On either side.

I paid a long-awaited visit to the gardens at Thomas Jefferson's dreamy Monticello.

Maira Kalman on the subject.

Swimming lessons in the river and blackberry ice cream pie at the top of the mountain. Didn't I tell you it was "the most American of weekends?"

It should be noted that Parker also wears his life jacket and goggles during his nightly baths.

My morning ride into work on a cloudy day, just as the foliage—what little there was in May—turns into concrete. You'd expect disappointment with the transition, but it's seamless joy as the skyline grows out of the trees.

Today marks the first day of Chicago Bike to Work Week, if you're local and interested in participating.

I went to D.C. and Virginia over the weekend. My aunt lives out that way, and my sister, grandma, and nephew visited, too. Great minds, little minds, and four generations of family—it was the most American of weekends.

We went camping for a night in May, driving up into Wisconsin with no particular destination in mind. Landing outside of New Glarus, we pitched our tent. It was a short hike into town—an old Swiss settlement—where we shared some beers and dinner, and I finally worked up the courage to grab Sam's hand and join the elderly locals on the dance floor.

"Jess, you have to let me lead."

"But, I am . . . right?"

I was laughing so hard at our sloppiness, my head buried in Sam's shoulder, that I couldn't dance for long anyway. We walked the mile or two back into the woods, to sleep under the still-bare branches and all of those stars. But first I settled up on the picnic table, lying out in the cold, body upturned toward all of those stars.

Samuel and our dear Ben sharing coffee, mid-sentence, on a chilly Memorial Day weekend.

Some things I've enjoyed cooking lately: Ginger Coconut Milk Soup and Orzo Super Salad, both from Heidi Swanson; and Smoked Salmon Nori Rolls from Rebecca Katz's The Longevity Kitchen, which I recently purchased (but you can find the recipe here).

The journey of some chives, and their blossoms.

The idea of authenticity has been on my mind a lot lately.

The tree is gone, but we filled window boxes with salad greens and herbs and pansies, the windows gathering light they haven't felt in decades. I'm mourning for the tree, but cheering for the sun and celebrating with the sills.

I wonder what this summer will mean to me in ten years. It already means so much to me now.

Scenes from Sunday morning:
1/ Early morning espresso—we use this—with the newspaper
2/ Candles, records, and reflected light on the mantle
3/ Garden scheming without the landlord's permission
4/ Sweet potatoes which I don't have the heart to tame (or throw out)
5/ Baked eggs with spinach and goat cheese before a run in the park

It's late, and I have so much dirt under my fingernails—a sign of a day well spent.

I came home late last night to find that the pine in front of our apartment had been removed. A crater of loose soil was all that was left, soil that I would normally love to see, imagining what could grow, but now only thinking of what was lost. I stood looking out the window in the dark, crying, looking at the ugly cars with their ugly metal, their ugly shapes.

Goodbye to this view. I'm not a child; I just loved that tree.

March is a month of unpredictabilities, of high expectations and little return.