As my friend Fil put it yesterday, 2011 had such great heights. And all of the valleys that accompany the peaks. These were my favorite moments of the year, in chronological order:

The year started beautifully in Miami, on hammocks.

February brought a circle of friends to begin the New Year of the Rabbit with Chinese tea eggs, boiled soft, then steeped in tea to reveal, upon cracking, marbleized interiors.

Just after my March birthday, K and I flew from chilly New York to Barcelona,

the city of Gaudi architecture, and this strange and wonderful cathedral, eternally being built.

My year was to look like this roof on the Santa Caterina Market,

but I didn’t know that yet.

We were then to Cannes, with its crêpes and cider, and my first time with Margalet cheese from the Ceneri cheese shop,

and to the famed La Colombe D’Or.

In the late spring, I joined the designer coworking space Studiomates and dressed all in purple for our Rainbow Parade.Image by Erin Sparling.

May was also my first crawfish boil, part of a road trip that included an amazing family in Madison, Mississippi, who boiled 335 pounds of crawfish.

I was overwhelmed with the abundance of food and the hospitality. To eat a crawfish correctly, you pinch the head and then, well, they chalked instructions for those of us shyer in handling crustaceans.

The weekend helped me remember my steel magnolia roots as I headed back to Atlanta to visit my mother.

June was my sister Kassandra’s wedding,

and this image taken by my sister Kat sums up my role as co-Maid of Honor, chasing down rogue antebellum sunshades in front of a historic plantation. I wrote a Fast Company piece about our use of tech during the wedding week.

But then, all the bridesmaids took our role seriously.

Image by Courtney Rosen.

Late June, K and I traveled to Amsterdam and spent time with wonderful friends Matt and Maia, piloting their boat through afternoon thunderstorms to discover bitterballen,

seeking out herring in season (Hollandse Nieuwe) at special stands, and spending time in our friend Gary’s magnificent kitchen.

We took a day trip to Cologne, with its cathedral and love locks.

From there: London in early July, with so many friends we forgot to take pictures. I remembered to bring the camera for a weekend in a 13th Century country house my dear friend Will engaged for a long weekend.

Shockingly, we spent the time eating the region’s renowned clotted cream,

preparing elaborate meals we took to eating outside,

and touring walled gardens.

I told an Ignite NYC audience why quitting a Ph.D. is the best possible option for some:

In early August, friends from graduate school Andrew and Annie announced they would be married in a week, and I filled the gas tank to drive to Chapel Hill, North Carolina and record the celebration. You see how they do things their own way, with great success. The bride wore blue.

And continuing my drive back up the coast, my friend Keryn let me pretend I lived in Maine for a week or so, opening her house and barn, as she always does. There were ferries and sunflowers and islands to see before returning to New York to teach my graduate class at ITP.

The fall brought considerable moments of quiet, struggles for professional growth as my consulting expanded, and the launch of my food magazine, Saucy.

In November, my sister Kat and I arrived in a former convent in Oaxaca, timing our trip to catch the end of the Day of the Dead celebrations, marvel at the Placido Domingo, puzzle over hand-drawn maps while bartenders poured local mezcal. We relaxed into chilaquiles and chocolate oaxacaquena con leche, then Baja fish tacos in Puerto Escondito. I will not forget the street vendor who drew a Sunday night crowd, pressing squash blossoms into tortillas she rolled out and grilled with Oaxacan string cheese. We traveled to visit my friend David in Mexico City and the Templo Mayor, the center of the Aztec universe. And Kat shared a Portland recipe, filling morels from the mushroom vendor at a local market.

Returning refreshed to NY, I shared my story about delivering bread in the early mornings of last winter, opening the TEDxEast November salon.

K and I began December in the tropical rainforest of Saba, a small Caribbean island with the shortest airport runway in the world. It was a perfect, and perfectly beautiful vacation.

Here’s to a spectacular 2012!

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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.

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My friend Annie does not wear shocking pink nail polish often. Only, it seems, when she lets her mom pick the color for her wedding day.

A day picked a week or so before, when the groom casually called to say they would be in Chapel Hill, North Carolina the following weekend and had decided to be married. Like the bride’s elegant upswept hair, the couple’s circle swirled into town to celebrate these two we hold dear.

I’ve known the couple since they first started dating in college seven years ago, when they used their shared prowess in typography, content curation, and editorial direction to shepherd the most interesting campus publications to glory and legibility.

It was a perfect occasion for all of those skills, from the bold ‘A’ for both their first names on the wedding programs to the thoughtful compression of the service itself, officiated by the groom’s poised sister Caroline.

And while Andrew waited in the sitting room,

Annie’s mother attached the pearl clasp upstairs,

the best friend since grade school zipped up the dress,

and we followed the path of candles outside.

Andrew strode in with his parents under the soft, hanging lights;

Annie navigated the steps with her parents.

And throughout the service where the two read the vows they had written (Andrew’s full of energetic, scientific metaphor, Annie’s an honest and straightforward promise) and the family read literary pieces that did inspire (Andrew’s father also read a sonnet he had written long ago), all of us couldn’t stop smiling.

Caroline gracefully took us through the service, pronouncing Annie and Andrew married.

The couple kissed, and Andrew’s brother Xander played us into the living room (in the foreground, his parents look on).

I assembled family for pictures, as you do,

pulling all the guests in for the big, crazy shot.

We toasted to the couple,

and ate delicious things (the bride’s mother makes quite a sausage roll bread!) Pictured at left.

then we ate more delicious things at favorite local restaurant Crook’s Corner,

all of which led to toasts around the whole table, each of us standing to say how we knew the two would support each other, as they always have.

They bring out the silly in each other (more evidence from Andrew’s 2009 talent show birthday party),

and they love each other something fierce.

Congratulations, you two. Thanks for letting me photograph your day. It felt, like everything you do, magic to be part of.

If you’d like to support the couple, both work in education and care deeply about issues of literacy. Andrew is currently running the Read, Write, Rock project that you can learn more about on the RWR site.

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Two of my favorite people live in Amsterdam, and a few weekends ago, Maia and Matt were draining the rainwater from their boat together.

The sun broke through the clouds like a champion on that Saturday morning, and we were off into the waterways as they traded driving duties.

I discovered how cars cease to exist from the purview of the canals,

and then the two introduced me to bitterballen, the traditional crunchy bar snack of Béchamel and diced meat crumbed and fried that arrive with mustard.

For dinner, we shelled purple hulls for the green peas to stir into scallion sauce on soba noodles under roasted chicken thighs marinated in soy sauce and watched the night lights luminate the canal bridge tunnels.

Kevin arrived a few days later, and we took the train to Cologne, stepping off the platform, through the station, and out into the sun, blinking at the beautiful cathedral.

The controversial stained glass inside by Gerhard Richter is startling in real life, as you stand and look up beside octogenarians who have pushed their glasses on top of their heads. You realize you are seeing the same thing they are.

After a proper night of pork plates and Kölsch served in the correct glassware, I went wandering through the rain the following morning, pausing at the women practicing aerial swordfighting on a wall (likely this is an exercise craze that will import to Brooklyn nicely),

and strolled the nearby bridge to read the sets of initials on love locks, fastened onto the gate by couples who then throw away the key together in the Rhine below.

Back in Amsterdam, we sought out herring (also broodje haring, which is the name for a herring sandwich and always on good brown bread), for the annual celebration of Hollandse Nieuwe. The Dutch favor picking it up by the tail and serve it with raw onions and pickles.

My favorite Dutch food is Boterkoek, a type of shortbread, and Kuyt Patisserie makes a perfect version. If you’ve ever made a cake-cookie, this is a shortbread cake-cookie with a chewy center and crispy edges. (I’m working on a recipe for the next Saucy mag issue.)

While front rooms from the 1700s look out over the canals, as Matt and Maia’s stunning apartment does (they were kind enough to let us stay as they traveled for work), rooms on the other side of buildings look out on private gardens,

and Kevin and I talked about the difference of views as we walked to local “brown cafes” that were appropriately “cozy” – the highest accolade in this city culture.

We were also upsold potatoes at restaurants with our friend Matt, and we marvelled at our friend Gary’s colorful rooms when we were invited over for a beautiful long dinner (and I’m cooking in his enormous kitchen next time we visit).

…

After a week or so in Amsterdam, we hopped a train to Brussels and took the chunnel to London, and I spent so much time riding around on the top of double-decker buses while exploring and then posing as an East Londoner (modeling my behavior after my good friend James, who lives in Stoke Newington and was a perfect host), that I rarely took pictures other than with my phone.

I will admit to a new and abiding fondness for eggs, sausage, chips, and beans at breakfast and that I continued to order black pudding everywhere we went. (More on my favorite food in London in the next Saucy.)

A few days into our London stay, I took a local train to the country to visit my friend Will, who had secured a manor house from the thirteenth century in Somerset for the weekend.

Will has a habit of gathering friends to country houses all over the world, so I wasn’t too surprised to be soon drinking Rosé and walking the grounds as Rachel helped him collect wood for the inspiring fireplaces.

After exploring the manor (I chose one of the secret rooms), we tucked into a lovely dinner planned and prepared by Sherrilynn and Matt in the substantial restored kitchen.

Two roosters battled for dominance outside my window in the morning while everyone slept in, and I crept out to the garden gate,

finding a machine in the garden,

before returning to the manor lawn to find Sherrilynn under a tree, as joyful as I always am to see the leaves filter morning light.

We all pitched in to make a “slap-up” breakfast (another new adjective!) of eggs with crème fraiche, beans, streakey bacon, leek sausage, and crumpet with clotted cream and strawberry jam to ease into the day.

After baths (more of those than showers in the manor), we split into expedition parties and set our sights on the Walled Gardens of nearby Cannington, where the nuns and monks are rumored to have met in underground tunnels in centuries past,

and the gardens now are curated by those who delight in strange succulent varieties.

Driving further into town, we were underwhelmed by Scrumpy at a nearby cidery, but we nonetheless took full advantage of their local dairy specialty, as you can tell from Will staring longingly at not the scone,

but the generous ramekin of clotted cream that the area is known for.

Back at the manor, we greeted the sheep,

and I followed Sherrilynn down the little path toward town (you can see Darrell on the returning end of his run),

to go past the pubs to the medieval church and its gargoyles,

finding the way back past the blackberry brambles and honeysuckle vines.

Rachel was smiling as Matt and Sherrilynn started dinner,

to the accompaniment of a delightful musical group that had produced an entire album of songs about cider.

Will worked his pie crust into the pan to bake it blind,

and I left the kitchen to join Will and Darrell in the garden,

setting up the table in the setting sun.

Sauteed mushrooms over chevre on bread with a port sauce paired very well with the company and the conversation (with Darrell sneaking raspberries into your wine at opportune intervals),

punctuated by corks flying into the air and laughter.

Later, the talented Sherrilynn and Matt would pull their banjos out and fill the old house with music and song, and I would relax deeper into a couch beside a fire that roared, feeling lucky indeed to have such good friends with such good friends that remain dear no matter where we live as the summers come and go…

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Last weekend I spent with some of my favorite people (such handsome men!) that I have known since I lived in Charlottesville—Ben, Stewart, and Michael.

Ben and I flew in for Stewart‘s performance on Sunday night, and the women of Stewart’s supportive family also arrived, laughing as they circled around him.

Stewart’s mother had a fiercely protective moment, but we all know how brave and how talented her son is as a singer-songwriter.

An altogether sweet weekend, I also located the wonderful Olive and Sinclair chocolate made in Nashville,

that seems to be hand-packed and stamped. I felt as though I were opening a Wonka bar…

but I already had a lovely guest bedroom at my friend Michaela’s house (Michaela and Harrison are admirable and awesome parents to Chapin).

And that evening, we waited outside patiently at the Bluebird Cafe to secure seats (you don’t need a ticket to hear a golden list of performers).

Stewart and I see each other less often than we’d like in recent months,

and I am a member of his fan club (I do have to battle the women at this table for club leadership titles, though),

Michaela and Ben were so fun to sit next to,

and at the end of the night, the announcer Steve Goodie held up Stewart’s CD,

before Stewart sang, his voice ringing out over the tables in the small space, singing “I’m Not Moving On,”

and “Backseat.” Such a wonderful Facebook husband he is (I’m so proud), and a singer-songwriter with such a bright career ahead of him…

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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.

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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—

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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…

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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.

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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…

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If I had to pick, Saturday would be my favorite day of the road trip, beginning with the town of Greybull, Wyoming that looked so like I imagined a small western town might,

and we continued on in the early hour past the Bureau of Reclamation on our way to a trading post,

with horns, of course,

and a welcome to the Land of Buffalo Bill at Our Place,

where we ate crispy hash browns and eggs with tomatillo sauce and bits of pork, and thick, smoky bacon and biscuits and gravy besides.

There was a persuasive woman carrying a basket of poppies around, and we showed our support for vets, (she instructed us to carry the red flowers with us around town).

Kat is standing here in front of a fireworks outlet, which seems like a great idea to build next to the daily rodeo center,

in Cody, Wyoming, the “Rodeo Capital of the World.”

We drove on past blue-green water, slowing down after two days of chasing the light down the highway,

startled by a Yellowstone covered in snow,

but most surprised to see a bison walking down the middle of the road. (This is the most powerful argument I can imagine for sharing the road.)

We saw bison later that day, too, but instead of the hooves clacking in a jaunty walk down the yellow line, this one was much more interested in eating grass.

Yellowstone holds incredible beauty,

and thermal energy.

We arrived near Old Faithful to be told we had one minute before the next eruption,

so we ran to join the crowd soon gasping as the heat curled away from the vertical geyser (the timing between each eruption is lengthening, apparently, which park attendants suggest may be yet another indication of climate change).

From Yellowstone, we drove through the Grand Tetons,

that amaze with their beauty, too.

And we pulled into the Jackson sunshine, to Snake River Brewing Co. for local beer,

and then margaritas, Yucatan pork, and chile relleno at the outdoor patio at Pica’s, where we overheard a fantastically encouraging (and heated) conversation between a tableful of collegiate guys discussing the merits of dairy; “It’s whole milk or no milk, John.”

And we returned to watch an equally impressive sunset from our cabin porch at Spring Creek Ranch (I highly recommend these accommodations a few hundred feet above Jackson Hole),

And the mountains were waiting for us in the morning, pulling us reluctantly from Wyoming and into Idaho, Montana, and Washington…

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Circling Madison, Wisconsin’s campus a few hours later, we stopped and ate cheese sandwiches at a free trade coffee shop, thrifted, and heading back to the road, were surprised to find Minnesota very beautiful for an afternoon drive, happening upon rows of turbines,

that we opened up the moon roof to capture,

and continued to pull over and watch as the sun set behind them,

a line of trees,

and a town near Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

Rising early, we were lured off the highway by signs for a Corn Palace.

Kat obligingly posed with a large ear of corn,

and shortly after, we pulled into Kimball, South Dakota on a whim, looking at the Ponderosa Diner and feeling very western indeed,

ordering a “cake and egg” plate (there’s a kthread cooks episode on this naming convention in the farther future), and smiling at regulars who wanted Kat to take their picture with her manual camera.

As we left, talking about the oil spill around Louisiana, our eyes widened to see this truck pulling out in front of us.

We found a store that opens sometimes, occasionally,

a church that has seen dozens of generations,

and even Kat examining the map couldn’t prepare us for the upcoming roadside attraction,

of 1880 Town, with many, many props from the movie “Dances with Wolves.”

I liked the Feed & Seed building,

and then all the machines in the garden—the technology of America past,

and we pulled ourselves away from the restored saloon and livery stable of buggies and carts emblazoned with signs for elixirs to light out for the eroded columns of the Badlands,

the caked cracks similar to my shoes,

and the striations in the rocks looking like the grainy lines on old television sets.

Deciding it was a moment for the supplies of fruits and nuts, we drove further,

stopping to stare in silence at the quartet of stony faces that had chiseled American policy and legacy.

The evening’s drive took us to Black Hills and Bighorn National Forests, through snowy banks on the roadsides,

until we saw snow on mountaintops in Wyoming,

passing the town of Ten Sleep ready for our own…

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and the poached egg on top of an egg scrambled into lemony sorrel over toasted brioche slices looked a little different than the breakfast sandwiches my wonderful friend Fil and I found a few days later, at a grill hidden inside a gas station on the way to Braddock, Pennsylvania on Monday, May 10th.

We unwrapped the foil to find our hash browns inside the sandwich of fried eggs, bacon, and mayonnaise—road food for a marathon day of driving.

A few hours later, we smiled at the sparkling mosaic sign in Braddock, Pennsylvania, proof of the artist communities that have formed here,

in this place that was once only known for steel.

We followed the signs around town, finding our way from one of the post offices to Braddock Farms,

gardens thriving near the steel mills,

with strawberries almost ready,

beds of flowers,

squares of dark, leafy greens,

and wider beds of tiny lettuces.

And even in abandoned buildings, we looked closely to see green growing on rooftops.

Different parts of this Pittsburgh suburb governed by Mayor Fetterman (who spoke at PopTech 2009 about his changing community) have architecture from different eras,

the oldest we found being the impressive Carnegie Library and its female herald of literary knowledge.

In the afternoon, we followed the yellow bridge road toward Ohio,

making our second road food stop at Henry’s restaurant in West Jefferson.

It was difficult deciding between the specials,

so Fil and I agreed to focus more on the dessert options.

The table was filled with corn, cole slaw, fried mushrooms, beets, and beef with noodles,

but it was the rhubarb pie that won Fil’s heart,

and the butterscotch meringue mine.

Singing all the way to Wilmington, Ohio, we met up with PopTech Fellow Mark Rembert who, with Taylor Stuckert (who was on a road trip himself) is energizing Clinton County, a community very different from Braddock in its reshaping for this new century.

After a tour of town and talk of local politics, Fil and I headed toward Chicago through the rain, battling fatigue with music, caffeine, and sporks.

On Tuesday morning, we readied for a day of preparation for the PopTech social mapping workshop and salon with breakfast omelettes at a Taste of Heaven (I really like how they serve vegetables like green beans alongside) with Fil’s good friend Erin, and I left with slices of carrot cake and morning bread with poppy seeds as snacks.

The carrot cake brightened an overcast day as I drove around West Chicago neighborhoods with my colleague Beth who directed filmmaker Daniel on interviews with Ceasefire “Interrupters” (look for her excellent video work on the PopTech salons page soon).

Wednesday was a full day of thinkers and creators listening and trying to think through solutions for timely crisis mapping and responding, capped with a full room of salon attendees, including women I greatly admire, PopTech Fellow Hayat Sindi of Diagnostics For All and PopTech Fellows Director Leetha Filderman, who are standing in front of Peter Durand‘s graphic report of the salon (Peter inspires me too).

Delayed by rains, my sister Kat’s flight landed in time for her to join us for the Chicago salon and reception, and that night we began to plot our route westward…

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On Saturday and Sunday night, the Storefront space held a banquet in six courses exploring quarantine, containment, and nourishment, led by underground food mastermind Michael Cirino of A Razor, A Shiny Knife (with others from the small expeditionary force of the food collective); the afternoon prep drew frequent passersby, popping in to ask about the curious equipment, watch trout roe suspensions in petri dishes.

The Sunday night guests began to gather in the late afternoon for demonstrations by Michael (poster design by Demian, who also cooked quietly and gracefully),

and after trimming the meat,

Michael explained the dry ice in a cooler finishing the spheres for the night’s final course.

and I began to see edible landscapes of quarantine.

The sparkling bits were whisked away in egg cartons as a different sort of bubbly sprayed from canisters to begin the first course.

course 1: the proliferation

Mike and Jonny filled test tubes with effervescent vodka amid murmurs,

the cooks donned white suits,

the guests found their seats and talked excitedly,

and the cultivated petri dishes were sent out with steelhead trout roe, angelica, licorice, and juniper,

and a bit of Meyer lemon powder that dissolved.

course 2: the fumigation

While a Dr. Unger Ried Silberbugel 2004 Riesling was poured, the kitchen area was filled with flowers,

Hirame slices topped the mache, sliced lardo was added, then petals,

assembled on jar lids to be smoked,

on the busy Manhattan street,

and presented in the smoky jars,

that guests opened, looking sideways at each other, as their sense of smell was engaged.

course 3: the isolation

For a course with Keith Tulloch 2007 Semillion, guests scissored into sealed bags,

saucing their own ravioli and releasing a tiny sprig of thyme from its plastic pouch.

course 4: the passage

I do hope for wedges of salad in an emergency situation (especially topped with bacon and cleverly paired with a 2005 Gigondas Les Espalines Cuvee Romaine),

and for steak that has been contained, dry-aging for 24 days, seared to a crisp crust and plated next to creamed spinach and potatoes in an appropriate violins-on-the-Titanic sort of culinary stroke.

course 5: the frustration

Shifting to a less giving course of waxen bread, cheese, and grapes arranged like a still life,

one guest unpeeled parts, expressing the title of this course, to create a very different look for the plate.

course 6: the revelation

Jonny poured Appleton Rum, the careful pairing for the final course,

a dessert tray of drinks imagined in solid form including a Daiquiri, Old Fashioned, and my favorite, the Cuba Libre (in a wonderfully moist cake of Coke and rum).

Those who had cooked were introduced,

and everyone in the room smiled—I think we all wondered what Michael might come up with for the next event…

Thanks to all involved for letting me take part; it was an honor to cook beside you.

For even more, I really like Mike Lee of StudioFeast‘s timelapse of the entire event and see the ARASK site for upcoming events:

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The roll is reason enough to visit the Brooklyn Flea in DUMBO on Sunday afternoons (and do try one of Mari’s caramel-salt brownies while at the lobster stand), but I also found vintage Lanvin and a Mark 27 with a “hideaway flash” that I think I can use with the same film the Brownie Hawkeye uses (my wonderful friend Eric is inducting me into his army of Brownie photographers).

I considered colored glass,

before spying Stevie’s album title and walking off to find music (the drum circle at Prospect Park) on a very warm July day…

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