19 Octobre, 1992.  Returning to my journal of our first trip to Paris, I am reminded that our second day in the city was one of walking and learning with a map of the city in hand. 

Bonne année mes amis!  For the month of January 2026, I will be in Paris again, albeit pas exactement.

The end of December is a good time to reflect on the year past. 

I’ve been a very good kitty this year. I’m now a year and a half old with my second Christmas coming up soon.

In 1977, the world was introduced to a long-hidden treasure that Publisher’s Weekly described as “A charmer of a book….A paean to the miracles of nature, a visual delight.” 

The final week of November, I found myself thinking about some of the simple things for which I am grateful.

My youngest sister Kelly celebrated her 70^th birthday ten days ago, a month after I turned 80.

In early November,  Liquid Amber (American Sweetgum) leaves provided a display of glorious colors around Nevada City, rivaling the maple trees that were exceptional this year.

Five years ago, the literary world lost a great friend.

For the past week, November’s calendar has been filled with a spectacular series of events.

As October 2025 comes to an end, I’m up early on Halloween, warmed by our fireplace and a vintage wool lap blanket. 

For my 50^th birthday, my mother Alice gave me an extraordinary gift—a history she compiled and annotated called “Travels with Cathy: 1945-1995.”

In 1945, my father William E. Riggs and the B-29 crew he commanded were attempting to return to their base in Guam after a nighttime bombing run over Japan.

My recent remembrances of explorations in Provence in  2002 began with an outing to Arles—a city whose role in history appears to have been predestined by its geographic location.

Midway through September, an abundance of figs, pears, peaches, and plums arrayed in assorted bowls had taken over half of the surface of our nine-foot-long harvest table.

In 1836, Rosa Bonheur spent entire days at the Louvre copying works of the Old Masters.

Last week I began rereading Peter Mayle’s wonderful 1989 book A Year in Provence.

There are signs of change in the air and on the land these early September days that have me feeling unsettled.

As Thomas Jefferson famously said, “I can’t live without books.”

Some days I find myself traveling the world via the pages of cookbooks.