Kathleen Purvis

Steven Raichlen doesn't waste time. Guys who waste time don't end up with outdoor cooking empires.

When your organization is called Slow Food, you're not into news flashes.

The notion of summer as “the salad days” has lost some of its weight. Thanks to clever people with greenhouses, I buy gorgeous, ruffled heads of locally grown lettuce at farmers markets even in January.

I've written a lot lately about all the locally raised meat available these days, and how much fun it is to play with odd cuts that had practically disappeared from supermarkets.

When I hear a new international market has opened, I love to wander the aisles, studying what's there and looking for things I have on my “find it” list.

Somewhere around the 50th plate of food, there was a short break, just enough time to stop for a few minutes. My fat- and salt-addled brain peeked feebly at the numbers:

I don't claim this thought has a shred of originality. But that doesn't mean it isn't true:

It happens every year. The farmers markets are boiling with people all summer. Then Labor Day passes it and it's like somebody rang the bell at the close of the stock market. The parking lots empty, the aisles go quiet.

I've had strange dinners and wonderful dinners. This one was strange and wonderful.

Gazpacho at the beginning, gazpacho at the end. And in the middle, a sublime spaghetti.