Soon, slender purple kale stems slicked with olive oil rested on top of strands laced with minced raw garlic from purplish paper shells, roasted cauliflower, and Italian tuna packed in oil from an oblong tin, a treasure from the cupboard.

This particular purple kick can be traced to a fish taco on Saturday at the Brooklyn Flea, where purple cabbage was a vehicle for tomatillo and crema sauces—I consider the fish taco my lucky flea market charm that led to a handmade vintage dress in a piscine pattern (I’ll point it out in a future post).

Heading into Manhattan, I watched as words floated in the rain as this artist set up mobiles in Union Square, the adjectives attaching themselves fleetingly to tourists as they ducked past, and I walked into the wholly wonderful new film about fantastic foxes that felt as vintage as that dress.

On Sunday, I stepped past Sweetgums in their frantic final burst of color,

marveling at the difference a side makes (I tend to like the B side of leaves),

and the fruit that I have never understood.

In DUMBO in Brooklyn, still suffering from lobster withdrawal from my stay in Maine, I yielded to lobster grits at the Red Hook Lobster Pound stand.

And looking at this order much like the red and yellow sides of leaves, I saved the lobster pieces for last, eating the golden grits around them bound with butter and Parmesan.

Now I sit and mull the Thanksgiving menu for next week here in Brooklyn, sorting complementary colors for the full spectrum of food cravings I expect to arrive for a holiday focused on food, the family we inherit, and the family we choose…

Related posts:

1. treasuring the brooklyn flea
2. the woman in the yellow hat
3. the requisite fish taco

concentrating on painting pumpkins and unwrapping candy,

while their parents picked gourds to decorate tables and Brooklyn stoops,

as the foliage in New York began to look like the Maine leaves of last weekend.

In Camden, Maine for the PopTech 2009 conference, I found it hard not to stop and reflect when the afternoon light outlined edges.

Every street has a brilliant tree, inviting long walks to find more.

Last Sunday, on Ethan and Rachel‘s good advice (they were incredible livebloggers for PopTech 2009), I drove from Camden to Belfast, Maine, about half an hour away.

I passed through Lincolnville Beach, with its blue, blue water and sat in the quiet,

then happened upon raw milk near happy chickens running around a large yard.

Fortified, I arrived in Belfast and ordered a lobster melt (I would recreate with: thick slices of toast, lobster piled high, a dollop of homemade aioli to cook through, slight grating of Parmesan, all broiled for a few minutes with tomatoes, if desired),

then walked the Belfast shops before opening the door of Scoops and Crêpes (I join Ethan and Rachel in highly recommending), filled with families sharing sundaes, walls papered with drawings, and long menus of crêpes, ice cream specials, and flavors.

This is the turtellini, a warm popover with pecans and two scoops (pumpkin ice cream instead of vanilla) under chocolate and butterscotch sauces.

Delighting in the difference between well-preserved and precious towns, I kept pulling over on the way back to see what was shining on the side of the road.

And with a last lobster roll on Monday, I left coastal Maine,

chasing the colors back, that subtle trick played by Fall…

Related posts:

1. lobster pie and grape-nut custard pudding
2. sweetgum, floating words, eating by color
3. a return to charming maine

As though woven by chlorophyll artists, I noticed the slight tears and small holes in many of the leaves the other day. Perhaps part of the tropical storm weather, perhaps an inevitable consequence of their longevity.

They seem to tell stories–this one bruised by an old memory, that one letting parts be eaten away.

And then, I started to look through the gaps, thinking about the leaves as the negative space surrounded by the light.

It is the tears of these native leaves, then, that I’ll lean in closer to see, that beckon me into the end of the week…or is it the beginning?

Related posts:

1. very certain slants of light
2. transformative light in Miami
3. painting with light in dolores park