I rarely indulge in indecorous displays of emotion, but I’m feeling unusually warm and full of fuzzy feelings. Might be all the wine I consumed last weekend and the sticky toffee pudding I’ve been tucking away since Monday afternoon… And so:

Many, many thanks to the Sacasa-Castillo family for hosting Thanksgiving this year!

The house was bursting at the seams with siblings, cousins, friends, a soon-to-be family member (welcome, Daniel!), and a troop of children—all small, but mighty enough to strike fear in the hearts of even the most stalwart of enemy ranks.

Eager volunteer cooks and dishwashers neatly arranged themselves in the kitchen and I must congratulate everyone—myself most especially—for not breaking down, stomping off, or spewing out briny language. In the span of a few hours we tackled a Bruce-sized bird that definitely needed a bigger boat, mashed potatoes, roasted butternut squash and Brussels sprouts, fried shallots, (twice, as I burned the first batch), gravy, apple galette, chocolate cake, and a stack of plates at least six feet tall.

Gold stars especially to the mini-chefs Alexandra Sofía, Mariana Lucía, Carolina Cecilia, and Leonte Andrés who really put their nimble little fingers to use in the making of desserts for dinner…doughnut muffins for breakfast…and popsicles in case you had any room left.

Oh, and Emmita, who just sat around and allowed her roly-poly self to be pinched and squeezed all weekend.

Tomorrow I jet off to Playa del Carmen for a wedding. Sunshine! Palm trees! Day drinking! Bliss!

Don’t get too jealous—there is a snag in my cartwheeling and twirling. A couple of days ago I called the bride and sheepishly admitted, “I blanked out and forgot to go to the gym the past three months.”

Instead of going on a crash diet and spraying myself a darker shade of Oompa to cover up my trespasses, what have I done the past few days? Continued to eat as if I were headed to the North Pole for the winter.

Today, for instance, involved testing a recipe several times over and by the afternoon I had acquired a few extra thigh dimples thanks to copious amounts of chocolate mousse, sticky Italian meringue, and cookies that I insisted on tasting for quality control (never mind that I was testing assembly methods and the actual recipe was the same each time).

But you know what? I’m not too worried. I found a lovely ombré coral wrap that will look just fabulous poolside.

My paternal grandparents have lived in their large Spanish colonial house in Granada’s Calle Atravesada (a Main Street of sorts) for as long as I can remember, and even decades before then.

Now sagging and crumbling with the customary wear and tear of the years and the ravages of difficult times—wars, death, weather—the atrium garden, framed by pillars and punctuated by a gurgling stone fountain, remains very much the same. Large, fat roses, always a bit too colorful with petals unfastened, like the heaving bosoms of ladies of the evening, flock together. Over-eager and too-intensely perfumed they boldly face the assault of the arrogant sun.

The heat in this town is oppressive and thick. Long hours were spent on Sunday visits to the house swinging back and forth on creaky white wicker rocking chairs, the sweat suctioning the backs of our legs to the seat as the speckled hen patterned black-and-white floor fumed ever hotter.

These Sundays inched forward painfully, but lunch at the big round table was a just reward. There were large platters of rib roast, the meat slipping off the bone, crab bisque with whole saucer-sized crabs you got to pick apart on your plate, potato gnocchi drowned in the house’s secret pink sauce and buried in crumbly cheese that had been bought by the slab at the market that morning, refried beans that shimmered in lard and were brought to the table in a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet that had long ago had its handle amputated.

And the preserved fruits. Depending on what was in season there was always a homemade, industrial-sized jar filled with amber fruits floating in slow motion in a thick, golden syrup. Mangos, papayas, a slew of tropical fruits I never learned the English names for, and my favorite: figs.

Years ago there was a fig tree in a corner of the garden. The figs hung low and plump, hiding in the shade of its own parasol leaves. The tree was unceremoniously cut down after the occasional evening bat became legion. Mamamá was always business-like with household pests. On a summer visit I brought a kitten home from the farm only to later learn he’d been dispatched to the market in a burlap sack. Mamamá told me Pascual had gone to Miami, and for a long time I envisioned him living in glorious exile.

Tree or no tree, higos en miel were made whenever they were in season. The “figs in honey” were sticky and sweet, their tiny seeds tickling my mouth; I’ve always thought that sunshine would taste just like one of those translucent orbs. The figs, those delicate purses lined with precious beads, were gently peeled and drowned in simple syrup and a fresh leaf from the tree, then simmered under Mamamá’s strict and perspiring brow.

Last week while I leaned over the pot to check on my figs, my eyes and nose smarted as if I’d taken a gulp of chilled heavily carbonated Coca-Cola; my grandmother’s kitchen, the roses, the bats, the disappeared cat, the damp manure and chicken droppings caked to the soles of my shoes; all rushed back.

HIGOS EN MIEL (Poached Figs)

Active Time: 1 hour, 30 minutes
Total Time: 2 hours, 30 minutes
Equipment: vegetable peeler, large heavy-bottomed saucepan or Dutch oven, parchment paper
Note: Figs will keep in an airtight container, refrigerated, for 1 week.

30 small fresh, ripe black figs (about 2 pounds)
2 cups sugar
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
4 cups water

Carefully peel figs and trim and discard stems.

Stir together sugar, dark brown sugar, salt, and water in large heavy-bottomed saucepan or Dutch oven over medium-high heat and boil syrup until sugars are dissolved and syrup thickens, 5 to 7 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low and add figs.

Cut a piece of parchment paper in the shape of pot. Cut a nickel-sized vent in the middle. Press parchment directly onto surface of fig-syrup mixture.

Simmer figs until translucent, gently stirring from time to time, about 1 hour.

Cool figs completely, at least 1 hour. Figs may be served at room temperature or chilled.

I think this would work as a chandelier, no? Spotted at Caribbean Cuts in the Flower District. Something lovely to make up for the not-so-tidy bits that follow.

Wednesday morning rose bold and bright: perfect for a day at the market. I met up with photographer Judd Pilossof at the corner of Grand and Chrystie. We were going to walk around Chinatown and pick up a few things for a test shoot we’d planned.

Fish, shrimp, eels, crabs, clams, oysters, lobsters, frogs, turtles——if it once called a large (or glass-encased) body of water home, you’re likely to find it here. For the shoot: crabs and fish, and because the vegetables and dried herbs in that neighborhood can’t be ignored, bok choy bursting into tiny yellow blossoms and dried night-blooming cereus (a passer-by informed us it was good for the lungs when used to make tea).

The photos from the shoot are wonderful and I will share them in due time, but in the meanwhile, some curious parts spotted at one of the markets:

“¿Me dá para mi calaverita?”

Mexico and several other Latin American countries honor the dead today by celebrating día de los muertos, Day of the Dead. Children will knock on doors and ask for money or food, families will festively decorate the graves of their loved ones, and this curious pan de muerto will be baked and shared.

Pan de muerto is a sweet, soft bread, coated with sugar and perfumed with orange blossom water. During its preparation, part of the dough is reserved and used to decorate the loaves with shapes echoing those of human bones. Different versions exist, with breads showcasing flora, fauna, and mythical creatures as décor. Even if you won’t be rapping your knuckles on stranger’s doors on behalf of your calaverita, this is a festive and beautiful bread that’s worth trying.

For the recipe, visit Serious Sweets .

I was completely enchanted by these Concord grapes a few weeks ago when I visited the greenmarket by Lincoln Square. They were deep, midnight violet hiding under a gossamer bloom and intensely perfumed. The strong scent of sheer purple was discernible from a distance and provoked flashes of childhood’s gloppy grape jelly, drippy grape popsicles, and intoxicating grape juice.

The grapes’ velvety jackets are easily slipped off to reveal chubby, translucent green flesh with rather large, crunchy seeds. I usually chew right through these, but while testing this week’s Concord Grape Cake for Serious Sweets I found that they created too much of a distraction. In that recipe, they are removed, leaving you nothing but tender cake mottled with small explosions of grape and a thick topcoat of made-from-scratch jam.