I know you need new music for the holidays. DJ kthread is here for you. This one is a little uneven, but with punchy, beautiful resolution (much like this time of year). While the playlist began as full of lads, the final version below attempts to represent a wider circle of cheer; the Mountain Goats and Tribes’s tracks seem to me particularly appropriate for those returning “home” for the holidays. Please accept my hearty wishes for your continued health and happiness in the new year. Previous kthread spins sessions are here.

Playlist:

“Little Blu House” Unknown Mortal Orchestra
“Future Starts Slow” The Kills
“Impossible” G-Side (Javelin remix)
“Cover Your Tracks” Young Galaxy
“No More Words” Anna Calvi
“The Unsinkable Fats Domino” Guided By Voices
“Forever and Ever Amen” The Drums (Saint Etienne remix)
“Where Is My Mind” Glowbug (Pixies cover)
“Damn These Vampires” The Mountain Goats
“Hook You Up” Sylver Tongue
“Nightdriving” (demo) Tribes
“Grey Shirt & Tie” Spector (The Big Pink remix)
“All Waters” Perfume Genius

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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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Thank you to Saneel for inviting me (and to Kevin for connecting us), Shaun for moderating and working through panel structure and questions, and my co-panelist Peter of LEGO. I’m glad to now know about the AFOL community. Nice crowd of people with smart questions in attendance and thank you for those of you who cheered me on from the Internet.

The uncut video (it is an hour and lots of change long, I appear in the beginning half and then at the final forty minutes of Q & A) is below, and the slides below that.

Thoughts? I’d really like to hear from you.

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A few weeks ago, I hopped a flight to London for a weekend jaunt, arriving Sunday morning to a clear sky and a quiet walk from the tube to my hotel near shiny gates of some renown.

And taking a cue from the statue, off I went, exploring,

through dappled sunshine (it really was) in parks,

and landmarks, and fountains,

past impressive buildings,

all on the way to find a gift my friend Ben hid for me using my new mobile app for hiding and finding gifts, Galvanize. Here’s what happened with the gift:

After dinner with new friends, I woke up on Monday ready to continue my walking tour of London, starting in Notting Hill. I noted the food vendors on Portobello Road,

and stopped into the loveliest shop with prepared foods I have ever encountered, The Grocer on Elgin, for a sandwich, local milk, and an intriguing package of Pavlova Magic.

From Notting Hill, I ventured toward Smithfield Market,

near to food pilgrimage site St. John, where I beamed through a beautiful late lunch of nettle soup with snails, bone marrow salad, and Eccles cake served with cheese (pictures wouldn’t do it justice).

Then, it was to Westminster Abbey, of course,

and to wave at Big Ben and Parliament,

and watch the London Eye slowly rotate (it’s fun being a tourist),

then walk the Thames,

as falling leaves skittered across the paths and the dusk settled in,

over the London Eye’s continuing rotation and the bagpipes playing,

as I went off to Oxford Circus for more adventures (and most notably, delicious raw milk gelato at Scoop) to complete a wonderful quick trip.

London, thank you for the fair weather, and I hope to see you again soon…

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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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Although I threw a fried green tomato party lately, the post was without fried green tomatoes—mostly because we were all having too much fun by that point, and partly because it was actually my talented friend Dan who worked the pan on the party greens while I circulated with bottles of champagne.

And so this past Friday, I took a last green tomato, sliced it, and fried slices coated in a mix of flour and cornmeal in the renderings of country bacon,

piling them into a favorite sandwich of drizzled buttermilk ranch (homemade aioli, buttermilk, scallions, lemon juice) on top of crisp butter lettuce, squash blossoms, and Broadbent’s Kentucky bacon.

Then yesterday, Dan and I set out on an adventure to the fi:af Farm City Fair at the Invisible Dog Gallery in Brooklyn.

We found fun buttons,

one that later Dan decorated his bag with,

and we were just in time to experience the Asphalt Orchestra (part of Bang on a Can) performance where the musicians really interacted with the crowd,

spreading out, reforming, using megaphones, spinning around themselves when the moment moved them to the great joy of everyone there for the festivities.

There were hydroponics on display from the Boswyck group in Bushwick,

and the scene was really around the distributor of balloons,

as you might imagine.

Wonderful local food vendors were serving foods about to disappear with the end of summer, and Marlow and Sons delivered with a beautiful fried corn that shone with butter, perfectly warmed pear tomatoes, and mint.

Dan and I were also there to learn about wheatgrass artistry from Mathilde Roussel-Giraudy—this piece is a stomach,

and these figures took a week to grow (you are to be impressed at this).

Out in the garden there was a colorful compost pile,

and inside were demonstrations, my favorite being the one from BK Honey,

where combs were sliced and the honey extracted, sparkling as it was released from its cells.

As we left, Dan and I met a vocal “expert” composter with impressive newsprint millinery,

and had a lovely long walk back past painted murals (Dan took this one of me),

robots that we couldn’t help falling for (and I adore Dan, by the way, we had such fun),

and after I hugged him goodbye, the rain started to fall in the neighborhood.

I decided to make gazpacho andaluz,

while I roasted new potatoes and a chicken.

As usual, I think the simplest recipe best, so to make gazpacho andaluz for two on a rainy Sunday afternoon at the end of tomato season,

take four large ripe tomatoes (for this, choose classic red tomatoes grown with care instead of heirlooms). Chop one tomato with the skin and set aside in a bowl.

With the food processor running, drop in two cloves of skinned garlic, then three spring onions (green and white parts), then the three quartered, cored tomatoes. Let one slice of pullman loaf soak up the juice on the cutting board from the tomatoes and then add it to the processor. Add 1 tbsp good sherry vinegar and 4 tbsp olive oil as it spins. Season and spice it as you like; many serve chopped peppers and onions as condiments alongside.

If you have time, chill the soup (you might set the serving bowls over ice for a few minutes), then ladle it into bowls, topping with the chopped tomato and any garnishes. I’m happy to report my taster enjoyed his without garnishes and ate part of my bowl too.

For more on the City Farm Fair, please watch Dan’s excellent and hilarious video and read his Renegade Kitchen post about our magical day:

Farm City Fair from Renegade Kitchen on Vimeo.

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Well, I usually make this salad with octupuses.

(Look for the little red Matiz Gallego boxes of tinned octupus and sauté them in olive oil.)

Instead of octupus, yesterday I found beautiful local squid at the market that I battered in a 1:1 mix of flour and beer, fried in a shallow pan of olive oil, and placed on top of roasted haricots verts and quartered fingerlings (try 425 degrees for 20 minutes, shaking occasionally) and chopped purslane.

Toss the roasted beans and potatoes with olive oil, salt, and pimentón or crushed red pepper, then add the seafood and squeeze a few lemon wedges on top.

With the fried squid (it makes me sad that Americans usually associate calamari only with a tomato sauce, as it’s so lovely with yogurt or pesto or on its own), the delicate batter crunches, then the roasted potatoes give way, and the green beans snap.

Purslane, when you can find it (usually near the herbs at the market—be careful not to pick spurge when you are foraging for purslane) is perfect raw here, with tart, crunchy little leaves and buds sprinkled on at the end.

It’s about as composed a salad as I can stand, and you can let guests mix their portion on the plate if you like.

Similarly composed is my friend and former PBS colleague Cameron, who just arrived in Northern California. It’s great to watch Cameron and Morgan transition to this coast, and he was rocking an urban alpine look earlier this week,

maybe more likely to scale the mountain of green beans at markets (quite seriously, those two handle every new adventure, outdoorsy or otherwise, with aplomb).

The table of green did inspire me to make the octopus salad as I roamed this week’s largest farmers’ market. Pictured are green beans; I keep a sharp eye for slender haricots verts that work better in salad and located them at a neighboring vendor.

The downtown Santa Cruz market always has dramatic bouquets,

children dancing, somewhat mellowly, to local musicians,

and a stand with noteworthy flavors that change with the market offerings from frozen geniuses Scream Sorbet. This is their roasted corn sorbet.

At markets across the country, I always see the longest lines and happiest vendors at seafood stalls, which seem continuously busy during market hours.

Accordingly, my favorite stand at the local markets around Santa Cruz is H & H Fresh Fish, where I found the squid from Monterey Bay for yesterday’s salad, and on Wednesday,

with half the stand shucking oysters I find impossible to pass up,

I saw coon shrimp, often used as bait. (See the lovely squid above them?)

The shrimp’s stripes match the lines of thin noodles, and Wednesday night I made the dish I hold is better than scampi—hot or cold soba noodles with Momofuku scallion sauce (recipe) underneath sautéed shrimp that go well with the green onion tops and ginger.

Note: With these colorful shrimp, remove the shell, but keep the heads on for flavor (like crawfish, there is a specific way to savor the heads I’ll leave you to discover).

All of summer produce is cause for celebration, and with tomatoes also at their height of flavor, I made a California Caprese salad this week with lemony sorrel rather than basil between buffalo mozzarella and slices of heirlooms,

thinking how one small variation to a recipe can make it new, yet again…

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With only a vague idea of what Saturday might bring, I made a speck sandwich (this is the beautiful La Quercia Speck Americano you may be able to find near you) after yoga and waited for my wonderful friend Margaret and her family to arrive.

Another stop in downtown Santa Cruz for our friend Stephanie and her daughter Amanda, and then our boisterous carful was off to Pescadero for the town’s annual day of barn sales.

Amanda, Zsa, and Madeline whispered in the backseat until we arrived,

we all smiled at the day ahead,

and especially as Roman freestyled down the road,

as we approached the goats and dairy shop at Harley Farms.

There were goats to meet (I think this is Tony the Goat with Zsa Zsa),

near a great sign for edible flowers,

and my favorite blue edible flower, borage,

was growing near the fence that was painted (like the buildings) with goat cheese, a usual paint choice in the nineteenth century.

Upstairs at Harley Farms they hold monthly farm dinners,

and five courses begin after you tour the farm (sounds lovely).

Close to the goats at Harley Farms, large fields of vintage objects awaited—

Stephanie and I found an old pressing machine,

Margaret showed Roman a dragon’s flight path,

Stephanie found books for a side project she intends to pursue (Stephanie pursues things with admirable and directed intention),

and Zsa Zsa, Amanda, and Madeline negotiated for Barbies. (I’d like Summer Splendor Barbie’s outfit, especially the hat.)

Pescadero is known for Arcangeli’s Grocery and the artichoke bread they sell warm with a crispy crust and whole artichokes baked inside, and I now understand why the bread is worth the drive.

I’ll likely always remember standing in the sun on Pescadero’s main street with Margaret and Stephanie, wise women and mothers both, tearing off pieces, dipping the bread in a spread of artichokes and sun-dried tomatoes, and listening to bluegrass as the girls continued the Barbie negotiations…

Later that afternoon, I drove to Los Angeles to celebrate the day with other amazing women in my life. Saturday night we gathered at fire-station-turned-bar Edendale Grill to raise a glass to LJ’s next adventures (Laura has just begun a fun new gig befitting her passion for all things pop culture).

On Sunday morning, Laura and I were happy to hear Leftover Cuties playing the Santa Monica Farmers’ Market (video I took of them covering “At Last” a few months ago), the lead singer with her signature apple maraca that seemed particularly appropriate to the venue.

Children danced while their parents watched and talked at this very social market,

Laura and I did an initial market lap, comparing peaches, wondering about these artichokes, which are trimmed for steaming a day ahead of the market, revealing their purplish insides.

Laura’s friend Amy met us soon after,

and I sipped a coconut (the Planet Raw food stand will later halve the fruit so you can spoon out the lovely coconut meat),

and we made our way through daunting omelettes.

We watched passersby eat juicy pluots from the closest stand and stopped for a few on our way out of the market,

and I watched the sweet drummer let kids bang the Leftover Cuties’ drum kit, crashing away into the late morning as Laura and I strolled back to Venice for a beach day and Broadway night, catching the cast of “In the Heights” at Pantages Theatre with LJ.

Over dinner, we talked of the New York that Laura frequently visits, the one LJ soon returns to for a month or so, and the one I drive back toward in just a few weeks…

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These are marionberries, and below are olallieberries. See the difference?

It’s difficult. The olallieberries are slightly longer. (And the family tree of berry cultivars is fascinating, if you’re into that kind of thing.)

I wanted to wait until after the July holidays of American and French independence before posting about my favorite summer dessert that begins white, bleeds red, and sometimes turns bluish-purple, all while being quite British: summer pudding.

Put simply, summer pudding is quality bread soaked in tart berry juice, traditionally currants. At this moment in the summer, the dark berries at farmers’ markets are perfect—go for any in the blackberry family, and red or white currants.

I like to do these as individual summer puddings in ramekins of four or six ounces (or small bowls of that size); you’ll need a pint of berries for each one and a nice large brioche loaf or pain de mie will do for four to six puddings.

To make: Start by lining each ramekin with plastic wrap while simmering all the berries (try to include a few different types) and adding a tablespoon of sugar for each pint in a large saucepan for five minutes, until the berries break down and release liquid.

Spoon a tiny bit of juice at the bottom of each lined ramekin, then fit bread slices (crusts off, sliced into half-inch thick lengths) in a single layer at the bottom.

Cover with fruit and juice, add a layer of bread, add fruit and juice, then a layer of bread, and more fruit and juice on the top.

Cover with plastic wrap and chill overnight with a weight on top of each to smush it properly (large tomato jars work well).

Unmold and serve with whipped cream, if you like, and a little additional syrup (in case you missed spots with juice).

I find people who dislike dessert like these because the puddings are less sweet and somewhat of an acquired taste, harder to love than the ubiquitous desserts of strawberries and blueberries in their customary dousing of sugar, and well worth the effort—

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Last night was another magical Thursday summer salon at Fairy-Tale Farm in Santa Cruz,

and the crafts table was soon crowded with feather artists and those skilled in the ways of pink fur.

Margaret’s daughter Zsa Zsa (wearing a pink dress that matched her zebra jacket) showed us her flower clip creation,

and I noticed the wonderful sticker affixed to the front of the rickshaw that is a new addition to Fairy-Tale Farm (what a great Santa Cruz organization name).

And then, as the Old Spice Man, who owned the Internet this Wednesday, might say, I’m on a rickshaw.

And then my friend Mike was on the Fairy-Tale Farm rickshaw (and later, so was the open source coder, angling her guitar to play from the cart).

The farm market continues to be part of the salons, and I was happy to have fresh strawberries and butter lettuce,

as well as Aslan’s wild nettle pesto and raw goat’s milk cheese with herbes de Provence and lavender. I always trust people with fantastic millinery and retro apron skirts, and Aslan also makes olallieberry mead, so I hope her lovely wares will be at the farm market again.

Hosts Debora and Karsten made great rice with pine nuts and almonds along with vegetables and the plum pie was warm,

drawing all of us toward the table near a large basket of plums.

Later, another plum pie, this one with a lattice crust, emerged from the farm kitchen and I cut a slice of that one, catching up with Margaret and Mike on all the Bastille Day antics in town.

Throughout, Madeline revealed herself to be the Chicken Whisperer, holding one, and then another, the new white, and two at once, persuading everyone to walk around with a chicken tucked under an arm.

Margaret pointed out grapes growing on a trellis near the roof, and I knew that Debora and Karsten would continue to surprise as organic curators of this weekly event and their space,

just as Margaret’s son Roman would continue to surprise with his joy at new toys and accessories.

Back in my kitchen, I took my collected treasures from the farm and made a fairy tale of a salad,

breaking the soft lettuce into smaller pieces, tossing the leaves with a little of Sciabica’s olive oil Kassandra thoughtfully brought me from the Embarcadero market last weekend, cutting in strawberries and crumbling in the herbed chèvre,

using the rest of the strawberries this morning on hot biscuits (Mica, this picture is to remedy the regrettable lack of biscuit documentation in the last post),

Both times, while eating the strawberries, I closed my eyes like the crafters last night and reveled in summer…

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Even more beautiful than big, bright dahlias (that apparently the Aztecs ate—but the flowers are not the food subject for this post),

my sister Kassandra came to visit this past weekend,

and we made roasted portobello sandwiches with homemade aioli, cut cherry tomatoes, and rocket on local bread rolls while we spilled secrets, as sisters do.

(To make this sandwich, place a portobello for each person on an oiled baking pan with a nice pat of butter and minced garlic (1/2 clove per person) on top, and roast at 400 degrees Fahrenheit until the butter has cooked through (about 20 min) and then assemble sandwiches—try to find arugula or watercress, as the spicy bite will cut the richness.)

Visits to the beach, drinks downtown, making biscuits and strawberry jam in the kitchen, watching old movies, shopping for vintage, talking for hours and hours—I am so proud of Kassandra’s strength and sense of humor as she creates a life as a dancer and choreographer (more on her personal site).

On Monday we cooked together, as we like to do, for my friend Margaret, making the stuffed squash from my last post along with crispy croutons for the salad and potatoes for the quinoa.

It was the first time I’ve entertained in the cabin this summer, and I enjoyed watching who was more adept with their phone as we ignored texts and calls to sit and talk together—and it was a tie, I think, between Margaret and Kassandra.

For dessert, we roasted some small, halved Blenheim apricots (again, at 400 for about 20 minutes) that appear for a few fleeting weeks in the summer,

and topped them with whole yogurt (I’m fond of Pavel’s Russian Yogurt from San Leandro) and local raw wildflower honey.

And later that night, Kassandra was off to go and set choreography on dance companies around the country, but I smiled to know I will see her again in about a month as I drive back to Brooklyn…

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The spider webs on the porch glinted from every angle last night as I considered the squat little squash that make me smile when they appear at farmers’ markets.

I’ll concede it’s precious, but stuffing is the best use of this squash shape, and the little green vessels sit regally on top of a bed of corn and new potatoes—potatoes to match the quinoa, an Incan grain, that is one of the smallest whole grains (amaranth works well here too), a complete protein, and one that cooks quickly.

To make this, heat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit, and prepare half a cup of dry quinoa in a separate pan while making the filling.

Filling: use two or three round squash (per person, this recipe is for one) and cut the top off about half an inch from the stem, scooping out the inside (leave a quarter of an inch of squash flesh inside).

In a tablespoon of oil, sauté half an onion until translucent, add the diced squash insides, a pinch of crushed red pepper, salt, and cook 4-5 min on medium.

Stir the onions and squash into the finished quinoa, add a diced tomato and its juice (this keeps it moist inside the squash), half a diced avocado, a clove of minced garlic, and a few chiffonaded squash blossoms, if possible. Stir.

Spoon into squash, recap squash, place in small baking dish with a quarter of an inch of water in the bottom to steam the squash while they roast. Cook 45 min, serve, roasting the corn and potatoes in a separate dish alongside the squash or in a pan on top of the stove.

While many vegetables work well in this stuffing, I like what is at market nearest the squash best. It seems wrong to me to stuff these with meat, as some recipes call for, as the squash are so good filled with the tiny popping quinoa and, ah, squash that then tastes of the tomatoes, garlic, warmed avocado, and hot summer nights…

This recipe is dedicated to my good friend Ben, who has been cooking without dairy lately, and the talented (and hilarious) writers of Vegansaurus.

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I spent Saturday afternoon surrounded by the flowers of Esalen, an institute and retreat center in Big Sur.

The flowers are near the gardens,

and visitors are encouraged to take a sweet pea or two with provided scissors,

There is incredible energy in this place where those seeking to learn arrive for workshops and seminars,

to see parts of themselves unfold in brilliant colors.

From the gardens, I could hear the poets on stage as part the day’s Arts Festival, so I left the orange dahlias,

to see what words were being spoken—

beyond impressed with Dr. Thema Bryant-Davis’s performance, especially her (famous) “An Upbeat Black Girl’s Song” that rang out over the grounds.

I wandered over to where hula hoops revolved near the mineral baths,

and plantings of succulents,

and returned to watch the opposite stage as someone chalked a peaceful heart in blue near my feet,

as the tribute to to Francisco Aguabella (1925-2010) with Jesus Diaz & Pedro “Muñeco” Aguilar began, and I was inspired by another fierce female artist, Kati Hernandez, who commanded the audience’s attention.

Kati was joined by another dancer who left his microphone to dance in front,

until she appeared in a different costume (the blue costume symbolized the maternal force of water, known as Yemayá in these traditions).

Then, the two danced together after the different types of Afro-Cuban rumba (Rumba Yambú, Rumba Guaguancó, and Rumba Columbia) were explained,

and the group’s performance on the bright stage hung with prayer flags ended with a huge audience conga line around the space and everyone on their feet (also, the drummer in the center with the cap was phenomenal).

As they finished, the festival founder and creative director Jayson Fann (here in the hat) was readying the next performer, Viviana Guzmán—part of a seamless string of talent that graced the stages throughout, and not an easy feat with an entire day of different acts.

As Viviana’s set started, beautiful local food began to be served:

a local halibut, local corn, and three salads with lettuces grown at Esalen ( “greens that haven’t seen a mechanized vehicle!” a proud server crowed).

Grateful to my friend Bella Shing for alerting me to the event (she’s lovely, and ran a filmmaking intensive as part of the festival), I left the celebration of artists and food and nature to drive into the sun around Big Sur,

inspired by all the views of the day on the misty drive back to my cabin…

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My favorite tracks in this podcast are “Honey Life” by the Rentals, “Our Younger Noise” by Letting Up Despite Great Faults, and the “Moon River” tribute (to his mom) from Kid Koala with P Love. Song list below; more of my podcasts here.

“Day We Met” (Golden Ages remix) MillionYoung

“Living in America” (The Poindexter remix) DOM

“One Above One” Vitalic

“Glockenspiel Song” Dog is Dead

“Careful” Local Natives

“They Are Coming” (Warrior One remix) Husky Rescue

“Coquet Coquette” of Montreal

“Our Younger Noise” Letting Up Despite Great Faults

“Honey Life” The Rentals

“Saviour” Teen Daze

“G O R G E O U S” Mickey Mickey Rourke

“Moon River” Kid Koala and P Love

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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.

Related posts:

1. artichokes, breaded and trimmed
2. you are awesome and beautiful
3. pppsst: spsp (summer pesto squash pasta)