Spider webs spin while I cook in the cabin, and Wednesday night, silvery filaments flashed across the open doorway to the deck as I stirred red burger onions in a pan,

Adding rice to toast in the oil with the onions for a minute, I deglazed the pan with half a cup of vermouth (white wine will also work, but the new vermouths, crafted with care, are lovely and nice to keep on hand, especially to pair with boquerones). I added most of the quart of chicken stock from Old Creek Ranch that I found at the Cabrillo market,

and then about a cup of mashed strawberries, letting the sweetness simmer into a bright hue, and a little heavy cream to finish this surprising risotto (recipe), adding peppery rocket lettuce and local almonds as a garnish.

My friend Jessica mused earlier this week on ways strawberries could be savory. Like Jessica’s energy for new projects, often of words that arrive in startlingly new places, there is a lightness in this recipe that lends itself to flexibility.

It is rather like what I hoped “Top Chef” would be; a figure like Tim Gunn would sweep into the room, unveil an ingredient and cooking style (instead of a branded product), exhort “Make it work!” and swan out, leaving a preternaturally talented chef to arrive at this blushing first course.

While I was considering ways to incorporate this into a dinner party menu, I discovered another web winking beneath my deck chair, and I rose to roast radishes (400 degrees F for 15 minutes) so they almost burst,

leaving the fennel raw, and using a mandoline to slice the root thinly into mandalas,

then I pan-fried local Monterey Bay red snapper from that afternoon’s market with olive oil and crushed red pepper, letting a little of my aioli melt into the fish and then the fennel and radishes,

all different shades of pale and pink, before I began seeking out even more spider webs in the rest of the evening’s light…

When yogurt crosses over to the savory side—not merely tangy or as a counterpoint to sweet, interesting things happen. Yesterday afternoon, I stirred a little tahini and a few cloves of minced garlic into Saint Benoît Yogurt (sometimes I crisp chickpeas with cumin and sprinkle them on top when I make this) and spooned it over rainbow chard, drizzling hot oil over the yogurt in a circuitous path.

Looking at the chard pieces that shine like jewels when sautéed, I laughed at precious food labels and had a bit of fun, making the shape of a cross with boquerones as the yogurt sauce spread over the chard like a halo. This yogurt’s consistency differs depending on the season, slightly thinner in the summer months when the ladies drink more water in Sonoma County.

I thought of my friend Holly (you should read her book), who never takes herself too seriously as she covers weighty topics in food politics (she was, at one time, an AP journalist) and creates beautiful, healthy food that she writes about with humor and grace.

My favorite part of this recipe (and the part I think Holly will especially appreciate) is massaging the chard leaves with salt (dice and sauté the chard stems, with carrots if you like, during the leaf massage), feeling the leaves’ bouncy greenness; after a few minutes, rinse off the salt and squeeze out excess water before wilting the leaves in the medium-high pan, where they retain their color. Meanwhile, warm pitas or naan to dip in this meze (lavash is the more correct bread here, but I find naan easier to make or locate).

Though I rarely see Holly to eat together in person, I always feel my kitchen is connected to hers, even as we both travel and cook in new places—

It’s really Tuesdays with Kim (김), the Korean equivalent of Japanese nori; the sparkly sheets of roasted seaweed crown the top of plates or, mixed into chèvre, can be cut and subtly flavor the center of a plate filled with radishes from Happy Boy Farms.

Yesterday felt like an afternoon for a tea party with Pimm’s cups, so I used this recipe as inspiration and filled a plate with radishes, a mustard oil concoction, chèvre-김, butter, and salt, dipping the spicy radish greens into the oil in this very deconstructed salad.

My friend Brian has a fun Tumblr blog for a backyard garden in Chicago he cares for with friends, and their Cornelia Farms radish harvest is only the beginning of what they have planted for the summer season.

But this recipe is for Mica, who always leaves lovely comments on this blog (and has for years now), and who recently undertook an expedition to find her Korean birth mother. I’m very proud of her strength and perseverance during a difficult search. You can follow her adventures–they often involve food too–on her blog.

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—

In honor of Julia, and for the PBS Tell Us Your Julia Story event (you can add your Julia story here) we are making eggs with cream. And I am happy to introduce you to my Brooklyn kitchen, the setting for future kthread cooks episodes. Though I cannot warble, these eggs sing the praises of a woman who labored over recipes to let everyone experience her joie de vivre.

You can skip my Julia monologuing, and begin by making mayonnaise by processing one egg for ten seconds, then slowly drizzling in 1 cup of vegetable oil while the machine is running. Add 1 teaspoon lemon juice and season to taste; it will keep for a week chilled. Then, dice mushrooms (I use black trumpet here) and cook with 1 teaspoon of oil on med-high heat until they release their juices—about 5 minutes. Remove from pan, turn heat to medium and add two eggs, whisked (reserve one eggshell), and a tablespoon of heavy cream; gently fold eggs until softly scrambled—2-3 minutes. Spoon eggs back into eggshell and then around it on the plate; serve with mayonnaise and with potatoes, if you like (I sautéed baby potatoes and amaranth leaves with garlic).

Bon appétit!

reading recommendation: My Life in France, Julia Child with Alex Prud’homme

listening recommendation: the snappy “French Chef” opening theme

dance recommendation: waltz for Julia and Paul

eggs for Julia wallpaper on Flickr

drink pairing: beer, your choice

salt recommendation: Fleur de sel, of course (kosher in a pinch)

Your Julia memories?

More kthread cooks episodes on this page and on the Vimeo channel.