Growing up in Northern California, picnics in the redwoods were a frequent occurence and a tradition on July 4th. We might have barbecued or fried chicken, or my dad might grill burgers and hotdogs, but some things never varied: my mother's potato salad and the fresh peach and boysenberry ice cream we cranked by hand.

Cut to 2013, when G and I will take our own picnic to Forestburgh tomorrow. I have a chicken brining in buttermilk, all set to be fried in the morning, and the potato salad is chilling in the fridge. Instead of ice cream, I made these sour cherry popsicles, which I hope will hold up in the cooler. We'll take the canoe out on the lake and row over to the waterfall. After all this rain, it's sure to be a surging monster.

We'll taste freedom and celebrate our independence—as a nation, as a family, as individuals. For all its many flaws (and I shudder to think of some), I still love our country. It remains a place of great beauty, optimism and possibility.
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Have you been trying to follow Michael Pollan's edict? "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants." It's easier in the summer when amazing produce is practically falling at your feet. Even you city folk have access to farm-fresh vegetables—corn, actual ripe tomatoes, baby lettuces... Just the other day I was reading the new issue of Lucky Peach and laughing along with Wylie Dufresne as he made fun of "farm-to-table" and "ingredient-driven" cooking, but I had to eat a little crow along with last night's dinner. Because all I did was take a few farm-fresh ingredients and let them drive the bus. It was nothing fancy, really. I just used only what was straight from the garden (mine or someone else's) and let those pure flavors shine. Not a whole lot of technique was involved, and yet it was such a satisfying meal. I haven't even written out real recipes for you, because I want you to have that feeling of creating as you go, putting together dishes from your imagination according to what's in front of you. I'll walk you through what I made and maybe you'll be inspired to do the same with your freshest ingredients. Which will probably include a whole lot of sweet green peas right about now...
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Have you been to Txikito yet? As its name indicates (a Basque version of  the Spanish "chiquito," which means tiny), this Chelsea restaurant has only a few tables, and you'd be lucky to grab one on any night (or at lunch). Chefs and owners Eder Montero and Alexandra Raij turn out some wonderful regional Spanish food that takes me back to the years I spent in that beautiful country. My father was a professor of Spanish literature and, every seven years, would take his sabbatical there. I attended the 4th and 10th grades in Madrid, and went back for two semesters off when I was in college. I fell in love with the place, the people, the food, the language. Some of the dishes at Txikito work upon my memory in the way that Proust's madeleine did his: the fat, silky white asparagus of Navarra; the crisp croquetas with their centers oozing creamed cod or chicken; the boquerones, subtly saline white anchovies; but, most of all, the ensaladilla rusa. (Little Russian salad, supposedly invented by a Russian in the late 19th century.)

I used to eat this delightful version of potato salad, a classic Spanish tapa, almost every Sunday morning when I lived in Madrid in my twenties. They served it at a little café right on the edge of el rastro, the big flea market. The most outrageous punks would go there, flaunting their sky-high mohawks, tight leathers and scary piercings. I remember feeling super cool, kicking the sawdust on the floor, smoking my Marlboro reds and taking leisurely bites of this rich, creamy salad. Txiquito's version—potatoes, peas, carrots and bits of green olive bound together with homemade mayonnaise and mounded atop a salty layer of oil-cured tuna—takes me right back there.
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