The General Situation

Walking the Walk

As I mentioned a while back, we've postponed joining the Newcomers group—until after we return from New York and some of Adam's family comes to visit—so we can maximize our time as "newbies," the prime benefit being the ability to jump to the top of a waitlisted event. But we figured we might as well test-ride the concept by taking part in the weekly hike that Newcomers organizes with the local trails group. I confirmed ahead of time with the friendly head of the trails group—whom I met doing trailwork—that you need not be a Newcomers member. "Please come!" she replied.

Warned that parking could be difficult, we arrived at the trailhead 10 minutes early. Two women were there, as well as a man, off by himself. Two other women showed up; they already knew the others. Adam and I stood in limbo. We never discussed it, but I suspect we were thinking the same thing. We could go over and introduce ourselves, since it seemed likely everyone was there for the outing. They were all just older enough than us, however, to have us wavering.

"I guess it makes sense that this is who would be able to hike on a weekday," I said, as more folks approached the main group.

"You're going to hate walking that slow," said Adam. "We could just go."

Once you reach that point, does anyone stay? If our stab at being social began as pathetic, it soon shifted into awkward: As we headed down from the main viewpoint, we had to pull over so the Newcomers group could pass. At the same time, another hiker came up behind us; it turns out that she knew one of the Newcomers hikers—the head of the trails organization, who stopped directly across from me.

"Hi," I said sheepishly.

"Oh, hi! Are you hiking with us?"

"Not exactly. We sort of got off to an early start."

Adam and I continued downhill, and he pointed out the bright side: Now I'd have something to blog about. The hike had been pleasant but not satisfying, so we took a spur that led to a waterfall. That part was great: Using a rope strung up along the trail for support, we clambered down a hillside, then bouldered up along the waterfall, posed for photos, and did it all again the other direction.

Soon after the spur rejoined the main trail, we ran right into the Newcomers group, and in particular, the head of the trails organization. She does not have the socialization issues we do, and she couldn't have been lovelier, chatting with me for a bit as we descended, and then with Adam for quite a while (as I talked about yoga with a Newcomer). Consequently, we can say that our first Newcomers event was a qualified success.

P.S. Love this song. 

Trails and Tribulations

"Who's going to sing 'Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho, It's Off to Work We Go'?" asked Tom, one of the other five volunteers as we set off on the Trailwork Tuesday outing organized by the Los Padres Forest Association. Once we got down to work, a different song ran through my head: Sam Cooke's "Chain Gang." There were no ankle chains, of course, but I associate swinging a heavy tool with hard labor done as penance.

I could swear the leaders called it a trailsmith, but Google won't corroborate that. All I know is that the thing was efficient at tearing up earth, stones, plants, and whatever it came into contact with.

We met at 9 a.m. at the trailhead, then hiked for 15-20 minutes, till we got to an area where the trail was rutted by recent rains. The first thing we did was dig a few drains, so water could continue down the hillside rather than the trail. Then Ari from the LPFA decided we should remove the five feet of natural berm, hacking away at the plants and earth until the trail was flattened out from one side to the other. I felt funny about it: When I hike, I go out of my way not to destroy anything, and I don't go off trail for fear of doing damage. Before and after shots below.

We next tackled a major strip of rutted trail. The plan was to create three stone dams (if I remember the phrase correctly), so that the center of the trail would stop eroding. First, we went to get large rocks from the streambed further up the trail. "They should be too large for one person," said Ari. "We call them 'double hernias.'" Stones get heavy fast; while carrying something larger would be manageable, this was like two people trying haul a bowling ball—another volunteer, Liam, and I pressed up against each other as we maneuvered downhill, along a narrow, rutted trail. "I'm like Ginger Rogers," I said when it was my turn to walk backward, but I don't think anyone got the reference. Once we had enough stones, we dug out rectangular pits the width of the trail. "It's like you're digging a grave for a small casket," said Ari, which sent us all into our heads for a while. We hoisted the stones into the little graves, repositioning them until they lay flush with the trail and wouldn't wiggle underfoot, and we filled in the gaps with smaller stones, followed by dirt.

We had been told to bring lunch, and I was anticipating a nice 20-minute break where we ate our sandwiches and chatted. My feelings about lunch are near religious on a normal day; at 12:30 p.m., after swimming two miles and working like a prisoner, for free, with no mention of lunch, I put my foot down. And my trailsmith. The cheese sandwich I had packed was pretty meager, but I don't know if I've tasted anything better. What's the point of working that hard if you're not going to reward yourself? I'm still baffled other people don't feel the same. A couple of people pulled out snacks, and one of the organizers eventually brought out a sandwich.

Tom had left at 10:30 a.m., Liam around noon. The rest of us soldiered on. We moved more large rocks and decimated a patch of wild fennel—it smelled terrific—to make the trail easier to see, and we sawed off a dead tree limb extending over the trail because it posed a threat to horseback riders. There were times during the day when I was sure that we made a positive impact. Occasionally, however, I thought we ran the risk of smoothing the trail out too much. The rationale was often to improve life for mountain-bike riders, but when I hike, I like varied terrain, I like having to clamber a bit, I like the feel of a stone under my foot when I step on it. Trailworkers, it appeared, have a compulsion: If they see a rock that could stand to be moved, they can't let it go. And that extends beyond rocks to anything trail-related. They know that it may all be for naught once the next rain comes, but they can't help themselves. More than once I thought of Sisyphus.

P.S. I will be extremely sore tomorrow, with commensurate moaning.

P.P.S. Afterward, at the parking area, I was talking to Ari about the next Trailwork Tuesday, and how it'd be great if there were ways to find out about it other than going on Facebook (which I'm trying to avoid these days). "You know what's amazing about Facebook, though?" she said. "How long it's been around. It's been around since I was in, like, middle school!"

The Bobo Years

Even my clothing is coming at me with the questions. (That's what I get for shopping at REI.) Am I supposed to mull over this when I'm hiking? Or, more likely, when I'm doing laundry? That's the only time I read a clothing tag.

Slow day today. I went to the supermarket early, because I find it much less stressful than later in the day, although the cashier did serve me attitude for buying Johnnie Walker Black at 7:30 a.m. (It was not the only item I purchased.) Then Adam and I took a hike; I made a salad of snow peas, walnuts, and provolone for lunch; and we dug around the boxes in the garage to see if we could locate the hardware from the house we used to own here, to no avail. Living in a house without much hardware is a pain, but we're sure it must be in the garage somewhere, in a box jammed behind furniture, so we don't buy anything new.

In the afternoon, I baked granola. We go through a lot of it. Adam likes to eat it as a snack, pouring some in a little glass bowl and dabbing at it with his tongue, like a cat drinking water. Because the bowl is glass, I can see the tongue dip into the granola and retract. And I get to see it because he often stands in front of me, blank-faced, as he performs this act. I don't know why that is, but I suspect it's akin to how the pug would sleep with some part of his body on mine, so that he could keep track of me while his attention was elsewhere, in case I did something involving food.

Hiking, yoga, homemade granola, athleisure from REI.... This chapter would appear to be "The Bobo Years." It's nothing to complain about, for sure, but I need to accomplish things—more than making granola—on a regular basis, or I feel like I'm treading water. Not coincidentally, tomorrow I'm signed up to help the Montecito Trails Foundation on its Trailwork Tuesday, when volunteers pitch in to repair storm-damaged trails. Our real estate broker's husband said it was the hardest work he had done in his entire life, so that's something to look forward to.

P.S. We now subscribe to the New York Times in print, because we found that we weren't keeping up with the news, and it's been amusing to see how studios try to appeal to the older Academy Awards voters who read the Times in print. For BlacKKKlansman (ugh, that title), there's a photo of Harry Belafonte, along with a quote about how important the movie is. (We gave up on it halfway through. Watching it was like being beaten with a blunt instrument: "Racism is bad" might as well have flashed on the screen the entire time.) And for The Favourite, Fox Searchlight has been running stills for weeks spotlighting the three female stars, but never as a pair. Instead, they're always of one with a man, even though men are the most minor of characters. Is it to assuage fears that potential voters might have about a movie involving lesbianism?

Always Be Learning

On Friday, to celebrate Adam's imminent return from Amsterdam, I was going to bake this blogger's recipe for Pepperidge Farm Bordeaux cookies, but I realized I had baking soda, not baking powder. If I could've walked to a store, I would've gone out right then. But the thought of getting in the car was too much. I waited till later, when I was taking myself out to dinner at a restaurant near the supermarket, to cross the baking powder off the list. In the checkout line, this made me scowl:

I can accept a touch of awkwardness if something actually gets said as a result, but that phrase is entirely meaningless. And "who" should be "whom," because it's the object of the verb. And what's "authentic" about retouching the photo to make your logo pop? And the world doesn't need you at all! Amateurs.

I may have been clabby crabby because while I was standing there, I noticed that the baking powder was "Partially Produced with Genetic Engineering." (Speaking of inauthenticity....) Clabber Girl was the only option, or I would've taken it back.

Clabber, I just learned, is "a type of soured milk [...] produced by allowing unpasteurized milk to turn sour (ferment) at a specific humidity and temperature. Over time, the milk thickens or curdles into a yogurt-like substance with a strong, sour flavor." You know my motto: Always be learning!

(I should point out now that this post is not going to get wrapped up in any elegant way. The bright side is that you can leave whenever you like.)

My dinner alone was fine, although I don't love dining alone at the bar as much as I used to. I did get a chance to ask the young, cool bartender what it means when someone asks if you like to party. "Drugs," she said. "My first guess would be molly," which is what people call ecstasy these days. (How does a name change like that happen?) Then she warned me to be careful: "Anything can happen in Montecito," which has not exactly been my impression.

Saturday morning, I woke up early and set off for a long, beautiful walk through the Upper East neighborhood. I'll spare you the many photos I took of spectacular trees, except this one:

And one of the reasons I'm fond of Santa Barbara is that stuff like this hasn't been smoothed out:

Then I went to the farmer's market. I was buying snow peas from a real crank of a farmer when someone he knew approached him. The farmer brightened as he told the guy how, just that morning, he "clobbered to death" a bunch of rats in their nest. I don't think he and I are going to be friends. The feeling can only be mutual once he learns that, upon returning home from the market, I tried to rescue a tiny snail that stowed away on a bunch of celery. I made it crawl onto a piece of paper and walked it outside, cooing that everything was going to be OK, when a gust of wind blew the paper over and the snail fell four feet onto the terra cotta stairs. Choosing to believe that it survived, I rushed it into the bushes. I had a flashback to the frog incident, and I decided that I should stop meddling with nature. But what was I supposed to do, leave the snail on the kitchen counter? Here it is in happier days:

I baked the cookies, creaming the butter and sugar by hand, like in pioneer days, because we don't have a mixer. After 10 minutes in the oven, the cookies were still floppy, so I left them in much longer, and somehow they grew blander as they got darker. They're not bad, but they're not Bordeaux.

P.S. Let's end with something nice. I got to pick blood oranges from a tree this afternoon.

Impossibly Chic and Rather Pained

How old do I need to get before I realize that my mood on any given day is almost entirely determined by whether I exercise in the morning? The weather has been dismal both yesterday and today, but because I was able to swim this morning, I'm OK with it.

Then again, maybe I'm still feeling the glow from discovering that Kristin Scott Thomas is on Instagram. Or is that only exciting to me? Some years ago, I imagined the world through Kristin Scott Thomas's eyes, baffling readers of this blog time and again. (KST doesn't care whether you comprehend her creative output.) She's tremendous and underutilized—Hollywood punished her for not kissing its ass. Anyway, I came across a British Vogue profile from last year that mentioned the Instagram account, and she's now the only celebrity I follow. The profile is pretty entertaining: "The enduring fantasy image of Scott Thomas is of her stepping off the Eurostar at St Pancras looking impossibly chic and rather pained as some sozzled, fake-tanned English-woman stumbles past."

Last night, I had a nice, long phone chat with my friend Tracy in Durham, N.C. She refuses to read blogs, including this one, out of misguided principle. Perhaps she's receiving it telepathically, because she launched into an anecdote, unprovoked, that would seem to have been a reaction to yesterday's post. Her hairdresser is confused by my recent life choices; did I really want to start something new at this age? If so, he suggested that I create a website offering recommendations for Santa Barbara wine country. I pointed out that I don't especially like Santa Barbara wine. "Who cares?" Tracy replied. "Just tell people where to go."

It is in line with the idea I mentioned yesterday for a Santa Barbara food website. While there are a few excellent restaurants here, mediocre generally reigns,* so I'm wary of an Eater-style website exclusively about restaurants. Nor would I want to solely cover wine, because I'm more of a drinker than a connoisseur. But perhaps there's room for a website that covers relevant restaurant news (i.e., about the worthwhile places and ignoring the dreck); reviews notable new ones; enthuses about the farmer's market and the farms; and does the wine thing. At Tribeca Citizen, I embraced comprehensiveness—if it happened in Tribeca, I covered it—and I'm loathe to do that again, particularly in a bigger city. And the website would have to be less of a news site and more of a blog, because, as Adam recently pointed out, I'm better when I can let the opinions fly.

Sweet Jesus, not another blog.

*We'll see how I feel in a year, when New York is less fresh in my mind. I expect I'll succumb to the Stop & Shop Lobster Salad Syndrome at some point. My friend Michele once asked her mom what she'd be serving friends coming to their house in Madison, Conn. "I'll just pick up some lobster salad at the Stop & Shop," said Sue. "It's very good." Michele laid down the law: "NO, IT'S NOT! YOU CANNOT SERVE THAT TO PEOPLE! YOU'VE LIVED HERE TOO LONG AND YOU'RE LOSING YOUR SENSE OF WHAT'S GOOD!"

P.S. One of the Christmas gifts I bought Adam was a hand-held lemon juicer—we've been together a long time now—but it broke the fifth time we used it. As I consider myself an effective letter writer, efforts to the farmer's market notwithstanding, I fired off an email to the manufacturer, explaining that we loved our new juicer but surely they could see why we'd be hesitant to buy a new one, so might they send a replacement...? The new juicer arrived today, and this moment on the packaging is cracking me up.

Did he suggest it go there? Or was it a toady? I suppose you could call Elon Musk a "Famous Inventor" (among other things), but no one else alive comes to mind. And if you have to label yourself famous, then you're probably not actually famous.

"Relax... Your... Body..."

A few days after I announced that I would shut down Tribeca Citizen if I couldn't sell it, I was swimming, or rather taking a break from swimming, when I overheard a guy in the next lane ask another guy if he was Tribeca Citizen. (I had occasionally mentioned on the site that I swam at Asphalt Green in the mornings.) The other guy was mystified by the question ("I live in Battery Park City...?"), so I jumped in, and we had a pleasant exchange.

I guess he told his brother that he was upset the blog might close down, and his brother—with whom I worked at Fortune magazine in the early 2000s—figured out that I was behind it. My former colleague, who now works at LinkedIn, encouraged me to write an article about hyperlocal journalism, which I finally got around to doing. I don't know that it'll be of any use to me, as I'm not dying to work in hyperlocal again, but synthesizing what I learned over the years felt like a kind of closure.

My former colleague's brother, the swimmer, sent me a message about the article. I couldn't help pointing out that these days I'm swimming outside, while the sun rises, palm trees sway, and seagulls fly overhead. ("Unfair! You aren't allowed to rub it in until at least we get to spring.") Well, karma sure bit me in the ass this morning: No sooner had I jumped in the water than the pool was closed due to lightning. A day that was already going to be long—I woke up at 4:30 a.m., Adam is in Amsterdam for work, and the forecast was rainy and gray—grew epic in length. I couldn't even assuage the sitch with a coffee, because nothing opens till 7 a.m.

All of which is to say that I need to find something to do. The handover of Tribeca Citizen is more or less done, and the days ahead are empty. My dad sent me a nice note about keeping mentally and physically active after retirement, but I don't think I'm done working just yet. The question is: What? As I mentioned, hyperlocal doesn't hold a lot of appeal, although I can imagine a website about Santa Barbara food or real estate. The problem is that I come to those topics from a place of enthusiasm, not expertise, and the latter makes a much stronger foundation. And it would be a good idea for me to work with other people again; blogging is lonely business.

In the meantime, I will find an organization to volunteer at. The farmer's market remains a longshot, so my next target is the group that manages the hiking trails around here. What it needs right now is help repairing storm-damaged trails, which we can't do till the rain stops and things dry out. (Above: That used to be a dirt road, wide enough and smooth enough for a car.)

P.S. The day wasn't all despair. Adam left Li-Lac chocolate hearts in my swim bag—did I mention it's Valentine's Day?—and I had booked a massage, using a Christmas gift card from my parents, as a reward for getting through the swim workout. Naturally, I went anyway. It wasn't the best massage I've ever had, but it was hardly among the worst. (I'm thinking of the New York City therapist who made my ribs ache for four days; the Brazilian "therapist" who spent five minutes palpating my stomach; the Hawaiian therapist who wore little finger condoms; the "four-hand" massage at a fancy bathhouse where the therapists had me keep my wet bathing suit on, reaching up into it....) The only odd thing this therapist did was slowly whisper "Relax... your... body..." twice, right into my left ear. If relaxation were that easy, I wouldn't have to pay for it.

P.P.S. I heard from two friends who have male dental hygienists.

P.P.P.S. The upside to all this rain: I had time to read an entire New Yorker feature, an exposé evisceration of novelist/pathological liar Dan Mallory (The Woman in the Window). Fans of The Talented Mr. Ripley should check it out.

A Visit to the Dentist

One of the things that truly stinks about moving somewhere new is leaving doctors you trust—and, worse, trying to find new doctors, particularly when you can't rely on referrals. Online research is maddening, so at some point, you make the appointment and hope for the best.

A few weeks ago, Adam and I went to different primary care physicians at the same facility, Sansum Clinic, for an introductory visit. Adam's doctor did practically nothing, while mine gave me a full physical, including a skin check, and had me get blood work and an EKG done. And yet mine is still on probation. The main thing I ask of a doctor is that he/she listen. Corollary: When I tell you I don't care about football, you must stop talking about it.

I had better luck with my dentist, whom I visited for the first time this morning. I had narrowed the choice to two offices, one nearby in Montecito, and the other in downtown Santa Barbara. I wanted to prefer the Montecito office, but I hated its website. That shouldn't be a compelling reason, but what else did I have to go on? At the Santa Barbara office, meanwhile, one of the doctors is named Erik. While that's obviously in his favor—and maybe he'd take extra care with me—his bio mentions his church, a turn-off in any scenario. I ended up going with the Santa Barbara office, but I let the receptionist pick the doctor; she assigned me to the non-Erik.

Because honesty is one of my primary virtues, when Adam asked what I knew about my dentist, I said that based on his photo, he might be physically attractive. (Provocation can be a useful way to confirm that your spouse is paying attention.) When Adam got huffy, I explained that the dentist seemed more likely to be generically attractive than specifically attractive to me. Moreover, I pointed out, becoming a dental patient would not be the best way to go about wooing someone. (Or would it?)

Well, the dentist listened carefully to my explanation of my dental history (partially detailed here), and he didn't talk to me like I'm an idiot. He resisted taking any new X-rays because it made sense to wait till next time, when insurance would cover it, and he said I could come every four months instead of three, as I did in New York. And nobody asked me if I floss! (It occurs to me now that they may have had some warning about that. A few years ago, I lashed out at my dental hygienist because she asked me if I floss. "I never floss!" I said. "I haven't flossed in years because my periodontist told me not to. And I explain this every single time I come here." On my subsequent visit, she showed me where she had added to my record: "DO NOT ASK ABOUT FLOSSING.") All in all, I was as happy as you can be with a trip to the dentist, and it had little to nothing to do with his appearance.

He did throw me for a loop when he told me to close my mouth while the suction tube was still in it. I bit when I was apparently supposed to only close my lips, surprising us both. Later, after the hygienist also confounded me with this command, I admitted that I had never heard of such a thing. "How do they get the water out?" she asked, and before I could answer, she continued, "I think they used to have sinks you'd spit into. But they're impossible to sanitize." Every dentist I've ever gone to has such a sink! Is sanitization really a concern? Were patients licking the porcelain?

P.S. Has anyone ever seen a male hygienist? Not because I want one—just curious.

P.P.S. "A Visit to the Dentist" is the worst headline ever, but I hate the puns I've been running.

New Kids on the Block

The Newcomers introductory meeting was last night. That's the group for people new to the Santa Barbara area to meet each other. (You're kicked out after two years.) It was not as dreadful as I feared, although (a) we were made to wear name tags; (b) a few attendees could totally star in a Newcomers mockumentary; and (c) there might be nothing I like less—which is saying something—than a meeting that begins with everyone sharing a few words about him- or herself. I suspect that's how you're greeted in hell. Last night, the emcee even said people could take up to 30 seconds, and there were 50 of us. Luckily, almost everyone kept it brief. Adam went before me, without introducing me as his husband and stealing my line about the farmers' market, so I was left making a joke that we're married, not brothers, which went over about as well as you might guess. At least I didn't mention drinking as an interest, like a lot of people did. ("I like wine—a lot of wine," said one.)

Will we meet anyone through Newcomers? I don't know, maybe, it can't hurt. I do think starting a friendship is easier if you're coming at it from the same general place (i.e., knowing no one). Most of the "committees"—subgroups about shared interests, such as bunco, golf, and foreign policy discussion—are not for me, but I could see us going hiking or kayaking. My mom will be chagrined to learn I won't be signing up for the contract bridge committee; she's convinced the game is a terrific way to meet people. The problem isn't just that I don't know how to play bridge, or want to, but that when I looked around the room, I was drawn to the people who are younger than I am. I can't quite persuade myself that the appeal will be mutual.

While the blue asterisk on my name tag is a nice touch of flair, I didn't do it myself. It indicates that I'm a "newbie," in my first 90 days of membership. Technically, we haven't joined yet, though. One of the things I love about Adam is that rather than just sign up now, he wants to game the system a bit by waiting till after he goes to Amsterdam and we both go to New York, so we can maximize our newbie benefits.

P.S. Eventually, I'll run out of trees to rhapsodize about. Until then, here's the Wardholme Torrey pine in Carpinteria, across from the Lucky Llama, the café I visit after swimming in Carp. From Atlas Obscura: "It started as a seedling in 1888, planted by local Carpinteria resident Judge Thomas Ward as part of a contest to see who could grow the largest Torrey pine tree. The Wardholme Torrey Pine now stands a proud 126 feet tall, with a 130 feet branch spread and a more than 20-foot circumference, making it the largest known example of its kind." Last week, I was staring up at the the tree, noticing the many nests, when I saw two great blue herons walking along a branch. Impossible to get a photo of them, alas.

Gates of Heaven

The house we're renting is in Montecito, east of Santa Barbara. Montecito is one of the prettiest places I've ever seen: The land itself is beautiful, and then instead of getting crapped up like so much of California, it got preserved and even improved. Exploring it is endlessly rewarding to the eye, with a mix of architecture and wildly varied—and established—flora. Palm trees are next to pines, eucalyptus trees are surrounded by citrus trees, and so on. As you can see above, there are oak trees everywhere; as you can see below, people go to great lengths to let them be (because you get in trouble if you don't).

Whether Montecito is right for us remains an open question. There's more to life than beauty, probably, and I'm still not sure we belong here—or, more to the point, that we'll be welcomed. Not because we're gay, but because I don't know how we'll ever come into contact with other people. The human aspect of Montecito is not what I would call warm: People's walls are up. Literally! Most houses have gates, and while I don't like them in principle—in part because they make good housepeeking difficult—some of them are gorgeous.

The move out West wasn't just meant to be somewhere different, but to live differently. Despite the fact that I'm typing this now, I'd like to spend less time at a computer, and more time outside. Swimming doesn't count, even though swimming outside can be transcendentally beautiful. (Perhaps I'll wax poetic about that some other day.) So this afternoon, when Adam went for a hike—I declined because we're not supposed to hike on muddy trails—I took a walk. One of the ways that Montecito has retained its unsuburban charm is that there really aren't sidewalks, making a walk stressful at times, but not compared to New York.

Our house abuts a part of town that real estate brokers, and likely no one else, call the Golden Quadrangle, which sounds like part of a Harry Potter title or something Edward Gorey could spin a tale around. I don't find it especially special, but it does have a ton of excellent gates. The older the wall and ironwork, the more excited I get. Paging Norma Desmond....

Sometimes the trees get me as much as the gates.

The cloudy photo above was actually from the day before, but the trees are so good I had to include it. And look at this heavenly oak-lined allée.

And this little pedestrian gate....

I even like the ones you can't see.

But I wouldn't want to live behind one, particularly a grand one. My style is more this carport flanked by trees.

P.S. Doesn't it seem like a good idea to let emergency vehicles through the front door? Or however they heck they want?

P.P.S. I'm serious about the carport. And as "God" is my witness, I will one day paint a mailbox. Zebra is not out of the question.

Look Who's Stalking

Before going to the big Saturday farmer's market, Adam and I inevitably stop at the French Press coffee shop across the street. The other morning, we had to sit inside, because there had been rain earlier. "Check out the man at the counter," Adam said. "The way that orchid is positioned, it looks like it's tucked behind his ear." I took a quick peek, chuckling as I turned back toward Adam—he was right—and that's when I realized that the man was the manager of the market, who continues to resist my pleas to volunteer. Now he probably thinks I was laughing at him.

Unfortunately, ways to help the market keep coming to me, so I think I'll write a Hail Mary letter. If specific, constructive suggestions don't appeal, I'll move on. And I won't hold it against the market, which continues to be a highlight of the week. This time, we bought more Satsuma tangerines; spigarello, a rabe-ish green that the New York restaurant Hemlock would memorably roast; "fancy" medjool dates, so tender you can hardly believe they're dates; avocados, of course; celery; a bunch of luscious lettuces; fava beans; and two bottles of wine from Piedrasassi, a winemaker that the folks at Racines in Tribeca had recommended to Adam. He's always on the hunt for local wines that aren't big and fruity.

The favas lacked flavor, but their springy greenness was welcome in the fava mint crostini pictured above. The star so far has been the celery, which we used in this excellent salad by Joshua McFadden of the Six Seasons cookbook. Real celery—versus that Foxy crap at the supermarket—is so herbaceous and interesting that it'll blow your mind. And the rest of the salad is a classic Franny's combination (McFadden worked there for a while): a little crunchy (almonds), a little salty (Parmesan), a little spicy (red pepper flakes), a little acidic (lemon juice), and a little sweet (dates).

P.S. Can we encourage the phone companies to stop putting random digits above the random codes texted as two-factor authentication? (And now Chase is sending out eight-digit numbers, without a space or a dash to break them up.) It must be a nightmare for anyone with dyscalculia, which I just learned is "generally seen as the mathematical equivalent to dyslexia."