In other news, I finally made it to New Orleans for the first time. Ridiculous that I hadn’t been sooner. And wow. A town focused on bourbon and pork, friendly people and dancing? Are you kidding me? I love that it’s the only place I’ve ever been where it is more awkward *not* to dance than to dance at a party. I’m writing a little piece about NOLA, which I’ll tweet when it’s live, and I hope you’re staying warm this winter, wherever you are.

So I’ve been eating my share of squash and blueberries, favas and corn like the rest of the local food crazies. This being my first year in a CSA, I’m gonna crack open the cat-sized watermelon* I just got and turn it into the glorious watermelon-feta salad featured in the August InStyle (the one with Jessica Biel on the cover). It’s a Hugh Acheson recipe, and part of an article on summery Southern cooking by yours truly. All of his recipes are lovely and light, and I’ve been dreaming up riffs on his Pimm’s Cup all summer. Pictured above (right) is Acheson’s fava bean, prosciutto and mint appetizer. It is wonderful.

In less melony news, a bunch of my copy for Bon Appétit is live; I worked on this “Dress for Dinner” project (scroll down) and wrote all the little restaurant reviews. I’ve also been working on guides to various cities in collaboration with Restaurant and Drinks Editor Andrew Knowlton. I’m particularly pleased with the Boston and San Francisco writeups, so please clickety click.

A couple of parting notes: If you are biking, please wear your helmet: I got doored by a car that was illegally parked in a bike lane a couple of months ago, went flying, and was bruised for weeks. I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this if I hadn’t been properly kitted out.

And if you’re also looking to take advantage of the beauties in the market, don’t miss this article on stone fruit by Mark Bittman. Each approach is so easy: Cherries are simmered in a touch of water and sugar, then maybe topped with mint and crème fraîche (above, left): I am an ice cream fanatic, and I temporarily forgot about ice cream’s existence when I ate these cherries.

Have a lovely summer, and I’ll post again in August. (And please send me your peach recipes! I have half a dozen ripening on the counter).

* We have a large cat. This was a very large melon. It dwarfed her. She seemed indignant. Post title explained.

It’s been a while. And now it’s hot outside. I’m not one of these people who covets salads, tiny berries and buckets of water when it’s hot. I covet ice cream and barbecue, lobster rolls and chicken liver mousse. Weird but true.

To that effect, here’s my favorite picnic sandwich. A twist on the super-simple French classic of meat, butter and baguette, it combines prosciutto di parma, unsalted European butter, and a ramp dressing (minced ramps, olive oil, salt and pepper). Take a whole baguette, lace it with folds of prosciutto, and slather one side with butter and a scallion-or-ramp olive oil mixture (stick to butter if you don’t feel like puréeing scallions). Wrap the whole beastie in wax paper, then foil. Hand out mini wrapped sandwiches at a picnic. Wait for people to ask where you bought it. Laugh.

It’s expensive, sure, for the good prosciutto. But there’s nothing better than this and the Times on a lazy Sunday… unless it’s this, the Times, and a big glass of bourbon mint lemonade.

I’ve been writing for a few great clients lately. I did a piece for InStyle about which I can say nothing until it hits newsstands, wrote some fun marketing copy for Tasting Table (to which everyone should subscribe), and have started working with the lovely folks at Bon Appétit, where I’m a contributing writer. A few of my articles will be popping up there over the coming months.

Oh! And there’s this: Anthony Bourdain, whose life I find so fascinating, was kind enough to chat with me for an epic Grub Street piece—an effort to understand why people who love AB love him So Much.

Happy almost-summer, folks. Eat some salad. Just put cheese on it in case I’m in the vicinity.

Borobudur monument in Java, Indonesia

In Bali, everybody looks good walking down the beach in their flowing sarongs. In Bali, the ocean crashes an appropriate distance away (not too close, and none too fiercely), and the sand looks like it’s made of the glimmering dust you find in Pixy Stix. Waiters—ubiquitous on Pixy Stix Beach—shake cocktails in coconuts, each of which is roped to the back of a friendly monkey who scampers up to you, smiling with his big monkey teeth.

This was my vision of Bali. I’m not gonna lie. And since I stayed at a snazzy hotel for part of my stay there, that vision was pretty well met, sans happy monkey. (Those dudes are fierce, and yes, they really do love bananas).

But what amazed me most about our recent trip to Singapore and Indonesia was how little I knew about the island just west of Bali—Java. Yogyakarta, its cultural capital, is an $80 hour-long flight from Bali’s main airport. And it is so, so worth it.

Our itinerary was New York to Shanghai to Singapore—a mall-driven, very clean city with excellent Indian food—followed by a short hop to Jakarta in western Java, and a quick drive to nearby Bogor. The Novotel Hotel was relaxing and gorgeous, with this sort of water world of a pool, a million little verdant paths, and great massages for ten bucks apiece. Our room came with a gratis and well-hidden gecko, who would croak “GECK-O” emphatically at 2 a.m. I tried to embrace the tropicality of it all, and things were looking good.

A couple of mornings later, though, the adventure portion of the trip began in earnest. Our driver drove up in a rickety blue minivan to pick up our group of five. The leader of our party had guesstimated an eight-hour trip ahead, from Bogor in west Java to Yogyakarta in central Java.

Wrong, our guide corrected him. That would be an 18 hour trip.

That’s a big difference when you’re in a bus with busted shocks and a crazy driver with an affinity for the gas pedal. It’s a big difference when you’re zipping along skinny winding mountain roads to stop at toilets set in the ground, with clouds of mosquitoes hovering overhead and zero squares of toilet paper in sight. (It would take me a week to stop carrying my own roll around when I got back to America). We stopped at mosques several times per day so our Muslim driver could pray—one hybrid mosque-gas station-rest-stop was pretty incredible—and I kept my nose in a 900-plus page Haruki Murakami novel to while away the hours. It wasn’t awful, and the scenery was beautiful, but it was exhausting, particularly for our two drivers.

When we arrived at our hotel at 11pm, having left at 6:45 that morning, I heard my beau say excitedly, “We’re falling asleep on the grounds of an ancient monument.” I mustered a grunt in reply, as I was busy gobbling up chicken satay, my first real meal of the day. I didn’t register our location.

We woke up the next morning, drank some bad instant coffee, stretched our arms and legs, and made our way down a path. We rounded a bend, and an incredible monument stretched into the sky.

Borobudur. It is breathtaking not in a mortal, normal way, but in the way that one imagines Lothlórien, the elven forest, might have been for Frodo and Sam. Buddha is everywhere at Borobudur. He is under the stupas (turrets), except the very top one, which at its zenith points straight like a lightning rod into the heavens. He is headless in some places—Muslim warriors reportedly chopped off his stone head long ago—and wears a beautifully serene expression in others. Hordes of tourists clamber everywhere, snapping photos, reaching to hold Buddha’s hand through holes in the stupa, which is thought to bring good luck. Most sport bright yellow sarongs, like happy fireflies. All seem to want to take their pictures with the very pale Americans.

Irrespective of religious tenets—I am not a practicing Buddhist—it would be hard not to be moved by this place. Carved into its sides are vignettes, many of people trying to distract Buddha from his journey towards enlightenment. Others are of animals, such as a bird with two heads. The top head, able to reach the best branches, eats fresh fruit. The bottom head has not such range, and is relegated to bruised fruit and dirt. The top head refuses to share, insisting that all the food benefits their mutual stomach. At last the second head, desperate with hunger, eats a poisonous mushroom. (It’s a tough moral story, but it’s one I’d love to somehow update for my nieces and nephew.)

Yogyakarta is a two-hour drive away—don’t trust Lonely Planet on drive times in Indonesia—and a neat little city, with the Sultan’s palace, the Kraton, at its center. The Hindu temple Prambanan is about an hour’s drive outside the city. There are colorful rickshaws and ex-pat bars, decent food and great people-watching.

So yes, the Singapore hawker markets were amazing, especially the woman at Tekka Market who spatulaed piping-hot dosas with one hand while dropping medhu vadai into boiling oil with the other. The air in Singapore Airport smells like ginger and sugar, and I ate the best soup dumplings of my life in that city. And Bali was wonderful and dreamy. Oodles of Elizabeth Gilbert wannabes writing in their journals and dreaming of love—not that I’m judging—couldn’t shake its charm. To that monkey in the Monkey Forest who detected a cherry cough drop wrapped in two layers of plastic and ate a corner of my bag: My hat is off to you, guy.

But for me, everything comes back to Borobudur, the sense of peace I felt there, and the goodwill towards others. I was in a quietly rapt state for the duration of my time there—perhaps my new ideal when it comes travel. Thank you to Java for that.

It’s apt that the last piece I host and produce for CHOW is about chocolate, since I have a major sweet tooth. This chocolate pistachio tart is delicious, gorgeous and made with a lot of love. Props to Alex Lisowski for his usual expert shooting, directing and editing.

We’ve filmed 48 segments over the last year—48!—and I’ve learned a few things. I’ve learned to look at the camera like you’re telling your best friend an awesome story. (Sometimes it works, sometimes you look ca-razy). I’ve learned how to produce a shoot without pulling my hair out. I’ve learned how to stand in snowbanks on Brighton Beach in 30 degree weather while looking chipper in a thin vintage coat, and how to look bright and happy in 105 degree heat. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting all sorts of extraordinary business owners, and learned the tricks to their various signature dishes. It’s been something else, this experience, and I have really enjoyed it.

I’ll continue to work on a few freelance projects, including writing and editing alongside some wonderful writers and editors at Gilt Taste. I’m very impressed with what they’re up to.

Just for the heck of it, below is a list of all 48 segments, most of which you can find on the NY CHOW Report Youtube page. Thanks to all my friends, loved ones and CHOW colleagues for being so supportive as I took the leap from print to video, and I hope everyone’s autumn is as pretty as mine has been.

10/18 chocolate pistachio brandied cherry tart @ bien cuit
10/11 hanger steak @ st anselm
10/04 beer cheese & tomato soup @ earl’s
9/27 banana roti @ rhong-tiam
9/20 farcita at catania,
9/13 halusky at korzo haus
8/30 gelato flowers at amorino
8/23 ratatouille at thirstbaravin
8/16 peach-blueberry pie @ fort defiance
8/9 samosa chaat at mumbai xpress
8/2 arepas at arepera guacuco
7/26 chicken with foie gras at the beagle
7/19 bananas foster @ coolhaus/ lot on tap
7/12 crudo at esca
7/05 malted milkball ice cream at ample hills
6/28 strawberry gazpacho at northern spy
6/21 middle eastern picnic, governor’s island
6/14 okonomiyaki, otafuku
6/07 tres leches, empellón
5/31 moi moi at buka
5/23 burger, burger garage
5/17 fusilli with octopus and bone marrow, marea
5/10 jamaican picnic, flatbush
5/03 pizza, zero otto nove
4/26 pernil, sofrito
4/19 lobster roll, red hook lobster pound
4/12 chole bhatura, sapthagiri
4/05 duck rillettes, colonie
3/29 lemon cake, betty bakery
3/22 papaya salad, ayada
3/15 deviled eggs, tia pol
3/08 fish and chips, the cuckoo’s nest
3/01 chilaquiles, el paso
2/22 irish coffee, dutch kills
2/15 elk chop, henry’s end
2/08 blueberry scones, ted & honey
2/01 khachapuri, georgian bread
1/25 cumin lamb noodles, xi’an famous foods
1/18 chicken liver mousse, vinegar hill house
1/11 Restaurant Week: pork chop, riverpark
1/04 sabich, taim
12/28 poutine, mile end
12/21 champagne cocktail, flatiron lounge
12/14 boozy hot chocolate, l.a. burdick
12/07 chicken adobo, purple yam
11/30 Mexican food: fonda; sunset park; tulcingo del valle
11/23 brats & dogs, Brats and Bark
11/16 mad scientist beer, sixpoint

Pie at Fort Defiance, Red Hook, Brooklyn. Still by Alex Lisowski. 

So strawberry season in New York is set to wrap up pretty shortly, if the farmers at my local market are correct. Before the pretty berries disappear, eat as many as you can: I love this strawberry gazpacho, a seasonal special at Northern Spy Food Co. It’s bright and sweet and hot and crunchy and smooth and everything a well-balanced dish should be. Sous Chef Brittany Anderson, who has worked at Blue Hill at Stone Barns, created the recipe, and I reckon she has a bright future ahead of her.

Check out our CHOW segment (directed and shot by Alex Lisowski) over here. And thanks for watching!