I’ve been lucky enough to talk boiled peanuts over cold beers with Jimmy Carter, discuss Julia Child’s favorite tacos with David Crosby, and tour Sunday lechon parties in Puerto Rico with Alfredo Ayala. A few favorite clips are below, and many more available on request.

“I’VE never met a taco I didn’t like. Weaned on Taco Bell and my Lebanese mother’s Old El Paso tacos, I’m not terrifically choosy. High-end, low-end, commercial, authentic — even a bad taco is better than no taco.”

Chasing the Perfect Taco Up the California Coast

“It’s a big mess,” Alfredo Ayala said, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows as if to ask: Are you sure you want to do this?

Let’s see. Do I want to travel deep into the central mountains of Puerto Rico to toss back Medalla Light beers with hundreds of locals in an all-day street party with live music, dancing and rotisserie pig?

“Where should we meet?” I asked.

Party With Pig: In Puerto Rico, a Glorious Feast

“To say that there is competition in Puebla over where to eat your mole poblano is an understatement. Almost every restaurant in town promotes the dish, and many hosts stand outside beckoning to passers-by. Signs everywhere shout “Típico!” — a reassurance to customers that yes — yes — here, you will find the authentic food of Puebla. But many Poblanos still cook the best moles at home, and it can be difficult to find a great one among the masses….

...it was the Sacristía mole, a smoky house recipe passed down from the owner Leobardo Espinosa’s grandmother, that sent me. Nodding, Mr. Espinosa said, “If the sauce is not good, the plate is not good.”

Chili to Chili in Mole Sauce City

Florida is a clever little peninsula. Just when you think you’ve seen everything under its proverbial sun, you stumble across a place like Anna Maria Island — a seven-mile slip of cushy white sand tucked in the Gulf of Mexico where you can dump the car, rent a bike, swim in smooth, teal waters and eat remarkably well.

That last part doesn’t happen entirely by accident. Not in the Florida I grew up in, where chain restaurants line the landscape from Jacksonville to Miami. But Anna Maria Island, about 40 miles south of Tampa, has always kept things old school. A free trolley-style bus runs the length of the island, and colorful old cottages dot the landscape. There are practically no chain restaurants, no high-rise hotels or party beaches — just a laid-back, margarita-by-sunset kind of place with restaurants committed to keeping things fresh, independent and local.

A Florida Island, End to End, Table to Table

Friday, 3 p.m.

A Delicate Balance

You can look at a million photos of the Delicate Arch (and you will - it's on every Utah centennial license plate from 1992), but nothing prepares you for the real deal. At Arches National Park (Highway 191, 435-719-2299, $10 vehicle admission fee), take the mile-and-a-half hike up steep, uneven slick rock to hit the landmark just before sunset (bring a flashlight and plenty of water). The arch doesn't come into view until the last second, but when it does, it's unforgettable. Perched on the brink of an enormous sandstone bowl, you can edge your way around and stand beneath the massive arch for a picture, but be forewarned - though the ground there is wider than a Sixth Avenue sidewalk, the combination of steep drop off, gusty wind and gleaming sun makes for a dizzying few seconds.

36 Hours: Moab

I was in no way thinking along the lines of a proposal. I boarded the plane to Paris with Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song in hand; earlier, I’d had my boyfriend run an X-Acto blade through the thousand-page tome, dividing it into three cartable sections. “Who brings such a depressing book to the south of France?” he’d asked, shaking his head and pressing the knife deeper into the bind. I watched the sinew flex in his forearm and shrugged.

“Don’t be silly,” I’d countered. “The entire country is depressed.”

Love & Death at the Gas Station: A French Suicide

To borrow from Tolstoy, all good mothers are more or less alike. My mother is no exception — having spent a life ensuring her kids got their three squares, presenting a soft shoulder to cry on, and forgiving her children’s sins with relative ease. Save murder, she once amended. Even saints have their boundaries.

In the more specific case of my mother, however, most of these acts were accomplished in a housecoat. Not to be confused with a robe, which might be belted or terrycloth, the housecoat is a loose cotton frock with a smooth front. It is sometimes called a Muumuu, though never by my mother. Muumuu’s, apparently, are for people who have let themselves go.

The Hidden Pleasures of a Good Housecoat

POLITICS and religion aside, 200,000 people can't be wrong. According to the California Tahoe Conservancy, that's the estimated crowd at Lake Tahoe on a busy summer weekend. That's enough people to make you rethink your vacation plans, but Tahoe never feels too frantic. Maybe it's the enormous mountain lake standing center, proudly straddling California and Nevada, that lets you know right away who's in charge, but the weekenders who flood the 72 miles of shoreline instinctively bow to nature's pace. And there's that other little fact, too -- far less provable, but widely asserted: There's nothing quite like a weekend spent circling Tahoe. The endless activities of summer are standard enough, but they're set to a Sierra backdrop of soaring evergreens and crystalline water worthy of a thousand poets. Throw in the late-night siren call of the Nevada casinos, and it's a tough act to follow.

36 Hours: Lake Tahoe