When I was writing Joachim Splichal's cookbook (Patina: Spuds, Truffles, and Wild Gnocchi), that highly-respected chef gave me a short, one-sentence piece of advice that permanently removed any fear of stirring. However, I know that, for home cooks, risotto ranks right up there with souffle in the "I can't do it!" realm.

Here's what Splichal told me, back when I was testing every incredibly-complex, restaurant-style recipe for his book in a home kitchen (with home-style skills and ingredients, natch): "Brigie, risotto must take eighteen minutes, from start to finish." Period. End class, end fear of risotto. (For the full effect, imagine this being uttered in a deep and guttural German accent.)

To clarify, the eighteen minutes in question begins when you add the rice and ends when you remove the pan from the heat, and stir in the enrichment (butter, cheese), if any. So, when I decided to include a seafood-and-cured pork risotto in my upcoming book about cooking in California's Central Coast wine country, the timing was never in question. Whenever I set out to develop a recipe (twenty-four cookbooks published, and counting), my first question is: How is this different, better, more finely focussed, than anything I've done before? What job do I want this dish to perform, what role will it take—value will it add—to the menu, or the recipe collection, of the buyer of this book?

I must have been channeling travels and tables in Italy when I came up with this combo: Scallop, Smoky Bacon, and Red Wine Risotto. (I've discovered that starches—whether it's pasta, rice, or even farro—ratchet up several orders of magnitude in flavor when simmered with some red wine, instead of just broth or water.)

No need for big, pricey, diver-caught scallops here—I want them bite sized and happily mingling with the plump, wine-swollen grains of Arborio—so little bay scallops are fine. For my cured-pork content, I wanted more than just any old bacon, so I sourced dark and smoky slices from the excellent New Frontiers market in SLO (San Luis Obispo). With all ingredients measured and assembled, I was ready to begin.

A little olive oil in the pan—about a tablespoon—helped begin the rendering process for the bacon, and smoothed the arrival of the next party-goer: red onion. Then came the scallops—but only for a minute or two—then I scooped everything out with a slotted spoon, leaving behind the smoky fat. In went the rice and on went my mental timer: 1:36 on a sunny Paso Robles Sunday afternoon.

I stir to coat the grains with smoky fat and begin a slight caramelization; when the rice starts to sizzle, in goes 2 cups of '08 Zuma Vista, an earthy Syrah/Grenche blend made in Malibu by good friends. When most of the wine is absorbed, I commence adding my warm chicken broth. All the while, I regulate the heat so the liquid simmers excitedly but not explosively, keeping my eye on the clock and gauging my progress so that, when 1:54 pops up, I'm ready to return the scallop/bacon mixture to the pan, then pull it off the heat and stir in my enrichment (1 1/4 cups of grated Grana Padana) and my bright note (3/4 cup chopped baby arugula).

The reward for my efforts? A rich-bright-savory-smoky mound of seafood-flecked, wine-purple goodness. Happy faces, empty plates, and a truly estimable wine for quaffing with our wine-country lunch. Not to mention, another recipe for my next book that will enrich cook's lives from Seattle to Sasketchewan. A recipe I can be proud of. I'd offer nothing less.

Friends, Romaines, Countrymen: lend me your mouths. We come to eat Caesar not to bury it. And Caesar is an honorable salad.

Let us stop and consider the rich history—the provenance, if you will—of that crispy-creamy-salty tumble of leaves that is so beloved of restaurant-goers of all ages: the Caesar.

On second thought, let’s forget the when-where-who of it, because when you have such a piece of perfection, who cares? But therein lies the rub: Not all Caesar salads are created equal. Thus, today we are going to deconstruct this venerable bowl of greens and put it back together again better than ever.

Recipe: The Perfect Caesar Salad

First, there is the dressing. You will be making this yourself, of course. If you wish to use a bottled dressing, please browse immediately elsewhere, delete your Roadfoodie bookmark—and your culinary credibility. Forever.

I prefer to make my dressing in a mini-prep food processor, but you can also use a standard food processor, or a bowl and a small wire whisk. (I find that a blender runs too fast and imparts a metallic taste to the concoction.) Break a nice fresh farm egg and deposit only the yolk in the bowl (save the egg white in a container in the freezer for a future soufflé).

Now use your garlic press to squeeze in the essence of 2 or 3 cloves of fresh (ie non-sprouted) garlic, adjusting the quantity to your personal taste. Add ½ teaspoon fine sea salt, a seriously generous grinding of fresh black pepper (Tellicherry or Malabar peppercorns are the best), a scant tablespoon of Dijon mustard, 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, 1 teaspoon each of Worcestershire sauce and red wine vinegar, and 1/3 cup decent olive oil (don’t use your best oil here, it will be overwhelmed by all the strong flavors).

Now, the anchovies: Gently rinse in warm water 2 or 3 anchovies from a glass jar—or, if it's all that's available, a little tin—and dry for a moment on a paper towel. Add them to the bowl of ingredients and pulse or whisk until the mixture is smooth. Omit the anchovies at your own risk: Your salad will be less than a Caesar, like a drop-dead gorgeous man or woman wearing a double-knit suit; heirloom tomatoes on a summer evening with no basil; George Clooney without his lopsided grin.

If you will not be using your dressing right away, cover it (scrape into a small glass jar; the dressing will stay good for two days, refrigerated). This makes enough for about six stripped-down hearts of Romaine—ie six people—and may be doubled.

Croutons: Since cubes are so last-century, you will have to make your own, but it’s easy! Get yourself a long slim loaf of Italian or French bread (baguette) and cut, with a serrated knife, on a sharp angle into ¼-inch slices (allow two to three slices per person). Place on a large rimmed baking sheet and preheat your oven to 350°. Now either brush or spray both sides of each slice with extra-virgin olive oil and season sparingly with fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Place in the oven for 10 minutes, then check the color (do not leave the house during this operation, or the bread will instantly burn). The slices should be only just beginning to show a hint of toasty color. Remove from the oven and, while still warm, rub one side of the croutons with the cut side of half a garlic clove. (If you like, you can cool and store these croutons in an airtight plastic container for a day or two, at room temperature.)

See how easy this is?

Your local supermarket carries the hearts of romaine, which make this salad easier to execute than it used to be, but there is still going to be a fair amount of wastage. This is because, for a really impeccable salad, you must use only the pale jade-green, inner leaves. Thus, I always allow one romaine heart per person. Trim off the root end about an inch above the bottom. Put the outer dark green, bruised, and floppy leaves on your compost heap, then immerse the superior, chosen leaves in a sink or large-bowlful of the coldest water your faucet will supply. Throw in a handful of ice cubes to really chill things down. Give a swish and let it all stay there, basking in the coolness, for about ten minutes. Lift out and discard any remaining ice cubes. Dry thoroughly in a salad spinner. (See Tip below for larger quantities of lettuce.) Wrap loosely in clean towels and return to the refrigerator for ten to thirty minutes, while you grate the cheese and fiddle with something else in the kitchen. Or walk the poor, patiently-waiting dog.

Chill your plates and yes, your forks in the fridge. Overkill? Perhaps. But who cares? On the fine holes of a grater, grate about one quarter cup of imported Parmigiano-Reggianno per person, or any other imported Parmesan or Asiago (sometimes labeled as Grana Padana).

Now you are ready to assemble. Warning: You will need a Very Large Bowl. If you don’t have one (yet), use a really clean basin or large Tupperware: You need room to move.

First, wash your hands, with soap, and rinse them well. Now add the super-crisp romaine leaves to the bowl. If they are large, use a very sharp knife to cut them crosswise into thirds. If they are less than 4 inches long, leave them whole. (Do NOT bunch, squeeze, and then tear, as some men from my past (operative word) have been known to do. This horribly bruises the leaves, and me.)

Drizzle the leaves with most of the dressing and toss gently with your hands, tossing until all surfaces of the lettuce are lightly and evenly coated. Add more dressing as you see fit, but don’t drown it. Scatter with about two thirds of the grated cheese, and toss again. Place a jumble of perfect Caesar on each chilled plate and top with a bit more cheese and two or three of the hip croutons, aka croutes. Wash your hands and proceed immediately to the finish line. Caesar—just like souffle—waits for no man.

Beware: Once you have made this salad for friends and family, they will want it over and over and over again. But you will become as an Emperor to them—a Caesar, perhaps.

Tip: If you are drying more than six hearts of romaine: Find a perfectly clean pillow case. Carefully drop all the romaine leaves into the bottom of the pillow case and make your way outside.

Grab the neck of the pillow case and begin swinging it with one hand, all the way up and over, again and again as fast as you can without tearing your rotator cuff, in order to create a formidable level of centrifugal force. (Just like the salad spinner, only with a far larger capacity.)

Slow down carefully, and stop swinging. Give the bag a gentle jouncing to redistribute the leaves, then repeat. Your leaves will be unbruised, dry, and ready to welcome the Caesar dressing like a long-lost lover. (If desired, refrigerate the romaine in the pillow case until serving time, up to thirty minutes.)

I looked down at the proudly offered plate, and everything on it was white.

Poached chicken, boiled potatoes, and something called “cauliflower-cheese.” It was my first-ever dinner in England, and who could have imagined that 24 hours later, I’d meet the man who would become my husband. It took him only two weeks—and a handful of dinners in France—to capture my heart. I spent the next seven years as an English housewife, during which time I ate a great deal of white food. In those days, instead of writing cookbooks, I merely admired, collected, and cooked from them. My brown-haired, blue-eyed British boy—a Morgan Stanley euro-bond trader—was supposed to be the great love of my life; I naturally assumed that rather staid, but comfortable life would take place in Europe. Because no one ever gets married to get divorced. But life has a way of throwing curve-balls, and if you’re not careful one of them will hit you in the head and knock all your teeth out. That’s what happened to me, but by that time we were living in Spain, my blue-eyed boy having been unceremoniously fired by Mother Morgan, divested of all his offshore bonus’, and reduced to a mass of pale and quivering English jelly. A bit like cauliflower-cheese, really.

In Spain, I began to cook food with a great deal of color: tomatoes, peppers, olives, huge pink prawns, ruddy chorizo. As my cooking and cheeks gained color and the old bounce came back to my step, the Englishman seemed to deteriorate; he became pale and almost translucent, like an uncooked calamari. The rude and brilliant sun forced him indoors, to lick his wounds, wring hands over the empty bank-account, and make nefarious come-back plans. My path led in a different, more hopeful direction. The American pioneer inside me saw the road ahead littered with wonderful possibilities—I fermented a sourdough and baked my own bread, launched a catering business, planted a salad garden. I reached back to take hold of his hand, but found he had already offered it to another. In the end, our marriage couldn’t straddle the fault-line between white and color, shade and sun, regret and rebirth.

Now, I write cookbooks for a living, and no good food (especially a vegetable) is banned from my table just because it is white. In the way a good dress can be brought out again a decade or two later, shortened, re-accessorized, appreciated anew; so too cauliflower can come to my table once again. And, yes, emphatically, with cheese.

Consoling and Creamy Cauliflower Purée

(adapted from my book The Low-Carb Gourmet Ten Speed Press '04) Serves 6

* 2 small cauliflowers (1 1/2 to 1 3/4 pounds each), thick stalks and leaves discarded, separated into rough, lime-sized florets with about 1 inch of the stem attached * 1/2 cup heavy cream * 7 ounces Manchego or Gruyere cheese, grated on the large holes of a box grater * Fine sea salt and white pepper, preferably freshly ground

In the top of a steamer set over simmering water, steam the cauliflower for 20 to 25 minutes, until completely tender (test with a small, sharp knife). In a large food processor, combine the steamed cauliflower and cream; purée until completely smooth. Transfer to a warm bowl, fold in the cheese, about 3/4 teaspoon salt, and several turns of white pepper. Serve immediately or transfer to the top of a double boiler set over barely simmering water and hold for up to 30 minutes. (Or, cool, cover, and refrigerate for up to 6 hours; warm gently in a double boiler.)

I'm back in the Hudson Valley, after six months on the left coast, and the first thing I do is buy a freezer-full of meat from Turkana Farms in Germantown. It's an antidote to the gray, cold days, a carnivore's snuggle-blanket to protect me against the vicissitudes of a Northeast winter that doesn't know when it's worn out its welcome. (As far as I'm concerned, the welcome was frayed and shabby back in late November, but I know some people actually seem to love what they refer to as "the changing seasons"—a euphemism for misery if I ever heard one. Just sayin'.)

Peter and Mark welcome me with radiant warmth—I think partially because the annual appearance of Brigit-in-search-of-protein signals the return of fecundity to their fair farm. We troop into their big kitchen—equal parts antique store, Bachelor Pad, and library—and pore over the possibilities: three packages of gloriously marbled Ossabaw-Tamworth chops, a picnic ham, Boston butt, primeval hunks of beef chuck and brisket, and, destined for tonight's very special table, one and a half pounds of ground beef—all grass-fed, natch. Tonight's menu warrants extra care because it marks a Significant Birthday for my Significant Other—aka C—from whom I've spent waaaay too much time away during the past six months. As a multiple-cookbook author, I have a U.S.A.-budget-sized number of great dishes in my repertoire. Sometimes, choosing just one can be difficult, and often I fall into a creative morass at the prospect of a special dinner.

But not this time.

On the menu: Hamburgers. But I’m not talking about just any burger (a word with which, in case you care, virtually nothing rhymes except maybe, with license, perjure). This burger is to a fast-food patty as Barack Obama’s oratory style is to that of our late and unlamented ex-president. Don't worry, it has everything a great burger should: hefty weight, lettuce, onion, and tomato. Only different. Also, somewhat counterintuitively, it contains some pork. Is that wrong? I don't think so.

Recipe: Consolation-for-Aging Truffle Burgers

(Serves Six) Break up 1 1/2 pounds grass-fed ground beef and 1 pound ground pork with a fork until kinda crumbly. Season aggressively with sea salt and freshly ground pepper, and add about 2 tablespoons of minced leek or shallot. (Don’t be tempted to add other stuff—like chopped peppers and capers; although delicious, that would be meatloaf.) Use a light hand when forming your burgers. Ie do not compress the patty too much, or the burger will be tough. Gather the meat loosely into thick disks of about 7 ounces each and two inches high, then flatten gently with a spatula until about 1 1/4 inches thick. Don’t worry that the burger seems too loose around the edges to hold together—as soon as it hits a hot pan, it will firm up nicely.

Refrigerate, uncovered, on a plate until 10 minutes before cooking time, then let stand at room temperature for 10 minutes. Meanwhile, for each diner, brush both sides of one or two slices of ciabatta or sourdough bread lightly with good olive oil, then toast until golden, and season. Rinse the pale inner leaves from two heads of frisee in very cold water and spin thoroughly dry. In a bowl, toss vigorously with a large, minced shallot and two chopped, juicy sun-dried tomatoes, sea salt and freshly ground pepper, plus 3 tablespoons truffle oil 1 tablespoon sherry vinegar. Preheat the oven to its lowest setting, and put in your plates and a platter. Preheat a big, dry—but well seasoned—cast-iron skillet to smokin’ hot. Season the burgers generously with more salt and pepper. Transfer three of patties to the skillet, allowing plenty of airspace around each one, and cook for three minutes without any futzing. Flip over, cook for three minutes more, then transfer to the warm platter, and cook the remaining three burgers. (The oven-rested burgers will be on the medium side of medium-rare, while the second batch will be on the rarer side. To be sure, press down firmly in the center with your finger: if the surface gives easily under pressure, it's still quite pink inside; if it's springy and firm, it's verging on medium. Divide among your guests according to taste and seniority.) On each warm plate, place a perfectly-cooked burger on a slice of toast. Top with a mound of the truffle-scented frisee salad. Add the second slice of bread at a jaunty angle (or serve open-faced, like I do). If you are a truffle-hound, drizzle with a touch more truffle oil. Serve!

Variation: My mom always concealed a blue-cheese-surprise in her burgers. (I never failed to manifest shock upon discovering its presence.) These days, I like to embed a walnut-sized chunk of Taleggio in the exact center of each burger, as I gently form it. Imagine your diner's delight as they cut gently into the center with their fork (this is not the sort of burger one eats by hand, ok?), only to encounter a nugget of molten Italian cheesiness lurking within. It may not be possible to stave off the (pretty much unavoidable) process of aging, but with meals like this, I hope to soften the blow. As I look around the happy faces at my table, it's clear that I'm well on the way. We raise a glass of luscious Central Coast Pinot Noir, and my eyes meet his; there may be more crinkles around the edges of all four—eight if you count our glasses—but they were caused by plenty of mirth and laughter. I have no regrets.

I am standing underneath a scarred, ancient oak tree on an isolated ranch far to the west of Paso Robles, in central California, with a dead body, a blond woman, and a strange man—I first laid eyes on him five minutes ago—who is holding a very, very sharp knife.

"It's a surgical blade," he says, with disarming cheer. It looks like a switchblade, to me. An ominous grumbling sound intrudes on the eery stillness of the sunny afternoon.

It's coming from my stomach—I'm hungry.

The dead body is a 200-pound wild boar, the man is a hunter, and the blond woman is Mary Baker, of Central Coast Wine Blogs; she has opened doors for me in this wine community that I might otherwise have spent months—if not years—knocking on. In the next few hours, I will realize several things: I am not squeamish, the boar is destined to grace my table, and hunting wild animals requires patience and a skill-set I shall probably never possess. I also discover that riding a 3-seat, all-terrain-vehicle at blistering high speed down almost-vertical slopes, fishtailing through viscous and darkly muddy gulches, and ranging across the softly rolling, emerald green and oak-studded hills of a Central California magic hour is an activity from which I was mistakenly separated at birth.

I love this place with a fierceness like a lion's, for her cub. And the prospect of many wild boar feasts makes me lick my lips and start mentally reviewing the possible repasts: civet, a riot of braises, "Drunken Boar", a Paso Robles version of cassoulet (Passoulet?). I could get used to this lifestyle, and seriously hope to. But the fact that I'm not a hunter, and likely never will be, causes me nary a worry. Because the handsome, grinning man-with-a-knife—Matt Tupen—is a twenty-year veteran of the hunt—he first accompanied his father hunting in Hawaii at the age of five.

Matt has taken off from his day job—as a paramedic and father of four, in Ventura—to take me hunting on the stunningly beautiful Dubost Ranch, a 320-acre corner of California that grows cattle, barley, safflower, walnuts, persimmons, and wine grapes—and makes highly respected wine. He's been hunting in this area for twenty-years, and yet his sparkling eyes betray an abiding excitement for the chase, as well as profound reverence for the land and the animals that range upon it. His "day job" allows him the flexibility to work as a hunting guide, and his wide-ranging relationships with local ranch owners let him cherry-pick the spot according to his time-honed instincts. Eighty percent of his customers return to hunt with him again, and I can understand why.

"On the other side of those mountains," Matt points toward the western horizon, where magic hour is just starting to mellow the light to soft honey, "the Santa Lucia range, is the Hearst castle. Many of the wild boar in this area are descended from German black pigs, escaped from the castle's breeding program, as well as Eurasian pigs brought by immigrants who settled on the Central Coast in the 1800's." In fact, he says, all wild boar in California are domesticated pigs gone feral, like house-cats a generation or two away from the cosy hearth. I eye the rather prehistoric being hanging in the tree—elongated, covered with coarse hair, tusked—and compare it to the pink, hairless hogs that were ubiquitous as table-breeders before we re-discovered the tasty breeds of yore: the Berkshire, the Tamworth, the Duroc. In fifty years (countless generations, from a pig's point of view), a sort of hyper, reverse-evolution has changed these animals almost beyond recognition. The hindquarters are slimmer, the forequarters heavier (the result of a super-thick shoulder-plate, designed for fighting). The hair is longer and darker, the legs shorter. The snout has become elongated, the fat-cap and marbling—results of a far more relaxed lifestyle—are almost nonexistent. Scientists say such profound changes take only a couple of generations. It's warp-speed adaptability.

Although we do not actually shoot a boar on our hunt (Matt was worried we might not, so he took down our furry friend late on the previous night), I can see that hunting—for this outdoorsman, anyway and, by definition, his clients—is about as far from shooting ducks in a barrel as you can get. For one thing, the State of California places strict restrictions on the hunt, and even though we are far from anyone who'd conceivably object if rules were broken, I get the impression that no true pro would be caught dead stepping outside the boundaries. The pigs tend to come out only after dark, but you are only allowed to shoot them before sunset. You need a California Pig Tag for every animal you plan to take (they're available for a nominal fee at any sporting goods store). The meat is always eaten, and with relish: this is no trophy sport. Any responsible hunter kills only what he/she and their family and friends will consume. You are cheek-by-jowl with the age-old cycle of death and nutrition, here.

Matt cautions me and Mary (both breathless at this far from quotidian adventure) that once the ATV comes to a halt we must keep very still, and very quiet. As the ATV barrels down a precipitous incline, spraying mud, we try to quench our girly squeals of glee, jabbing one another in the ribs while shout-whispering "Shhhhhhh!!!" For Matt, this is no joy-ride: His eyes are darting quickly back and forth from hillock-top to ravine-bottom, binoculars at the ready, and he spots wild turkeys, deer, and coyotes that I would surely have missed. But today, no boar.

Back at the ranch, our stand-in boar awaits. He is not going anywhere, except to dinner, with us. So, too, waits a large but delicate glass of Dubost's 2008 Alexandrine, a luscious blend of Viognier and Roussane that expertly expresses the very soil with which we have just become so intimate.

We gaze into it's golden depths and lift our glasses to life, and death, and dinner.

Matt Tupen, of Tupen Outdoors, can be reached at 805-402-6137 or borrhunter@roadrunner.com. He shoots, usually at long-range, with a Winchester.

The phone rang at 8:26 am.

"What are you doing right now?" I overheard the female voice asking my husband. "Can you be here in five minutes? This isn't going to last for long." I cocked a sleepy eye over the top of Stella's smooth, warm head at C, who has been sleeping late during our luscious month-long stay in San Luis Obispo, so welcome after the three months apart. Outside, the warm morning sunshine was quickly drying the glistening remnants of last night's rain from the rose bushes.

"Honey....?" I queried. But C was dressed and roaring off down the long gravel driveway before I could finish the sentence. One and a half hours later he was back, disheveled and smelling a little musty, grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat.

"Look!" he crowed, and opened up a large brown paper bag.

Pounds and pounds of plump, firm gold and cream-colored chanterelles met my gaze. Flecked with leaf mold and still moist and pliable, they were like flanged harbingers of flavor, full of the promise of early spring in the second week of January here on California's Central Coast.

Erin, the immensely generous soul who had called C, is known locally as The Pig Lady—so I knew she was a kindred soul from the moment we met. On her 100-acre property in mumble-mumble Canyon, about 5 miles from the center of San Luis, the clustered oak trees offer a harvest that's far more valuable than acorns. Whenever the conditions are right (moist, deep leaf-mold and mild temperatures), her forests literally teem with these sought-after fungi. (When we offered a bag to French friends who make award-winning wine in the Templeton Gap area west of Paso Robles, they were gob-smacked. "I have acres and acres of oak trees, and I have never, ever found any chanterelles," complained Beatrice sadly. Paso is, of course, much dryer and appreciably colder than San Luis in the winter. Fine for vines, but not conducive to the spores that produce one of France's most beloved mushrooms.)

Whenever the heavens conspire to provide these fungi-friendly conditions, Erin must move fast. If she doesn't get out there and forage under the roots and tree canopies, searching for that tell-tale flash of French-vanilla color, then the wild pigs—or, sadly, poachers—are likely to beat her to the punch. Sometimes, she traps a smaller pig and roasts it up for supper (the really big pigs, although destructive, are far too gamy to make good eating). Every April, Erin buys a few piglets from a local farmer, and they cavort in bliss and freedom on her canyon ranchette. (That is, until the day—usually about 90 later—that she carts them up to Paso Meats, a bespoke slaughterhouse in Paso Robles. I yearn to live close enough to share the cost and upbringing of one of these swine someday.)

Faced with this plethora of potent shroomage, I leapt into action. C set to work gently brushing the leaf-mold from all sides of the fungi with a soft brush. (Just say "no" to washing—they soak up water like a sponge, and it never goes away. Besides, leaf mold is not exactly dirt.) Soon, he had batch number one of the haul ready to tumble.

First, I pulled out the three-day rustic red-wine short ribs leftover from New Year's Eve. After I'd warmed and shredded the meat, I combined it with some of the attendant red wine reduction sauce and shards of precious chanterelles that had been butter braised until golden. I showered the mixture with a drift of flat-leaf parsley, stirred in a few minced anchovies and a little more cultured butter for good measure, then spooned the resulting ragout over rigatoni. That was night number one.

Two nights later, our host, cousin Robert, requested fish. At New Frontiers, the estimable market in San Luis, there was wild sockeye salmon, and there was kale. Garlic from Robert's vegetable garden awaited me back at home, so the dish had taken on a shape and identity even before I began to ponder.

This time, I sauteed the chanterelles in olive oil, so I could take them beyond tender into the realm of crispy and concentrated. When they were edged with a slight char, I stirred in five or six minced cloves of garden garlic, and turned down the flame. In the oven I was roasting kale to the shatter stage, to the delight of cousin Robert ("I've never had roasted kale before," he exclaimed). I decided not to turn cooking the salmon into brain surgery. It was, after all, already perfect: an almost neon orange, moist, and dense. When the kale came out, the salmon went in. Twelve minutes later I lifted the filets from the skin, which had obligingly stuck to the baking parchment. I topped the filets with garlic-forward champignons and mounds of rustic-delicate kale chips. Woodsy. Ethereal. Dirt-simple.

Eureka! We have found them!

Recipe: Wild Salmon with Garlicky Chanterelles and Kale Chips Serves 4

Olive oil, sea salt, freshly ground pepper, and balsamic vinegar 1 bunch kale, leaves pulled from stems in bite-sized pieces, washed and dried About 1 pound fresh chanterelles, brushed clean, stem end trimmed if dry and woody 5 or 6 cloves garlic, minced 1 1/2 pounds wild salmon filet

Preheat the oven to 375F. On a large rimmed baking sheet, drizzle the kale with some olive oil and sprinkle with salt. Toss and massage with your fingertips until each piece is coated with a thin layer of salty oil. Bake for 15 minutes, then toss with tongs and roast for 5 to 6 minutes more (the kale should be deep, dark green with occasionally brown edges). Meanwhile, slice the mushrooms about 1/3-inch thick, then cut into manageable chunks. Warm some olive oil in a saute pan and cook the mushrooms until they give up their liquid. Keep cooking until all the liquid is evaporated and the pieces begin to brown. Add a little more olive oil to keep them from scorching. Season, then stir in the garlic and 1/2 teaspoon balsamic vinegar; cook for 1 minute more. Place the salmon skin side down on baking parchment, on another baking sheet. Season with salt and pepper. Remove the kale and let rest while the salmon goes in for 10 to 12 minutes per inch of thickness. Divide the salmon among warm plates and top with chanterelles and kale.

When our gentle hero from Part One, Cosimo, began to amass an estimable collection of wine—his own, plus some of the top labels and vintages in the world—it became clear that he needed somewhere to put them. The bespoke cellars that adorn the West's redundant crop of McMansions run into the "mid five figures." (Can you can tell I've been near Hollywood for a little too long?) Cosimo, understandably, was nonplussed at the high cost. But the fact remains brutally true that investment in—and the creation of—good wines will be wasted if the liquid gold isn't stored safely at an appropriate temperature and humidity.

When a local workman suggested the purchase of an old refrigerated metal shipping container, the kind that cranes lift on and off of ships, Cosimo initially shrugged it off as impossible, not to mention severely lacking in aesthetic value. (After all, this is a man who places great value on beauty.) Then, he heard the price: $2,000., for a ten-year-old container, certified by the USDA for food transport. Suddenly, Cosimo started thinking seriously about the possibilities, and it wasn't long before he was scrambling to finish pouring the concrete pad that is now home to the very large metal box that now houses the Pizzulli wine collection.

"First, I ripped out the old 3-phase air-conditioning compressor, which was basically useless," he says. "Then, I cut a hole in the rear wall of the container and installed a brand new Breeze-Air." (Cost: about $1500.) Now his cellar was secure, and boasted a state-of-the-art temperature control, but although he could happily store his smaller barrels inside, there was still no support system for the bottles. He checked with a wine rack retailer, but found the cost, again, high. Not to mention the fact that the racks would have to be modified to fit the container efficiently, adding further cost to the project.

Cosimo asked his uncle, a retired carpenter, to give him a hand building the racks. The two men spent six hours a day for four days, cutting, stapling, and erecting the sections. Three more days were spent setting up the racks and fitting them carefully together like a puzzle. "The beautiful thing about this is that anyone could do it—all you need is a level pad and power," says Cosimo.

"Very Thomas Jefferson," I say. And despite the utilitarian look, aesthetically pleasing, too. In this case, form follows not terribly far behind function. Cosimo added a tall wood table for tastings, and framed a few of his early labels. This man-cave is literally full of joy, both the liquid kind and the emotion. "You could clad the outside with wood, or bury it in the side of a hill," says Cosimo. But he's finished with the cellar, for now—eager to get back to his true passion: making great wines.

The Pizzulli wines aren't available to the public except at a very few Los Angeles restaurants, such as Drago, Baldi, and Grill on the Alley. Only fifty cases of that luscious Dolcetto were made, because the grower up in the Central Coast is losing interest in the varietal.

One taste of the Pizzulli Dolcetto should rekindle it.

(Part One.) It's worth noting, as we wend our way toward a new decade (new decade? What the Hell happened? You have a glass of wine and a few olives and all of a sudden it's been ten years since the millennium!), that there are many versions of the American Dream.

Often, the rags-to-riches model is the only American Dream we acknowledge and, certainly, life is easier when you have a few bucks in your pocket. It's clear that people with money (PWM, in future) often live longer, because they can afford good preventative medical care and tend to eat a more balanced diet. But having money—whether you were born into it, married it, or earned a great deal of it—doesn't necessarily equal happiness (eavesdrop on a few treadmill conversations at a gym in Calabasas, if you need proof that PWM are no happier than the average unemployed Jo-beth). And, it doesn't mean that the pinnacle of aspiration for every American is a house with ninety 'leven bedrooms, a wrapping room, and a six-car garage.

Sometimes prosperity results in the fulfillment of another kind of dream, one that is about an organic creative process, dirty fingernails, and the joy of giving birth to something far more profound than a really large bill from Needless Markup. In the Pacific Palisades, one of La-La Land's most affluent suburbs (and this is—take it from a native who missed out on the last five years of excess—saying a lot), you can meander down a lane lined with big houses, and discover a gate to a very different kind of heaven-on-earth, one with no home-gym, no his-n-hers walk-in closets, no 12-acre designer kitchen with multiple sinks and dishwashers.

Here, interior architect Cosimo Pizzuli and his wife Christine have created a simple little farm that wouldn't be out of place on a hillside in Chianti. For a native New Yorker of Italian ancestry who is more than a little bit in touch—or perhaps, in love—with his Italian roots, it is a paradise of uncommon luster. In his design practice, Cosimo concentrates on the postwar Italian aesthetic, which combines beauty with economy, and his home is the natural expression of those values—the antithesis of the Italianate McMansions that festoon many of the adjoining hills. To walk the small, lovingly created vineyard and vegetable beds with Cosimo, to sip the fruits of his labor by the outdoor stone fireplace with a hunk of pungent cheese and a plateful of Christine's ethereal fried squash blossoms, is to see what a new American Dreamer can accomplish when his taste runs more to hand-mashing grapes than to having multiple Mercedes. It is impossibly Thomas Jefferson-esque, here, a world out of time, in a time that fairly cries out for escape. Was not Jefferson—he who considered the introduction of the wine vine to America of more importance than erasing of the national debt—the original American Dreamer?

Ten years ago, when Cosimo and Christine bought the one and a half-acre property nestled unobtrusively atop a canyon that leads down to the glittering Pacific, there was only a small, clapboard house, a non-functioning swimming pool, and some very steep hillsides of the type normally associated, at least in this part of the world, with fire and mudslides. Now, after the Pizzulli's two children have mostly grown and are soon to fly away, the small clapboard house remains, mostly unchanged. (Except for the huge, conversation-stopping family portrait that dominates the tiny living room; this is a riotous, vibrant, and colorful oil, full of insider-only allegory, that was painted by an Italian artist friend. In it, oddly, Cosimo looks rather like Thomas Jefferson.)

Oh, but around the house, what wonders have been wrought! Those steep hillsides have been painstakingly terraced, and planted with vines and, depending on the season, tomatoes, fava beans, and/or arugola. The swimming pool has been renovated with admirable restraint, and now sparkles amid the scrub oak that is the natural and native landscape for my beloved home state of California. Across the driveway from the house stands a generous, open-air wine-making shed equipped with an electric crusher ("I started with a manual crusher," says Cosimo "but it was seriously hard work. After a few harvests I decided to treat myself.") Besides the grapes from his own property, Cosimo also makes wine from grapes he buys from one particular, old-world-style Italian emigrant farmer in the nascent Central Coast wine region, an area around Paso Robles that is home to some the most cool-ass cowboys of today's wine world.

Cosimo is committed to Italian grape varietals. "I opened up some bottles for you to taste," he says, when we drop in for a sunny Sunday afternoon visit in late November. "Here's a Dolcetto," he says, giggling like a schoolboy at the sheer joy of it all. (Later, when I tasted this amazingly rich and nuanced wine, I giggled for joy as well.) The wine produced from the Palisades grapes tends to a rather "refreshing" style, because the 30-foot rows face mostly east, and thus don't get enough sun to register much higher than 19 or 20 brix, resulting in only 9 or 10% alcohol. "It's like a very light rose," he says, slightly apologetic, like a Hollywood executive whose Porsche has not been waxed this week. But the wines he's really proud of come from the Central Coast grapes, and we are blown away by the fruity depth and unobtrusive but powerful backbone of these dark and leggy wines. These wines stand firmly in the same league with some of California's most talented garagistes—Cosimo's tentative pride is way justified.

Cosimo makes his wines the old-fashioned way—without benefit of chemicals during the vinification process, or sulfites to act as preservatives. In this way he can express the terroir of the land and the fruit itself, but the approach is dangerous—not for the faint of heart: "Knock wood—I haven't made any vinegar yet," he says, and relates the story of an Italian white wine he was recently "allowed to purchase" from an uppity wine merchant in New York's Union Square. "It is 25 years old and still alive, still moving, still an unbelievable wine." Cosimo derives great happiness from his wine-making, but he is deadly serious about the process. When the 2008 Dolcetto registered a very high brix, of 28, he was afraid the intense heat of fermentation might kill the natural yeasts ("They're not the strongest little fellows"). So he asked his winemaker to recommend a commercial yeast. One teaspoon, dissolved in a quart of water and poured over the juice, did the trick. The fermentation finished safely, the yeast was racked out, and a year and half later we're savoring the luscious result.

What began as a passionate hobby has now produced wines that are truly estimable and in demand, wines to trade with other winemaking friends and even, on occasion and for a lucky few, to buy. Inevitably, there now comes the need for a safe place to store a great many great bottles. Cosimo looked into the cost of digging a wine cave into the side of the hill that embraces the property, and found the numbers unappealing. A friend suggested he buy an old steel refrigerated shipping container.

(End of Part One)

I've never required much motivation to hop into the car and drive toward wine, food, and fire. But when the lure includes soft, rolling hills bristling with closely-ranked vines, olive trees waving silvery foliage, and lavender puffs busy with visiting bees—why, then, I'm like a randy tom-cat with one simple agenda. Even after five years, the northeast has failed to fully capture my heart. That organ, still unaccountably hopeful after feathering nine nests—and entering into three marriages, all of which were and are intended to be the last—remains forever true to the land of my birth: California.

Twice now, in the past mumble-mumble years, there have been seemingly good reasons to leave California, whether it was college or my pioneer spirit. There's always been a better reason to come back. And the Central Coast of California, specifically Paso Robles and San Luis Obispo, retain the flavor of my old California far better than today's leafy and unequal land of Brentwood.

A few minutes east of Paso there's a little bed & breakfast on a hill, called Villa Valdemosa, with a view that will break your heart if you have ever spent time in Tuscany. This welcoming place is eclectic and personal; you'll feel like the houseguest of it's opinionated and urbane winemaking host-owner, Tom Roebuck. There's a European sensibility in and around the home, not surprising since Tom is a Franco- and Italo-phile who has filled the public spaces with wine-centric reading material and decor. (Note that it's virtually the only choice if Fido's along for the adventure—what's wrong with the innkeepers of Paso? Don't they know we want to travel with our dogs?).

Tom is actively engaged in making wine, as well as music, and if you're of a mind, he'll take you by the hand and share both. This ruggedly handsome sixty-something refugee from myriad past lives tools around town in either an open-topped mercedes or a no-nonsense truck, and is—one feels this is only a temporary situation—a solo player.

He's like a poster-boy for the social viniculture of California's third wine region, languidly begining to catch up with Napa and Sonoma. Here, the price of wine grapes has dropped drastically, and yet every other person you meet makes their own wine. Not all do so with such cellar-rat creativity as Tom: Large vineyards harvest with machines which are unable to take grapes from the last few vines on a row; friendly winemakers let Tom help himself, and from these classy cast-offs comes a wine of depth and personality as bracing and rich as his own. You'll likely not see it in a store, but if you dally for a day or three at his hilltop aerie, you might get to taste, perchance even to buy.

In the last five years, the dining scene in Paso has achieved critical mass. Villa Creek is no longer the only estimable table in town, and the darling of the last several years, Artisan, now has a serious contender for thehot California local-seasonal-sustainable crown. (There's no need to jostle for prominence, however, because a town that's fast growing as the third wine-country touring destination of this great state needs more than two or three great restaurants.) Thomas Hill Organics, started by ex-white-collar farming couple Joe and Debbie Thomas as a venue to present some of the produce from their ten-acre organic farm, makes it possible to vary the dining-out program, deliciously, on a three-day or three-week stay in the area. Educating the public is part of the program here—learning to enjoy produce in the season that nature provides it takes a little getting used to—but there's no proselytizing. Wines come from local vignerons, most using green methods and many of them known to the brand new restaurateurs (and often found hanging out on the luscious patio). Debbie is charmingly disarming about their raison d'etre: "We thought maybe a restaurant would be a good idea," says the professed ex-Nike office drone, who has bucked the trend toward disaster that overtakes the majority of brand new restaurants, especially those helmed by novices. Paso Robles is a terroir in flux, tripped up a bit by the recession, but ready to pick itself up and start moving forward in tasty new directions at the drop of a chapeaux. I can't wait until our next, lusciously longer visit, in January. There is more wine to be drunk, vistas to contemplate, and—more importantly—farmers of tasty pork to seek out and befriend. I'm so there.

In case anyone has a doubt about this, I'll just go on record and say that a two-month separation is not good for any couple. One month apart, or a couple of weeks, can be invigorating. Any longer, and the culture of the partnership begins to sound and feel different. Having said that, we had both agreed that in this one-off case, the cause—ie, a good, long mom-time—was a good one. And lo and behold, the woman who would "never work again" as of last summer has written an entire book, plus half a book proposal, and cemented a third book deal since we two last broke bread and lifted glasses unto one another (sounds kinda religious, huh?). So when C finally gets off the plane from NY, here early for the Thanksgiving festivities (interestingly—or not—by way of both Ft Lauderdale and Austin), There is a great deal to celebrate. We waste no time on familial niceties and instead head straight up the glorious Pacific Coast, backdrop of my birth and permanent home of my soul. Now, I get to add my soul-mate to the mix! It just doesn't get any better than this.

When I was seventeen, the Beach Boys were de rigeur for this glittering drive, but now it's all about catching up. Stella's head is out the window, backlit by the sun, and she is safe in daddy's lap again. First stop is Malibu, for a dinner that's worthy of one of Dutch's special bottles, a Chateauneuf from the village right next door to Vaison, where he and Andrea used to live and make wine. I'm supplying supper, and need a menu that's super-quick to execute but complex enough for the wine. The new-ish Whole Foods in Venice (the largest in the country) provides everything I need: 2 pounds of 15%-fat ground beef, a loaf of rustic bread, cultured organic butter, and a pot of their cilantro-scallion hummus. I arrive at the meat counter just in time to grab the last mound of beef, a mere heartbeat ahead of a woman who seems genuinely pissed off to have missed out. I half-heartedly indicate the generous pile of 7%-fat beef, but, she scoffs, and I simply apologize once again. An estimable burger is made with fatty meat. End of recipe.

Up in Malibu, C and I dance around the patio with a glass of Chalone in one hand (Dutch and Andrea have put on our wedding CD from Italy for the occasion). Then I mince a large shallot and fold it, along with a large pinch of both French sea salt and smoked paprika, into the meat, which I have pulled apart with a fork. Now I form it into four relatively equal patties, with a very light hand, and press them into disks. Some minced garlic and a drift of snipped chives have been folded in my new favorite butter, and the bread is toasted until golden, then slathered with this manna. The burgers are now golden from the griddle, and they go onto the bread; I top them with a limpid puddle of the bright green hummus, and the very fine wine is poured. It's a truly fine how-do-you-do.

I'll skip over the details of our first night together in two months. This is a travel, wine, and dine forum. But I have lost eight pounds in two months, despite the one hundred slow cooker recipes (can you say "stress"?), and am told that I "feel like a different woman." Which has got to be fun.

In the morning, we three head north—together again, and driving, as we should always be—towards Paso Robles, but no drive up this coast is complete without a stop at the taco stand of every southern Californian's dreams: La Super Rica, in Santa Barbara. (Translated: The Really Rich Place; Take the Milpas exit off 101 and head away from the ocean until you spot the little blue and white building on your right; it's closed on Wednesday, so beware. And try to arrive before noon or after 1;45, or allow for a substantial wait.) I order Queso Especial, melty cheese which comes studded with oily chunks of chorizo and lazy dark threads of cilantro; C has the impossibly toothsome and crisp pork tacos, and we split a mound of bright, freshly smashed guacamole. The tortilla lady shares a crowded stove with the grill man, and she's like an mean machine, grabbing hunks of snow-white masa, rolling them between two padded palms, then quick-smart pressing them in the tortilla press before they fly onto the griddle.

On the road again, we both do a bit of Friday afternoon business from the traveling office that is the Highlander, just so it seems like we're not completely hors de combat. Up in Paso, and a few miles east, there's a little table bathed in magic hour sunshine, a bottle beaded with condensation like a hundred diamond tennis-bracelets, and a lot more catching up to do. I'd forgotten what our life together was like. It's a language I am fluent in; I pick it up and hold it close, like a cat that's been lost in the rain.

Brentwood, California

Twenty-four hours before arriving in Los Angeles I landed a book deal—welcome indeed, but brutal in its timeline. (Hey—be careful what you ask for, and when.) As soon as I calculated the number of recipes into the days remaining before deadline, unpacking the trusty, insect-flecked Toyota took a backseat to a trip to Costco. Multiple bulk bags of onions, gallons of organic chicken broth, and a gaggle of peeled garlic jostled with my cookbook box, non-cookbook book-box, and shoe bag (who has time to peel garlic?). Luckily, I have many wonderful and hungry friends in Los Angeles. I also have a mom who still loves to eat, even if the quantities are far less than they were in the days of First Class travel on the Italian Line (and the list of can't-eats seems to grow daily). Plus, she has a nice new freezer which, in the past three weeks I have come close to filling with diminutive and laboriously labeled food containers. I am a little over two-thirds finished with the project.

The level of work-work has left little time for the relationship work I came here to tackle. But in the end, my work ethic (surprise, mom) has done more to endear me to this tough audience than any number of bedside heart-to-hearts. It is lucky that when one is braising, a little extra salt (in the form of tears) is a fine thing.

Being that I'm (lucky for you) too busy earning a crust to wax on eloquently about the food of Los Angeles, instead I'll post a recipe which I was born to write, being that steak—and all meat, really—have been as mother's milk to me (in the absence thereof). Just check the wildly enthusiastic comments on my Palm Restaurant Cookbook: at Amazon. I know from steak. And when life throws you a curve ball—in the form of unseasonably cold weather, a bank account the size of a pea, or a mother who views you as a creature from another planet—it's time to drop a bundle on a great steak. And, lest you screw it up, here's how to cook it.

Pan-Grilled Rib Steak with Blue Cheese Butter (aka Monster Steak) Serves 2, and whoever else it is will be your slave for life; choose carefully

This technique gives a smoky, crusty result, very similar to grilling, but don’t even think of attempting it unless you have the right pan. It must be big enough to allow plenty of clearance around the steak, and it must be made of heavy-duty cast aluminum, or, in a pinch, cast iron. Otherwise, you’ll just burn this rather pricey piece of meat. Nonstick pan, you say? Sorry, can’t hear you…the high temperature will melt the coating, duh. If you don’t have a rack, use a small plate, placed upside down on top of a larger plate, to stop the steak from resting in its own juices.

Equipment: * 10-inch cast aluminum or other very heavy-duty pan with stainless steel interior * Cake rack or other small, flat rack

The Adventure Club: * If your 401(K) is in better shape than 90% of everyone else's, find yourself a dry-aged steak

Ingredients: 1 (16-ounce) best-quality, bone-in rib steak, slightly over 1 inch thick, patted dry with paper towels 2 tablespoons olive oil 2 oz salted Irish butter 2 oz blue cheese Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Rub the steak with the olive oil; then let stand, uncovered, at room temperature in a dog-free place, for 1 to 1 1/2 hours (inside the turned-off oven, for instance). In a small bowl, combine the butter and blue cheese. Let stand until softened, about 30 minutes, then blend together with a fork. Place a large, ovenproof sauté pan over high heat. Sprinkle one side of the steak generously with salt and pepper. When the pan is very hot, after about 4 minutes, place the steak in the pan with tongs, seasoned side down. Do not move or press down on it (this makes it important to get the placement in the pan right the first time—once it’s in, you’re not moving it until you are ready to turn). After 2 1/2 minutes, season the uppermost side of the steak generously with salt and pepper and turn over. Cook for 2 1/2 minutes more. Transfer the steak to a rack set over a plate, and let stand at room temperature for at least 30 and up to 60 minutes. I know this seems wrong. Trust me.

Thirty minutes before you plan to finish the steak, preheat the oven to 425F. Return the steak to the same pan in which it was seared, and finish cooking in the oven for 6 minutes for a warm red center (medium rare), or 8 minutes for a pink center (medium). Cooking to the well-done stage is not recommended. Let rest for 5 minutes on the rack, uncovered and away from any drafts. Carve into thick slices and serve on hot plates, dolloping each portion with a big chunk of blue cheese butter. Flip a coin to decide who gets the bone.

Bone appetit.

Green Valley, Utah to Las Vegas: 410 miles. Three states: Utah, Arizona, and Nevada.

Stella and I are up early because, although it may be a perfect morning, this day promises to be a scorcher; in spite of the costly last-minute repairs, I have little faith in the air-conditioning of the trusty but about-to-cross-115,000-mile car. Green River is luminous in the crisp morning light. The aspen trees glitter and the sun glints off water and rock with the heartfelt promise of a glorious rafting day, the splashing of water against heavy rubber, white-water thrills and lukewarm tea from a camp-stove. But that day is not to be my day.

At a rest top just west of Grand Junction, a lady who became an instant best-fried of Stella had told me that Green River is the melon capital of, um, somewhere. The West? And last night on the way home from Ray's I spied a shadowy but promising ghost-farm stand. Now, it is anything but ghostly, with a multitude of multicolored orbs being offered to the motor-home and motor-cycle drivers assembled, oohing and aahing over piles of watermelons, cantaloupes, and honeydews. I heft three lovely (50-cent!!), cantaloupes to the check-out table, where Taffy, whose grandfather—she tells me—has been growing melons here since 1958, is presently holding court (a little sign says "If no one is here, put the money in the box.").

Taffy is apologetic: "I'm afraid they're really $1.35. Um, is that OK?" I allow as the price seems reasonable, and fork over the four dollars. Taffy is thrilled by the symmetry: "Did you plan that?" she asks breathlessly. I intuit that Taffy doesn't like making change.

One hundred and fifty miles later, the outside temperature is kissing 104 and I'm nursing the thermostat so that the fan never gets to level 5; as soon as it does, I crank up the the inside temp by a degree: 74F. 77F. 79F. Every few minutes I switch off the present book (which has my mind distractedly believing I'm in Cornwall in either 1913, 1975, or 2005) to listen to the straining compressor, which according to my car repairman could—in spite of the new filter—be flooded by microscopic flecks of metal at any time. ("Thanks," I had told him, less than 24 hours before blastoff, as I handed him $1500.)

North Las Vegas is not a place of deep and resonant beauty. I've chosen Las Vegas for my final night purely because of its position on the map, and the availability of a free night at La Quinta. Inadvertently, while trying to avoid the clusterf**k of the Riviera, I chose the "Nellis" La Quinta, ie right across the street from Nellis Air-Force base, in a neighborhood where people evidently pump themselves $4 worth of gas. If you think about Las Vegas at all, and I try not to, you might imagine that people keep themselves in air-conditioned prisons. But I'm here to tell you that there are an awful lot of people who can't afford to. And theirs is not a particularly comfortable lot.

In our energy-efficient room (the a/c doesn't come on until you insert your key-card into a green-lit slot on the wall), I resolve that we will stay put. Hard as it might be, I resist the urge to go out and watch blue-haired, slurred-word ladies hopefully pump their last few quarters into obscenely-lit machines, while all around people behave as though what happens in Vegas can be wiped from their brains with some sort of cosmic Delete button.

After all, I'm not here to have "fun."

Paxton, NE to Denver: 291 miles. Two states: Nebraska and Colorado. and Denver to Green River, Utah: 346 miles. Two states: Colorado and Utah.

The news from Los Angeles is not good, and I must brush aside the thinly-veiled pretense that this is a pleasure trip. My goal is to get across the country as quickly as possible; if there is decent food to be eaten, sights to see, and a soft bed for Stella and I to rest upon along the way, so be it. On other trips, the journey itself was a celebration, here it is just a means to an end. Yes, certainly, I could have flown from New York to Los Angeles to be with my mother, but then I would not have had Stella (so far, I haven't met an airline who could be trusted with this dog), my books, or my car. And, I reasoned, perhaps this time on the road would give me a healthy perspective with which to enter, again, My Mother's House. This time with the intention to stay.

And so it is that the miles drag by, soundtrack provided by my latest book: The Forgotten Garden, by Kate Morton. (This Aussie and Brit-centric book couldn't be more location-inappropriate, but I revel in its knife-sharp evocations of lands not in my front nor rear-view mirror. Pure escape.) My original plans, already messed-with back in Iowa, had called for a sharp jog south from Denver to Albuquerque, to avoid that little thing called the Rocky Mountains. During my all-too-short visit with Fred and Kitty Koch in Denver (soon to be repeated, with more time for chatter), they advised me that it was ridiculous to worry about crossing Loveland Pass, on I-70, in September. So, mindful of the total of 250 miles this shift would shave from my remaining drive, I changed plans once again and headed due West out of Denver. Up past Genessee, where I had spent all of December—in, I think, 1974—camping in a house with no electricity along with my first college boyfriend. Past Vail, where in about 1980, I—a non-skier—had somehow hurtled down from the summit, twice, and lived to tell the tale. It sometimes seems that every road in this country meanders past my memories. Especially since C and I keep making more. But this time its only me, alone with Stella, the voice coming from the ipod, and the one in my head.

On the far side of Eisenhower Tunnel, signs flash "Ice on The Road!!" and I momentarily doubt my impulsive choice. We commence a 6% downward grade and I'm pumping the brakes so I won't have to ride them, while semi-trucks thunder past me in a flurry of snow. Yes, snow. Not a lot, but it's definitely sticking. And then, suddenly, I am through the hairy bit and stopping, thanks to my Facebook buddy Dorette Snover, in Edwards for a brilliant lunch at Sato Sushi (although they are out of the promised pork belly). This change of route was inspired and absolutely correct: Had I gone the other way, I wouldn't have been able to marvel at Glenwood Canyon's towering, striated rocks, witness the aspen trees turned luminous gold and yellow among the evergreens, and then been spit gently out of the Rockies into the familiar red-rock bluffs, peaks, and mesas of Utah. Another time, I really must come this way with nothing on my mind, or schedule.

I have done absolutely no dining research on Green River. At first, there doesn't appears to be much choice. "Tamarisk" advertises "family dining," always a bad sign. And as I drive past in the rosy mellow glow of a just-set sun, I see that the crowded riverside room is overly, even obscenely bright, perhaps trying to banish the out-of-doors that I feel so very at home in. Ray's Tavern trumpets "Food for Everyone," and I decide that that includes me. Inside the laminate-paneled, pool-table-equipped room, t-shirts festoon the walls: "Rafters Keep You Wet All Day," "Go With the Flow," and the intriguing—if mysterious— "Sclerosis of the River." Soon, an excellent bacon cheeseburger, complete with hand-cut fries, is soon safe on the seat beside me as I head back through the darkening night, over the Green River, to Stella, our little home for the night, and the last of the Iowa chardonnay.

Plans change. That's the beauty of driving.

Instead of laying my weary head down in Des Moines and Kearney, NE the last two nights, as planned, Stella and I bunked down in Council Bluffs, and then Paxton. There were various reasons for the change of plan (which necessitated several on-the-fly reservation changes); one of them was the heads-up thrown my way by one of my very best college buddies, Fred Koch. I'll be staying with feisty Fred and his adorable forever-wife, Kitty, at their posh pad in Denver after the agony of Nebraska is but a wispy memory in my rear-view. But about 48 hours before that, he calls with a 911 question: "Have you been through Nebraska yet?" "No, I'm still in corn-world No. 1, ie Iowa." "OK, you HAVE to go to Ole's Big Game Steakhouse, Lounge, and Restaurant in Paxton, NE. It's less than five miles off I-80. They have 200 animal heads on the wall." I'm pretty easy when it comes to a challenge like this. "OK."

Ole opened the place because he and his hunting buddies needed someplace cozy to showcase their dead animals, tell one another tall tales, and throw down cocktails (perhaps shots of whisky would be more accurate, but you get the picture). When Ole retired, a similarly-minded local man took over, and the place is now a de rigueur stop for anyone savvy that passes this way.

Not to be unkind, but perhaps Nebraska is not at its best on the days I am driving through it. Sitting at the old wood bar with a glass of wine and my journal, and anticipating the arrival of a grass-fed boneless rib-eye from their very own Nebraska beef company, Hehnke's—and then greedily consuming it—almost (but not quite) makes up for the cold, gray desolation of almost three whole days, across western Iowa, Nebraska, and eastern Colorado. I listen to and sing along to West Side Story to speed the hours past.

Just as I'm getting ready to leave, my trusty bartender grudgingly allows as there's something a little, well, risque, in the back room. OK, I'll bite. Turns out serious, circa 1940's, cheesecake festively festoons the walls up above the foosball. I am instantly transported back to the forties, and wish I'd worn my bobby sox. (Not really—what bobby sox—and anyway, she's not wearing any.) How serendipitous that Fred should have alerted me to this time-machine of a place! But please, please, pretty please: Bring on Denver!

Chicago to Council Bluffs, Iowa: 463 miles. Two states: Illinois and Iowa and Council Bluffs to Paxton, Nebraska: 312 miles. Two states: Iowa and Nebraska

Check it out! Two days and almost 800 miles flew by while you weren't looking.

But I was. Looking, that is. Out through the windshield. At corn. There is a reason I usually take the southern route across the country, and it ain't ALL about the weather.

Back in my Euro-trash days, my first husband and I drove all our worldly goods from London down to the southern coast of Spain, in a very large truck that had air-brakes. I almost killed us both during a hair-raising game of chicken with a tractor-tailer in the Pyrenees, but that's another story. On that long-ago drive, you could look out at rows of olive trees, doze off for an hour or two, and wake up to see rows of olive trees. It was like being in a stationary camera-car with an endless loop of olive-movie playing in the background. (My life during this period is best viewed as a movie anyway, a comedy). Iowa is like that, except that it's corn instead of olives, and when you stop for the night dinner does not come with thick slices of jamon serrano and a never-ending carafe of rustic, dry rose.

And, of course, instead of searching out dinner opportunities in the Michelin, you go to roadfood.com. But I am in something of a hurry on this trip, and didn't do the kind of in-depth homework that normally occupies a solid week of my productive hours before departure. Thus, I'm incredibly grateful to chow down on Meathead's carefully-packed leftover, award-winning maple and chipotle ribs (aka Pig Candy) in Council Bluffs, complemented by a take-out green salad from a local (yes, non-chain!) Italian restaurant, and some Beringer Founder's Reserve chardonnay from the Hy-Vee.

Behind-the-wheel boredom is kept at bay during these two monotonous days via a combination of distractions: I do a little phone bidness with the coast, listen to Life Sentences, plus podcasts of KCRW's Good Food Show and This American Life, and attempt to find myself near a rest stop when it is not raining, so Stella can run around a bit before she turns into a lovely black-and-white dog-statue (Stella won't get out of the car if it is raining).

Note that, apparently, Nebraska is a wannabe Western state. Many cowboy-oriented roadside attractions trumpet this notion. Sorry. I'm not in The West yet.

This driving across the country thing doesn't get old, exactly, but I do find it helpful to keep to a certain code of conduct. Every once in awhile I remind myself of the Rules of the Road:

* I will Not Patronize Any Chain Restaurants. (In extreme circumstances only—see suburban Birmingham AL, 2007—exceptions may be made for Outback Steakhouse.)

* One appreciates one's creature comforts, but will not leave anything behind in a hotel room or friend's house. This includes jewellry, phone and camera chargers, dog bowls and toys, fluffy blankies and pillow. (See 2006, when I left my favorite barn coat and silver teaspoon at an Oklahoma La Quinta. In defense, I'd just realized a biblical blizzard was about to sweep across my proposed route.)

More to come...

Toledo to Chicago: 220 miles. Three states: Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois

I have slept well, because the most comfortable bed in the world is at my sister-in-law's house in Toledo. Not to mention the loving, warm feeling of I get when pulling into a real home instead of an impersonal hotel. In this case, there was a long-standing family reunion elsewhere in Toledo, so I happily puttered alone in Nancy's big and well-equipped kitchen, simmering fresh-from-the-Ohio-dirt sweetcorn, mixing up a salad, and popping large quantities of the yellow tomatoes so generously offered by Farmer Lee Jones. For dessert, two of his neighbor's incredibly ripe, dripping, summer-perfect peaches. Stella and I were tucked up by the sophisticated hour of 9:30, putting us in prime condition head out early, refreshed and recharged in a way that only family can provide. (Not, of course, before snarfling up a large handful of Charlie's sizzling bacon and a few more drippy-good peaches.)

September is a luscious month, especially here in America's heartland. From the Turnpike, I can't see the effects of our current recession; from my isolated perch here, whizzing by at this golden time of year, it's tempting to forget our country's troubles and simply celebrate its fertile promise. Then I switch over to CNN. Oh, well. Briefly, I am in Indiana, and the ambling landscape sports gleaming white barns and burnished steel silos. I drive through Gary and feel compelled to call C (only our third conversation of the day) and sing GaryIndiana GaryIndiana, GaryIndiana...a la Music Man. Within a few hours, I am approaching the Sears Tower.

Today is a very short day because I'm heading for a lunch date with Craig "Meathead" Goldwyn, who is—among other things—the prolific author of AmazingRibs.com, the huge and hugely instructive website that goes oh-so-far beyond just ribs. In fact, I'm a recipe-developer/cookbook-author (twenty-one books, and counting), and have never seen such comprehensive and clear instructions for preparing and cooking lots of tasty meat (one of may favorites: the chart "Anatomy of a Rib"), building fires correctly (note: it's not the way the Weber people have always told us to), plus finding the very best hot dogs all across the country (a subject obviously near and dear to this heart). In my ongoing love/hate relationship with Facebook, I must declare that meeting Meathead ranks high on the plus side. When he discovered that I would be driving through Chicago on my first-ever trek-across via the Northern Route, he kindly offered to personally meet me for some meat—specifically, a terrific dog, for which Chicago is justly famous. But in much the same way as the French argue about which cassoulet is the finest, the most representative of the region, Chicagoans debate the desirability of their various dogs. After some protracted correspondence (of the kind that regularly prevents me from actually getting any real work done), we decided on Superdawg. (6363 N. Milwaukee Ave. Where Milwaukee, Nagle, and Devon intersect. 773-763-0660.)

In Meathead's helpful round-up of Chicago's best hot-dog stands, we learn that that he ranks Superdawg as Number Two in Chicago; Number One, Hot Doug's Encased Meat Emporium, is not open on Sundays and will have to wait for a future trip. This throwback joint, complete with car-bays and bell-hops, has been open since 1948, when Maurie and Flaurie Berman set up the stand much as it still appears today. (Travelers will be happy to note that there is an outpost in Midway Airport, on Concourse B.) This dog is skinless (shock) and all-beef (standard here, according to Meathead), but its defining characteristic is its lush plumpness. And of course, the toppings. I am instructed that it is de rigueur to nestle the pickle inside the bun with everything else that's already in there—including the electric-blue relish—and this doesn't work so well for me until I realize it must be nestled with the skin-side-down.

Mmmmm. Happy. This is a dog worth driving for, although the fries are strangely taste-free. (But, why do I need to eat the fries anyway? Just because they are in the box?? After all, isn't it long past time to start slimming?)

Erie, PA to Toledo, OH: 218 miles Two States: Pennsylvania and Ohio

Today is a short day because I'm headed to C's family in Toledo for the night. Stella was disgusted with the 400-mile day yesterday, so I hope to butter her up with a lackadaisical day today. And I have a surprise in store for both of us: It's not all about the white lines on the freeway....

About an hour east of Toledo, I pull off the Ohio Turnpike and head for my scheduled rendezvous with Farmer Lee Jones, at The Chef's Garden. The passing countryside has been stunning for several hours now—waving fields are golden and/or green, just on the verge of putting on their winter colors—and the artistically scattered barns are red, hipped, and immaculate. The sky is blue, vast, and tranquil, soothing my soul in the way I'd previously thought only a Texas sky could do. When I pull into the gravel drive of Lee's family farm, I'm instantly rewarded with the boundless enthusiasm, infectious grin and sparkling blue eyes, and signature red bow tie of the life force known as Farmer Lee, who has become emblematic of responsible, sustainable farming—a man who, incidentally, counts some of the world's best and most influential chefs amongst his friends and vociferous supporters.

Lee's family has been farming this corner of Ohio, with a break here and there, for six generations. He grew up in a farmhouse right around the corner from The Chef's Garden, where, he says, he crawled in and out of his bedroom window more than once, headed for a romantic midnight rendezvous somewhere on the Jones' family's 1200 acres. But in 1983, a combination of events— a precipitous drop in food prices and a catastrophic hail-storm—wiped the completely family out. Within months, they were left with no choice but to sell literally everything they owned. Lee was a teenager then, but he grew up fast. Watching your mother and proud father sell their home, and land, including the tractors you grew up riding on, will have that effect on a person.

But the young Lee had some new ideas, and his father—who felt that he'd personally failed the family—was more than willing to listen. The entire Jones family began to think outside the box, and they haven't stopped since. Eventually, and with a great deal of hard work, setbacks, and tiny steps forward that gradually became a gallup, the whole family now cultivates literally thousands of varieties of vegetables, on 300 acres, in a way diametrically opposed to the way they used to—and ninety percent of their neighbors still do—farm. Around us, as we tour the various different non-contiguous fields that make up the current holding (which is still increasing), we are never out of sight of the vast, undulating oceans of corn and soy that represent the region's predominant crops—not to say monoculture.

This land basks fortuitously in the benign shadow of Lake Erie, the shallowest of the Great Lakes. Most of us who watch the weather channel are familiar with the term "lake-effect snow," but what I certainly never knew is that on the western side of Lake Erie, the lake effect creates a substantially warmer microclimate. Being shallow, the water gets warmer in the summer than in, say, Lake Michigan. And stays warmer, longer, extending the growing season far beyond the that of the surrounding farmland. In fact, Lee can cultivate certain cultivars outside all year-round—unheard-of in most of this region.

About five minutes after the Jones family made their non-traditional farming business successful (many of the neighbors still think they're crazy, and none have been tempted to follow their lead), they began to "give back." Veggie U is one of the results: middle-school classrooms around the country are supplied with soil, compost, vermiculite, vegetable seeds, a propagator and a grow-light, along with growing instructions. Pictures of ecstatic students with their small, green plants testify to the joy that results from this simple, elemental success, one with which far too may of our nation's children are unfamiliar. The program is helping to grow the next generation of farmers while they're still green behind the ears, and if you happen know a teacher, or have a child in or approaching middle-school, I can't think of a finer favor than to spread the word about this program.

Above the chilled, immaculately clean and high-tech packaging facility which ships the lovely produce out across the country and the world, the walls of the office are lined with pictures of Farmer Lee Jones with everyone who is or was anyone in the high, heady reaches of the restaurant world: Palladin, Trotter, Bocuse, Blanc, Achatz...and the list goes on. And although there is no one around, on a Saturday, to snap our picture together, I'm not about to let this rare photo-op slip away.

NOTE: Five Roadfoodie-reader suggestions for "The Question" have been posted over at "What's the Question?" linked to over on your right. I'd love more. The ideas are great, but I still don't know what it is.

I imagine that Erie, Pennsylvania is not considered the Jewel in the Crown of the Great Lakes region, because to do so would imply something too terrible to contemplate. I've elected to spend my first night here purely because it is 400 miles from home. In searching—last minute, so unlike me—for a dining option, I chanced upon Smuggler's Wharf (obviously a wannabe Fisherman's Wharf, right?). Driving down toward the waterfront, I tour the epitome of a depressed Northeast urbanscape. It is grey, empty, dirty, post-boom, post-industrial, and post-happy. And it's not even winter yet.

Down at the waterfront, however, I see water. A great deal of water. And seagulls (are they lost?), plus a patio festooned with some of the best-looking late-summer potted plants I've ever seen. Yes, it's my chosen dining destination; clearly I've hit the jackpot simply by employing my usual googling gambit: "fine dining, erie, pa" (and then reading—with, regrettably, copious cynicism—between the lines).

Inside, at the long, boat-shaped bar, I take a pew and am instantly bathed in the kind of setting-sunlight that evokes Chianti, or Bali, or my favorite movie of all time: Stealing Beauty. I just love it when golden rays pervade a place where wine is about to be poured for me. This is the mystical majesty of a Magic Hour. How could I have uttered a disparaging word about Erie?! (Note to self: Drive home with eyes closed. Or, not.)

Whenever I'm alone (or with somebody), I dine at the bar. This makes for great conversation, if not quiet contemplation. The latter is slated to be in short supply tonight, because just across the prow of the bar from me sits an exceedingly Chatty Charlie. This guy has waved seventy buh-bye, and sports a cap proclaiming "American Navy: Retired." He starts talking even before I've unfolded my paper napkin and begun to peruse the laminated menu. (Oh goody, something new: "Steaks-Pasta-Salad-Seafood" - ok, and a "She-Crab Soup".)

My new buddy, Robert James Altzstead, is a smart, opinionated guy, but unfortunately his memory has begun to recede. So our rat-a-tat chat consists mostly of him evoking a thought: "What's that really big magazine with the great big pictures?? It's really famous—come ON, Mark!" (the bartender), while Mark, the hostess, and I fire off possible answers: Travel and Leisure? Conde Nast Traveller? According to this big, mysterious magazine, the sunset in Erie PA is considered one of the Ten Best in the World, says CC. "They have pictures of tribal women without their tops on," he cajoles. Ahhhhh. "National Geographic!" "Right!!"

"Who's that black sidekick of Bing Crosby's?" he now yells, having moved on at light-speed to some other topic. I'm stumped, being that Bing is hardly rat-pack material. "With the gravelly voice?" calls out Charlie. The blond hostess, picking up a tray of drinks destined for a party of blue-haired ladies by the wrap-around windows, prompts "Louis Armstrong!" Charlie is thrilled: "Yep!!" Wow, that one passed me right by. The staff seem to have been playing this game with Charlie for, possibly, decades.

"Where do you think this lady is going, Mark?!" CC challenges the bartender, after he persuades me to part with my travel plans, "I'll bet you can never guess in a million years!"

"Away from you?" mutters Mark, darkly. But I'm taking notes as fast as I can, because Chatty Charlie is a font of information about this historic lakeside manufacturing town, now fallen upon hard times just like Detroit, and the whole state of Michigan. The ship that (arguably) won the war of 1812, "Niagara," was made in Erie. Now, the local industry focusses on locomotives, but this year there was not one domestic order. Just yesterday, 1480 people were laid off from GE. No wonder the town feels so sad.

In this conversation I don't get much of a chance to talk, so I'm unable to ask CC my Big Question. But he does share with me one of his deeper concerns: "You know that Mark Darcy? What's the actor's name?!" ("Colin Firth," I supply.) "Well I would never wear those tight pants like he did, 'cause you know they don't leave much to the imagination. Like a ballet dancer, you know what I mean?!"

I'm terribly afraid that I do.

Catskill, NY to Erie, PA: 401 miles Two states: New York and Pennsylvania

My heart is breaking.

For the past few weeks, our hands have been like heat-seeking missiles, snaking out to find one another whenever the rest of us was close enough for access. Just like when the yellow pages required your fingers to do the walking, ours crept across the distance. We cleave together, sharing the same air, memorizing the close-up territory of the other's face with a soft black and white muzzle in between. Eight-and-a-half years into our life as a couple, the prospect of a long separation pulls at the heart-strings until they twang in rueful protest.

Five years ago, when the bi-coastal lifestyle came into being, we always intended to make both drives together. And for about three years, we did. Then life—mostly work—began to get in the way. Quarter-, and half-trips were increasingly made by me alone. And now I am setting out to do the whole drive solo with no firm return date in mind. So much depends on so much. I used to trundle down the driveway in the expertly-loaded Toyota with wanderlust coursing strong in my veins. Now it just feels wrong. Perhaps when I hit the highway and cue up some road-centric tunes, I'll get my road-legs back.

I'm on the way to Buffalo on I-90, and the U.S. Marines are a presence. I see proud bumper stickers and the following license plates: OOH RAH, and TEN HUT. I pass a large truck, upon whose very dusty rear door someone has finger-written: "ABC, NBC, CBS - Shame on you! Do your jobs, you biased A-holes!" As the miles begin to rack up with agonizing slowness, I'm surfing fretfully amongst a mixture of media (I've not yet relaxed into the Zen of Driving, so no one can hold my attention). I start off with the very first "BB Road Mix," from 2005, which begins with Steppenwolf ("Get your motor runnin'...head out on the highway"), and continues in that vein. Then I touch down with CNN for bit. After a no-time-to-stop-and-search-out-local lunch-ortunities-style snack (yogurt-covered almonds, dried cranberries, and a Slim-Jim), I judge it time to start listening to my first audible book: Life Sentences, by Laura Lippman.

My actual, interactional reading at the moment is dominated by Cleaving: A Story of Marriage, Meat, and Obsession Julie Powell's new book (in galley form—the actual release date is December 1). Second books are notoriously thorny, especially when they follow a break-out-successful first: expectations are, understandably, high, and what with Julie Powell's precipitous rise from cubicle-bound blogger to book deal to the J/J movie and all, one imagines that knives have long been sharpening in anticipation of this particular release (which the studio delayed until the movie had had its chance to shine alone, unsullied). Within thirty pages, Julie has hooked me, in a fashion not unlike the one she elegantly uses to wield a meat hook: gently, expertly, and using force only when the tender bits are exposed. This is the kind of vein-opening writing that I gobble right up, and see far too infrequently. The writer who can mix personal imperfection (in the form of an adulterous affair, especially when the cheated-upon husband is known by all viewers of Julie and Julia to be a saint), self-deprecating humor, a love for and acrobatic facility with the written word, and devoted affection for pork, has my vote. (Plus, we share a butcher: Roadfoodie readers will remember soon-to-be famous Josh back when he was—inadvisably for a butcher, certainly—a vegan, and turned my squeamish sweetheart white as a sheet by prancing around Fleishers holding a severed pig-head in front of his own shouting "Squee-squee-squee.")

Fie on the small-minded who may say she overshares: It takes huge guts to splay your own out on a slab and invite jealous writers and constipated critics to throw darts. Julie Powell (and let us remember now that this is the real person, not the two-dimensional character expertly portrayed by Amy Adams) is undeniably flawed, but cuts herself very little slack: she is infinitely harder on Julie than she is on a Flintstonian hunk of liver, which she lovingly places on a bloody block and gently carves with a scimitar (sic). PETA members, of course, need not apply, but those of us who choose to be carnivores should be mindful and respectful of the life that was given so we could put nourishing protein on the table, and there's no better way to respect an animal than to know it—literally—inside out. I only wish the book were already in audible form, so I could keep reading while I drive. More on this later, when I have a chance to read on.

In less than two weeks, I will hop in my trusty Toyota, trundle down the rutted driveway of my Hudson Valley (New York) home, and drive to California. Driving three thousand miles across the country is fairly common for me, as long-time Roadfoodie readers know—this will be my tenth drive in five years. Driving solo—with only the black-and-white dog for company—is not as common; only once have I made the whole drive alone. This blog was the result of the boredom that ensued (I bought the domain name and began posting from a motel in Pennsylvania on the second day out). My life-partner has been a frequent but not constant co-traveler; sometimes, he flies out of the drive (to teach, act, or direct) from one state and flies back in, a few days later, to another one. Since the purpose of the annual migration is to escape the Northeast winter, we usually leave when the leaves have left the trees. This year I’ll be setting off when the trees are still lush (not to say rain-forest-like), because I want to try to get to know my mother, whose health has begun to fail. I’m leaving sooner rather than later because, on a project so fraught, there’s really no time like the present. On the plus side, this means I’ll be able to take a northerly route for the first time, and can breathe in the zeitgeist of Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, and Colorado—states that Roadfoodie’s tires have never before touched—instead of the usual: Tennessee, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Texas. There’s another way this tenth drive will differ: normally, my sole goal and entertainment along the road is good, honest, non-chain-restaurant food, a glass or two of wine in the local watering hole, and edifying conversation of the kind rarely found on either coast. I’ve always found plenty of all of those, plus an eye-opening perspective on my erstwhile but imperfect country. On this trip, however, I’m searching for something entirely different: I want answers to a really big and important question.

Trouble is, I’m not sure what it is. I could ask why it’s taken me forty years to want to fall truly-madly-deeply in love with my mother. I could ask why I can’t seem to settle down somewhere and call it a permanent home. I could ask what I should do with the rest of my life. But, sadly, these are not questions that can be answered by anyone but me. Instead, I want to ask the people I meet along the way a trick question, that seems to apply to them and them alone, but will reveal truths of profound depth and clarity to me, the asker. In this trying time, I am not the only one examining her inner landscape, contemplating the road less traveled, allowing herself glimpses of a future that might once have belonged to someone else. We, as a people, are learning to think outside of the box. Please, readers, help me find the question. This will not be easy, because it must resonate equally in Erie, Des Moines, and Santa Fe. When we figure out what it is, I’ll post the answers I receive as my drive progresses. Plus, of course, record the tastes, sights, and sounds of this entirely new route, one that weather has never allowed me to explore before.

If anyone has recommendations for farms, snacks (especially meat), or convivial cocktails along the way, please share them here (must be within 5 miles of the route below, ‘cause I’m in a hurry). Roadfoodie’s Route West, 2009: Catskill, NY to Erie, PA to Chicago, IL to Des Moines, IO to Kearney, NE to Denver, CO to Santa Fe, NM to Sedona, AZ to Palm Springs, CA. Check out the actual route at

View Catskill to Palms Springs 9/09 in a larger map UPDATE 9/20: Suggestions for The Question * When bad things happen, are you able to see a good side?  If so, how?  Examples? - Josh Lipsman, Athens and New York City * Do you equate your self-worth with your net-worth? - Owen Lipstein, Athens, * The Questions That Now Plague Me: Why am I here? Where is my croissant? Who took my foie gras? Why is the wine so expensive here? Why can’t I get rillette at my local greenmarket? Why am I here? (Wait…I asked that already…) - Michael Flamini, West Stockbridge and New York City (recently returned from a trip to Paris for a Big Birthday) * What does it actually take to get people to REALLY become more caring and empathetic? This question occupies my mind a lot, because it seems an absolute prerequisite for an end to suffering/war/hunger in the world. - Ilana Stone, South Africa * What gives you joy? - Melinda Handy, Portland OR