Bar del Pi, Barcelona. November, 2010

On our first visit to Barcelona 15 years earlier, Jay had made a disapproving face when I ordered “do’ con leche” as I’d heard the locals do. (He’s a scientist and preferred the more precise “dos cafés con leche.”) So I was happy this afternoon on our most recent trip to the Catalan capital when we stopped into our favorite cafe, the Bar del Pi, for our favorite coffee and Jay ordered as the Catalans do. And here they are, all do’ of them, backed up by some lovely trays of olives, steamed artichokes and stuffed red peppers, items from that day’s tapas offerings.

Istanbul. October, 2011

I thought I knew what baklava was. Then I visited Turkey. In addition to the standard baklava “diamonds” of layered filo dough, butter, nuts and sweet syrup, I found dozens of other varieties that dazzled both eye and palette. Some sweetened with honey, some with sugar syrup. Rolls of pale green filo filled with ground pistachios then cut sushi-style to create thick disks of delight. Nests of shredded dough encircling hazelnut centers. Even chocolate baklava, somewhat less sweet than you would imagine. Regional varieties whose recipes are guarded and treasured. And some that are only produced for certain religious holidays. Here, acem gülü, open turnovers of filo with a dense filling of pistachios. So little time.

Rome. October, 1980

My first visit to Italy, thanks largely to the urging of my late friend Dali. She’d lived in Rome for awhile, her marriage broke up there, she found an Italian boyfriend. In short, she was the ideal guide. Born Dorothy to an Italian mother and Irish father in a comfortable suburb of Boston, she never, as far as I could tell, followed any conventional path. An art student (hence her choice to spell “Dolly” as she did) who went from answering ZOOMmail at Boston’s public television station to producing segments for PBS’s Masterpiece Theatre and Mystery!, she was the reason I’d moved to Boston in the first place, leaving a predictable teaching job in New Jersey for “the glamour industry” of television. Dali never looked more Italian than when we were in Italy, as here in the Piazza della Rotunda just steps from the Pantheon. I often feel like she’s guiding me still.

Fonda, Brooklyn, NY. December, 2010

An odd thing happens sometimes when I go out to dinner with Nick. The restaurant’s pastry chef either knows him or recognizes him and sends out lots of desserts. I can remember eating at Rialto in Cambridge, MA, one evening after Nick had been part of a presentation there earlier in the day. At dessert time, a large assortment of sweets was delivered to our table, and the pastry chef could be seen over in the corner, sneaking a peek to see which ones might meet with favor. I’m not complaining. Here at Fonda, a different situation. Because Chef Roberto Santibañez is a friend, he’ll often ask for Nick’s opinion about the way certain desserts have turned out. (Often they’re Nick’s recipes to begin with.) I am always grateful to share the benefits. This time, in addition to the tres leches cake (which you can just see a part of, lower left), there are two brownies with a caramel sauce and cinnamon-laced whipped cream. And it looks like maybe a bread pudding (which I am bound by law to order whenever I see it on any menu) and a chocolate-dotted cookie. Mmmmmm. The same again, please.

Gloucester, MA. September, 2011

Years ago, at an early-morning flea market in Rowley, MA, I was introduced to a mad thing named Bob Driscoll. Shortly afterwards, I bought a huge framed print of the Sacred Heart from him, which I later de-acquisitioned when Simon and I wired it to a tree at the entrance to a nearby Christian college. (It remained in place for weeks, I hope because officials may have been afraid that their superiors could have authorized it.) Now Bob has set up shop just down the hill from us on East Main Street in the basement of the Beacon Marine building. This is dangerous for me. I regularly toddle down on a Saturday, just looking, and return with (at least) one of his $20 vintage handknit sweaters or $15 linen shirts or $30 Harris Tweed blazers. Bob and David are always welcoming, always quietly eager to point out their latest finds (like these tabletops from a defunct Mexican restaurant) and always very tight-lipped when I ask, “Where do you find this stuff?” I’ve already sent many people their way, all of them emerging from the store heavily laden. Open all year. Go.

Watertown, MA. September, 2011

Finger food. That’s what we ask our guests to bring to our annual Labor Day Saturday party each year. No plates. No utensils. Just stacks of napkins. Basta. (Note to Beth: Cheesecake with fruit topping is no longer considered a finger food. Neither is soup.) To prime the savory table, I decided to try my first tortilla española, the famed potato and onion omelette we found in tapas joints and restaurants all over Spain. First, I sliced six medium Yukon gold potatoes in half, the halves into 1/8 inch slices. Fried them in olive oil and, with a slotted spoon, put them into a bowl. Then I minced and fried two onions and a shallot (from my friend James’s garden) and added them to the potatoes. Then came some chopped rosemary leaves, S&P and, once the bowl contents were cool enough, eight beaten eggs. Heated more oil in a sauté pan, poured in the mixture and let the bottom cook over medium heat. Then, once it was set, I finished cooking the top under the broiler until the whole thing felt firm. Loosen the edges. Flip onto a plate! And here it is, about to be cut into small squares, each skewered with a toothpick or set on a small piece of Jay’s homemade bread.

Tucson. May, 2005

No, this was not taken in a botanical garden. Instead, just a random snapshot during a hike taken on land that Jay and I bought near Gates Pass in Tucson. Yellow-blossomed prickly pear cactus, a nice round barrel cactus and that vibrant red flowering cholla. The colors are always a revelation in this place. But no more than they were during that spring visit when the desert was in full bloom. Simon and David are always so generous and hospitable, always willing to take a drive out to this land and walk it with me. Will we ever build here as was our original intention? It would mean, of course, having to clear a section of the land of native plants like these.