—she’s fabulous, and you’ll likely see her again on this blog).

I believe these are the tomatoes with burrata (others had mozzarella) that I returned to, sipping a limoncello margarita,

and Mike arrived with homemade potstickers filled with pork and crunchy bean sprouts,

before a wealth of desserts appeared: mascarpone cheese with fruit in a balsamic sauce near Nadine’s chocolate Guinness ice cream that went very quickly,

and everyone had the peach ice cream with big chunks of peaches, another perfect dessert for the day,

before the bread pudding with cherries and whipped cream appeared on the counter.

It was a big, merry crowd for this party that was also the housewarming no one wanted to leave, and by the time I left with the Rosas family, it was almost dark enough for the fireworks.

In the most exciting display I’ve experienced in recent years, soaring hisses and snaps crackled from all directions as we watched the big color explosions from the beach—many immediately overhead, some lit just meters behind us, others set off across the water—all a surprise in a cacophony that continued into the night.

Such a colorful day full of small, funny moments with one of my favorite families (and part of my Santa Cruz family)…

More images in the Flickr set.

I suppose it was high time in this summer of reflection to make pain perdu, the more interesting version of what American cooks call French toast, this morning.

Most bread doesn’t have the chance to wander off and stale in my kitchen (pain perdu means “lost bread”), and the usual accompaniment is jam, rather than syrup—the better to eat it with as you wander off—but I digress.

Let butter brown in a skillet while beating a few eggs and milk with a fork in a bowl (to taste; try 2 eggs and a big splash of milk for four pieces), then quickly dip thick slices of bread (I used Capitola bakery Gayle‘s cinnamon-raisin bread) into the batter before sliding them into the pan to sizzle for a few minutes a side as you work on the garnish. I mandolined a large strawberry.

This eggy batter is a gift of my grandmother’s, the one she used to make a breakfast my grandfather would sprinkle with salt and my sisters and I would cover in syrup. I realize now that it needs little else straight from the pan—a few thin folds of strawberries or other seasonal fruit work nicely.

And this breakfast was in honor of my friend Alice, who (is a dedicated seeker of excellent versions of this dish and) was married on Saturday to a charming man she found. All happy returns, Alice—

The red blooms of Bottlebrush trees (Callistemon rigidus) bloom everywhere in Santa Cruz right now, and I’ve been inspired to cook red and orange foods in my cabin kitchen, like young dandelion greens with bacon and spring garlic (I added poached eggs for a frisée aux lardons riff),

steel-cut oatmeal with local apricots,

and migas with local eggs, Early Girl tomatoes, avocados, and squash blossoms.

When I first moved into the cabin a few weeks ago, it rained in the mornings on the garden’s roses,

and raindrops sparkled on sloping plant leaves.

Lately, the sun has been out early, like these bright flowers at the Cabrillo Farmers’ Market last Saturday morning,

where local producer Farmhouse Culture set up small barrels of tempting sauerkraut (I am partial to their garlic kraut that I like as a probiotic beginning to the day’s cooking—I haven’t started taking their popular kraut juice shots yet).

Meeting my friend Margaret and her family at the market, Roman decided he wanted an elevated view as he ate his carrot (Margaret is such a fun mom),

and I took an aerial view of my soba noodles with scallion sauce later that afternoon, grating carrots over daikon, adding sprouts,

and taking the bowl with some quick pickles I made shortly after to Renata’s house for a women’s potluck, I was surrounded by company as good as the food they had brought—artichoke bread from Pescadero,

salad with blossoms and vegetable curls,

and all the conversation that went on for hours,

with the fourteen of us preparing plates and then sitting in a circle, talking,

pausing only, really, for dessert (this is a beautiful gluten-free bavarian tart that a feng shui accountant brought).

On Sunday, I pulled off Highway 1 for local cherries for the drive to Los Angeles,

marveling, as I always do, at the views around Big Sur,

and smiling to see my good friends Ben and Jeremy, who pulled a homemade vegan pizza out of the oven soon after I arrived at their East L.A. apartment.

We reminisced and caught up on the news about our shared Charlottesville friends, and Ben told me about his spring semester classes that are ending and how the upcoming summer semester looks, calm as he always is, with much to impart to his fortunate students.

I woke to a quiet Memorial Day morning in their neighborhood before heading to Laura’s apartment in Venice,

where LJ joined us later in the day and found her new hula hoop (in appropriate holiday colors).

Laura effortlessly made a simple syrup for mojitos with mint from her herb box that we sipped from Mason jars,

while she added the crucial ingredient for the shrimp boil: Old Bay,

that did give the shrimp and stock a Maryland flavor,

and Laura, LJ, Allison, Jessica, Daniel, and I dipped bread in that nice stock and told memorable stories over the shrimp, andouille sausage, potatoes, and corn (that was even better in leftovers the following night).

Tuesday, Laura introduced me to Venice Beach Wines for lunch, and her sandwich with brie and grapes was almost as beautiful as mine,

with whitefish and pickles, another reason it was hard to leave yesterday morning, knowing how much of the menu I still needed to try (and Laura is always working on new projects and incubating new ideas, which is inspiring).

Back in my Santa Cruz cabin late in the afternoon, the spider webs began to glow on the deck as the sun faded;

and I made a sunny provençal sauce (my recipe) with Happy Dan chicken, overripe tomatoes from the market, local Sonoma sea salt, Gayle’s olive sourdough for the rest of the sauce,

that held a splash of Salinas, California’s Morgan Winery Pinot Gris.

I raised my glass to Louise Bourgeois (video, images), known for her spider sculptures, who died over the weekend at 98,

and I wished for the strands of my life to yield art as nearby spiders continued to spin furiously…

Waiting for us last Monday morning, at the bottom of the case at Spokane’s Donut Parade, were warm huckleberry doughnuts. Not overly sweet, the cake doughnut had a crisp bottom crust and soft interior, a good beginning to a drive around the city.

For our last morning on the road together, we decided Santé Charcuterie looked too interesting not to try for a fancy breakfast; Kat ordered their omelette with trumpet mushrooms, filled with house guanciale, arriving with deep yellow aioli.

My duck hash was easily one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had—duck confit and potatoes in a cream sauce under a duck egg, where the yolk added to the sauce for toasted slices of bread.

Driving slowly into Oregon,

we pulled over for a farm stand for Walla Walla onions, whose tops matched Kat’s green eyes,

and then we decided Maryhill Winery would be the right place to spend the afternoon.

Part of the Columbia Valley appellation in Washington (just above Oregon’s Willamette Valley and its Pinot Trail), this area is noted for Zinfandel and Chenin Blanc.

We looked at the many rows of grapes,

and stretched out, lazily, like the cat (who kept reaching for my wine glass) and lingered in the sun,

before the final, serene drive into Portland.

A dinner of small plates and very good beer at a very good bar (with a housemade pickle plate) were in order that night, all close to Kat and Reid’s new apartment—more on that when I visit them again later this summer—in their new Portland neighborhood of Alberta.

Tuesday morning they took me to their favorite coffee place down the street, Random Order, with its lovely pies and hot chocolate.

(Kat and Reid are quite serious about catching up on the news of the day in the morning.)

Dodging raindrops after a quick drive, we ducked into Broder for neat, filling Swedish breakfasts, as nicely designed as the restaurant interior—which makes the architect in Reid happy, I think,

and he showed us a ecohouse he is working on nearby.

By far, though, the best food I had in Portland was Kat’s—she roasted the asparagus we had picked up at the farm stand and placed it next to quinoa, the onions, and mushrooms, while Reid spun records, and we told stories and laughed about the eccentric places and characters we had met on the road.

I headed to San Francisco on Wednesday morning, making it to the 48 Hour Magazine party that night right on time, and shortly after walking into Coffee Bar, my friend Amit who runs Photojojo (they’re hiring) hugged me and told me it was his new roommate Karina’s birthday, and that I must try the Indian pizza they were ordering to celebrate.

Karina, who does anthropological work, is a recent Brooklyn transplant and began working at Twitter on Monday (she’s @kvanscha).

When we arrived at the group apartment, Natalie was hard at work on the birthday cake (a slight change from her wonderful Bike Basket Pies that she delivers on her bike all over SF).

As Amit’s shirt attests, pizza is the best and this pie with chickpea flour in the crust was fantastic. Their apartment filled with interesting friends, many of them in transition too, and I think it was the best way to begin my California summer, meeting new people with intriguing work also beginning new things.

Sitting in my redwood cabin this morning, I am still smiling from the trip, so happy to have spent five days on the road approaching this next chapter with my beautiful sister, who is also my best friend.

If you missed the beginning of the trip, start here, then go here, here, and here.

As Kat and I drove out of Wyoming, we noticed the bright sails of windsurfers in the Palisades, and tempted as we were to join the fun, we drove on until Spencer, Idaho,

with its many little opal-and-pop shops, including one with our favorite sign of the trip, Sue’s:

Kat was rocking bellbottoms,

and we found tables of rocks,

some that sparkled with quartz, others streaked with other mineral veins, and we carefully nestled our new pet rocks into the backseat and continued on to Montana,

where we found an almost-deserted town at Exit 0,

and a lone Union Pacific car,

and then we forged ahead, following miles of telephone poles next to irrigation systems to Butte, Montana.

We were crushed to find our road food destination Matt’s closed on Sunday,

with its wonderful throwback menu (I wanted to order buttermilk).

We circled this town of copper once known as “the Richest Hill on Earth,” and walking through a small passageway,

the Berkeley Pit shimmered purple in front of us, reflecting the clouds back in cool blue tints.

The light warmed on the hills as we drove north in Montana,

and local pizza and Bitter Root beer seemed the right afternoon choice for the college town of Missoula, quiet with its recent graduates off into the world.

Joining the crowd at Big Dipper Ice Cream,

I was very happy to order huckleberry ice cream,

while Kat had mocha chip.

We strolled through leafy neighborhoods,

with flowers,

and dandelions,

finishing our ice cream,

and decided maybe the Senior Center was the locus of Missoula action.

Crossing back into northern Idaho, we marveled at the clouds playing over the water in Coeur d’Alene, a little sad that we had only one more day of driving together on this trip…