"One, two, threeeeeeeee!"

Charles notices it before I do, that familiar sing-song count of parents holding the hands of a toddler and swinging the giggling child high in the air. He nudges me to turn and look. "Our son's all grown up now," Charles says to the parents wistfully. "We can't do that with him anymore." The parents smile as awkwardly as we once did, not sure what to say to people whose lives have taken them outside the borders of what to them still seems a land without end: the country of parenthood.

We're walking across the dirt parking lot to the entrance of the Salman Raspberry Ranch, outside Mora, New Mexico. We come here almost every year for the pick-your-own raspberry harvest, our own little hedge against winter. We started coming when our son was a teen. By now we've been here far more times without him than with him, and while truth be told I've grown to love this middle-earth between child-rearing and grandparenting, something in this place invites nostalgia. Maybe it's the bushes festooned with berries at child's-eye level, the bright blue skies swirled with clouds like egg whites in egg drop soup. This is "Blueberries for Sal," kerplink, kerplank, kerplunk!, where the bears come only at night.

Our first stop is the booth where a tiny Hispanic woman pre-weighs the baskets we brought. (They provide buckets for people who didn't bring their own containers.) A traffic director guides each group of customers to their own row and offers some advice. Most people don't go to the end of the row, he says, so there may be better pickings there. Reach down to the bottom branches; that's where the riper ones are.

It's still early in season, but there are plenty of red berries among the green ones. My strategy is to go for the ripest ones, which have the best flavor. Charles picks the firmest ones, which will hold their shape best by the time we get home. At first as many go in our mouths as the baskets, but eventually our baskets fill. The kids in the next row are getting rambunctious, and Charles is picking up their vibe. His berries are better than my scrawny ones, he says. But mine taste better, I counter. Good thing we're not competitive, he says. Yeah but I'm better at being uncompetitive than you are, I say. He tosses a berry at me.

Back in Maryland, an "Indian Summer" could last well into September, even October. Here in the New Mexico mountains, fall comes early. By Labor Day weekend, summer's harsh light has yielded to softer colors, longer shadows, air as sweet as a baby's kiss. When we get home, I'll line the berries on cookie sheets, put them in the freezer until they're frozen solid, then pack them in freezer-bags until some dreary winter day when we'll throw some in pancakes or a pie. There's no stopping time: kids grow up; frosts hit; harvests end. But a few bags of raspberries in the freezer persuade us we have stolen a piece of summer and given us a jump on the next.

1 cup fresh raspberries
2/3 cup balsamic or other hearty vinegar
1/3 cup oil
Salt to taste

Mash the berries a bit with a fork and let them sit for a few minutes to let more of the juices release, then put them berries in a mason or other jar with a good lid. Stir in the vinegar and salt, then whisk as you pour in the oil slowly. Alternatively, just add the oil, vinegar and salt at once, cover and shake the beejesus out of it. The high ratio of vinegar to oil works well since  the raspberries are so sweet. Delicious on a spinach salad with artichoke hearts, olives, gorgonzola cheese, sliced pear and candied walnuts.

Friday was all about power-cooking, Syrian style. A few months ago I donated a Syrian dinner as an auction at the LitQuest Gala for children’s literacy programs. The winner, Perli Cunanan, chose to use it for an end-of-summer party at her house last Friday evening, and graciously included Charles and me. I’d been too busy to do much ahead of time, so Friday became a marathon of shopping and cooking, adrenaline and allspice.

I made two roast chickens with sliced eggplant, white beans in tomato sauce, rice, a tomato and cucumber salad, stuffed grape leaves with an artichoke and lemon sauce (see below), and a platter of sliced fruit and cookies from TJ’s. Charles and I loaded the pots and platters in the back of the Subaru and drove to Perli’s house with our movable feast. When we got there, Tom, Perli’s husband, came out to help us carry stuff in. “Bring in anything that smells good,” I said.

Parents served their kids, who ate out on the patio, and adults took seats around the dining room table. The guests covered more ethnic diversity than some people see in a lifetime. Among us we were Filipino, Armenian, Argentinian, Basque, Syrian, African-American, Southern, and a couple of Euro-hybrids. I said the Hebrew blessing for the food, to place a frame around the meal, and explained that these were traditional Syrian-Jewish recipes I'd gotten from my grandma -- foods I’d eaten as a kid but that I didn’t learn to cook until I’d moved to Santa Fe in my 20s. After our son was born, I said, I yearned for more connection to the family I’d fled without looking back a few years before. Grandma’s recipes provided a way in.

“That’s exactly how it was for me,” Perli said, a striking comment given that our backgrounds are so different. Perli is Filipina, and she grew up in a large Filipino community in Virginia Beach, where cultural identity could be taken for granted. “A third of my high school was Filipino, a third African-American, and a third white," she said. "There were always parties, and everyone always made foods from their family. Then I moved to New Mexico and got married and had children, and I wanted to share some of those foods. Learning to make traditional dishes and teach my kids is a way to bring that community and culture into my family.”

Variations on that theme bounced around the table. Solange came here from Argentina. “I need to cross borders,” she said. She claims that Andres, her husband, is the better cook, but she and her children make Argentinian empanadas for a taste of home. Lisa learned to cook the exotic Basque foods of her husband’s heritage. Our family's journeys (willful or otherwise; remember, one of the guests was African-American) varied as much as our foods. We were unified by diversity.

Grandma never actually made these grape leaves with artichoke and lemon (as far as I know); she made hers the more traditional way with ground beef and rice, topped with apricots and tamarind sauce -- that's for another post. I adapted this version from Poopa Dweck's Aromas of Aleppo, for Perli's vegetarian guests. I had stuffed the grape leaves earlier in the summer and put them in the freezer (through step 1). If you want to save time you could purchase canned dolmas -- now available from many mainstream and ethnic groceries -- and jump to step two, as the distinguishing factor is the combo of lemon, mint and garlic. Just don't tell Grandma.

Stuffed Grape Leaves with Artichoke & Lemon

1: Rolling

Chop 2-4 onions and sauté in olive oil until translucent. Transfer to a large bowl and stir in a half cup pine nuts, 1 to 2 bunches of parsley, a pinch of red pepper, 1 teaspoon allspice, 3-4 chopped garlic, 3 chopped tomatoes and a cup of parboiled rice (cooked in half the usual amount of water; they'll be about half-cooked and will continue cooking after stuffed).

Unroll the grape leaves and soak for several minutes in cold water, then rinse several times to wash off the salt. Spread out a few grape leaves at a time on a clean work surface, with the wide end closest to you. Cut off the stem. Place a spoonful of filling, shaped like a fat finger, about two inches wide, across the leaf near the stem. Fold the sides of the leaf over the filling, then roll it up tightly. It should look like a little cigar. Repeat till you’ve used up your filling. You can freeze them at this point and cook later.

2: Cooking

Drizzle a tablespoon or so olive oil in the bottom of a large. Place 6-10 whole garlic cloves on the bottom of the pan. Layer two cans of artichoke hearts (water-packed, not the marinated ones) on the garlic, then layer the stuffed grape leaves on the artichokes. Drizzle another 2 tablespoons of olive oil over the grape leaves. Cover the grape leaves with a heat-proof plate to weigh them down so they don’t unravel.

Cook over a low flame for 5 minutes, just until the grape leaves start to moisten. Remove the plate, and add the juice of 6 lemons (about a cup – fresh, by all means), 1 tablespoon dried mint, 1 teaspoon salt, and enough water to cover the grape leaves. Cover again with the plate. Cook over medium-high heat until the sauce comes to a boil, then lower the heat to medium-low, cover the pan, and simmer for about 40 minutes. Remove from the heat. Let stand for a few minutes to allow the grape leaves to tighten before serving.

Lay a serving plate over the top of the saucepan and hold it firmly in place as you invert the saucepan carefully, so the artichokes are arranged on top of the grape leaves. Serve hot, cold or room temperature.