Since living in the rental for the past four years, I have also been fighting a losing battle with the deer and the critters. They lie in wait the day before the tomatoes are ready to be picked, and swoop in to steal them all. I haven't had a decent crop of edamame in four years, which is a shame because they are ridiculously easy to grow. This Summer, for the first time, I gave up the fight. With book tour, a change of publisher, building Figless Manor and running the lives of many Smalls, I decided to, instead, take a CSA farm share in The Hickories in Ridgefield.

Every Monday we collect bags of whatever's ready, and while loving the surprise of not knowing what I'll be bringing home, I miss being out in the garden. It makes me feel connected to the earth, and nature, and I can plan what I want us to eat. Some years ago I planted copious amounts of green beans, then realising I hate green beans when it came time to pick them and I didn't want to eat them. Now I only plant food I know we'll eat, and the kids love nothing more than picking straight from the ground and popping peas in their mouths.

Next Summer we will be in Figless Manor, and with any luck we will have deer fencing around the garden. This morning Mini-me and Twin A asked if they could have a garden too. Naturally my answer was a delighted yes, before asking what they would plant.

Mini-me said, "cucumbers, radishes, and those flowers you can eat." (Nasturtiums).

Twin A thought for a bit. "Tomatoes", he said, pausing as he thought, before adding "and a few Venus Flytraps."

I suppose that might be one remedy for the Greenfly...

Last year, Summer whizzed by in a flash. I kept meaning to have some lazy time with the family, but I never seemed to leave my house, and all of a sudden, it was Fall, and too late. But this year I was present. We didn't go anywhere, other than zig-zagging across the country for book tour in June and July, and turned our home into our staycation destination.

I have to confess to already having built a fire, though. My favorite seasons are Spring and Fall. Sunday night there were huge storms, and Beloved had over-air-conditioned the house, so it was dark, gloomy and freezing, and I could almost pretend it was October - how could I not have built a fire? I scraped together the last of last year's logs from the garage, and we curled up on the sofa with the papers and a book.

It is still gloomy, and I find myself now longing for Fall. I'm bored with the Summer wardrobe, and am eyeing my jeans and boots, thick sweaters and scarves. I have not had a cup of tea in months, and am realising I will need to replenish the tea supply. And I want to start cooking again. Summer sees me throwing salads together, and meat or fish on the grill. I may splash out on desserts, but I do not cook the type of cosy comfort food that I love.

Next Summer will be different. We will be living in Figless Manor, steps from the water. I lived across the street the first summer I moved back to Westport, when I rented Beloved's beach cottage, and I loved it. Although I am only a couple of blocks away now, the light is different down there, and the sky bigger. I loved having supper on the beach every night, and taking the dog for walks every day. But mostly, it will be our first home; the first home Beloved and I have ever built, and the first home we will live in together that we own. Renting for four years has been lovely, but it is time for us to plant roots. And fig trees.

But in the meantime, I will cosy away the Fall and Winter with fires, tea, and casseroles. I'm ready. How about you?

This weekend we had friends for dinner, and I made a mille crepe cake - layers and layers of crepes sandwiched together with cream, although I used my whipped honey ricotta for a slightly less sinful version. We have a family tradition of this cake for birthdays, always ordered from Lady M cakes in New York, and I will confess that although mine was good, it wasn't quite as ridiculously sublime as the cakes from Lady M.

On Monday I suddenly realised that I might be able to match the sheer divineness of the Lady M cakes, by making a version with Nutella, whipped into a heavy cream. I checked the giant Nutella jar in the fridge, and as I suspected, it was almost all gone. Nutella was a special treat for me as a child. We only ever bought it when we were at our house in France, and it was always the giant jar that my father would try to hide at the top of a very tall cupboard.

I always found it, usually late at night, and would guiltily slide fingers in, sucking the sweet creamy chocolatey deliciousness straight off my finger. It seems several of my Smalls have had the same idea, and I am beginning to realise that Nutella cannot be in the house for long. It's just against the laws of nature.

For those who don't know, it's a hazelnut, chocolate and sugar cream, and if you haven't tried it, I strongly recommend you do. For the crepe cake, I made my own Nutella, folding spoonfuls into whipped cream to lighten it up, before layering the cake. I cheated slightly by using a jar of Hazelnut "butter" from Whole Foods, which is just pureed hazelnuts. You could absolutely do it yourself, using 2 cups of whole raw hazelnuts, toasting them for 15 minutes in a 350 oven, then remove the skins by rubbing them with kitchen paper, then add just under 1/4 cup vegetable oil to thin out...but really? Who can be bothered?

It would absolutely be fine to use the jarred Nutella, but if you want to make the entire thing from scratch, here goes. My only warning: this cake will be gone in seconds. Just ask the Smalls...

Nutella Crepe Cake

for Nutella:
2 cups hazelnut butter or the whole palaver of the fresh hazelnuts toasted and the oil etc etc
1 cup powdered sugar
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
vegetable or nut oil if necessary

Process all in food processor until mixture is creamy. If it is too thick, slowly drizzle oil in until easily spreadable. Place in fridge to chill and firm for 1/2 hour minimum.
Leftovers will keep in the fridge in an airtight jar for one to two months.

For crepes:

2-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
5 eggs
1 1/4 cups milk
1 1/4 cups water
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup and 1 tablespoon butter, melted

Additional Ingredients:
Small carton of heavy whipping cream
cocoa powder for dusting

Directions
Sieve the flower into a bowl, making a well in the center for the eggs. Whisk together, gradually adding milk, water, salt and butter. Beat until smooth.

Heat a flattish round pan over medium high heat. Ladle the batter on, tilt the pan quickly in a circular movement to cover the base of the ban evenly with the batter. Cook for around two minutes, then, using a spatula, turn over and cook the other side. Set aside in a pile until ready to assemble the cake.

When done, let pancakes cool, and while doing that, whip 3/4 of the carton of whipping cream until stiff. Taking tablespoons of the Nutella, fold into the cream. I used approximately half of the Nutella, leaving the rest in the fridge for later, but it is according to taste.

Place crepe on a cake plate, and using a knife or spatula, spread a heaped tablespoon of Nutella until it covers the entire crepe. Cover with a second crepe, and repeat until all the crepes are used.

The final layer should be a crepe, dusted with cocoa powder through a sieve. Place in the fridge for at least two hours to chill and firm before serving.

I now have my calendar on it, synced to my computer, my contacts book, and of course my emails. I stick it in the central console of my car, and used not to think twice about picking it up whilst driving to quickly look at something, or to attempt to dial a phone number, which I told myself was ok, because my phone is hooked up to Bluetooth, so I never actually hold the phone while speaking in the car.

I was behind a friend recently, following her home from Westchester, when she veered from the fast lane to the middle, and continued to drive between two lanes for around 20 seconds. I was stunned. She wasn't texting, but confessed later she was making a call, only glancing at her phone, she thought, to punch in the numbers, not realising she was driving as if drunk.

Recently my town cracked down. Policemen lay in wait, hidden round corners, lurking in driveways, to catch distracted drivers. I stopped picking up my phone. And I have continued not picking up my phone. Last week's death of the plastic surgeon Dr. Frank Ryan, while tweeting, is a reminder to all of us not to pick up the damned phone.

And a reinforcement, for me, of why I gave up Twitter. That someone as clever, and careful as I imagine a plastic surgeon would be, should make such an unwise move on the Pacific Coast Highway (a road which, quite frankly, terrifies me. We drive up it this Summer, and I spent three hours with white knuckles, convinced we were about to go off the edge), is testament, I believe, to the addictive nature of Twitter.

Not everyone has that addictive gene, but those of us that do ought to be careful. And Dr Ryan is a tragic reminder to never, ever pick up the phone while driving, however quick you think you'll be.

I did this the last time I was in LA to meet Harrison Ford. I got to Hertz and the woman behind the desk peered at me incredulously over the rim of her glasses. 'You hired a Kia Spectra?' she said, doubtfully. I shrugged. 'Is that okay?' she asked, practically shaking her head.

'It's fine.' I said. 'I don't even know what it looks like, but it's only for a night. It's fine.'

'Oh honey,' she said, after a long pause. 'You aint no Kia Spectra girl. I can't let you leave here in a Kia Spectra. I'm giving you a Mercedes.' And she did! I sailed out of the Hertz rental lot in a brand new black Mercedes E class with no miles on the clock, and I loved every second of it. I felt grown-up and sophisticated, and as if I belonged, absolutely, in LA.

This time around, different woman, told me I was in a Toyota Camry. Which was fine, except I needed GPS. These days, I drive by following the blue line. I barely even look out the window, I just follow that blue line wherever it tells me to go, and I needed to know where to go in LA.

'I can only give you GPS if you take a prestige car,' she said. There was a long pause, during which I said nothing. I have learned that sometimes silence is the best policy. 'I can give you a C70,' she said after a long time, 'for thirty dollars more.'

'Oh okay,' I sighed. 'If I must.'

The C70 is Volvo's hard-top convertible. You press a button in the car and the entire top folds down into the trunk, which is exceptionally cool. It also happens to be a great-looking car. However, as I sat myself down in the car and drove out the parking lot, I knew there wasn't a chance in hell I'd be putting the top down. It was hot and humid, my hair was looking good, and the last thing I wanted was to zip up the freeway with noise, wind and pollution rattling around me.

And I realised, that this is middle-age. I lived in LA for a few months in my early twenties, and I would have killed for a convertible. I zoomed around on the back of friends' motorcycles, or in their sports cars, dreaming of the day I would be able to have my own. And now I can, but I no longer want it, which is the ultimate irony.

Still, I do like those ladies at Hertz, and I'm wondering if next time they might set aside a Porsche. Doesn't have to be convertible, but I'm thinking it might be a whole lot of fun...

In England I was used to bringing things to dinner parties, but not food for the actual party itself. Flowers, wine, or chocolates, which were likely to be brought out as an after-dinner treat. And suddenly I was inundated with food that wasn’t on my menu. One weekend I cooked an Indian feast, and my guests arrived with platters of shrimp cocktail and chicken wings.

Looking back, I realise that when I first moved here I was still learning how to be a grown-up. I was newly-married, a youngish mother, and I was doing the things I thought newly-married youngish mothers were supposed to do, and those included throwing dinner parties. I was doing the things my mother did, not realising that we are no longer living in the age of “Mad Men”, and it really isn’t necessary to seat guests awkwardly round beautifully-laid tables in formal dining rooms, serving them fine French food in order for the evening to be deemed a success.

Ten years on, I no longer have formal dinner parties. Ever. I will set the table beautifully, but in the kitchen, or on the deck. I love my guests bringing food, and more, love when they grab a knife and start chopping vegetables for the salad.

Entertaining, for me, is all about comfort and ease. It is about creating a beautiful environment, but one in which my guests will instantly feel at home. Nothing makes me happier than people kicking off their shoes and curling up on one of the sofas with a big glass of wine, moments after they’ve arrived.

And I love them bringing food. If I am preparing something special – a Thai meal, or Middle-Eastern – I will request they bring nothing, or perhaps just hors d’oeuvres, but mostly, in the Summer, we are throwing food on the grill, accompanied by huge tomato and basil salads, and fresh corn succotash.

Last weekend we over-cooked. I was left with a bucket of barbequed chicken, and the next day removed the skin to make chicken salad, adding grapes for sweetness, and my secret ingredient: celery salt, which I then brought to a party on Sunday. It was a huge hit, and that, of course, is the other great thing about bringing food: the perfect way to get rid of leftovers.

Chicken Salad

Ingredients

1/4 cup mayonnaise
1/8 cup sour cream
1/8 cup Greek Yoghurt (optional. If not using, increase sour cream to 1/4 cup)
1 tablespoon lemon juice
3 scallions, sliced fairly thin
2 cups chopped, cooked chicken meat
2 stalks celery, finely chopped
Medium bunch of grapes, halved.
1 teaspoon celery salt
Salt and Pepper to taste

Yes, that's right. Harley Davidsons.

At this point I have to confess, I am something of a sucker for a man in uniform. I'm not sure when this happened, and am convinced this is something to do with middle age, because uniforms never did it for me when younger.

I do remember once, sometime in the late eighties, showing up to try and buy a Triumph Spitfire. There was another man there who had arrived first, so he bought the car. His name was John and he was a policeman, around the corner at Paddington Green. Some days after we met, John showed up on my doorstep and asked me out for a drink. He was in uniform. I want to say I found it sexy, but I found it all a little unsettling. Flattering, yes, but still. A copper on your doorstep when you hadn't given him your name or number, who had obviously tracked your down from your licence plate, was...well...was probably excellent material for a novel (makes mark in notebook).

My friend The Chef is married to Captain. He is one of my most favorite men in the whole wide world, and he is a pilot, I didn't really give this last fact much thought, until he dropped Mini-me off after softball one night, in full uniform. Ladies, I swear to you. I went weak at the knees. This is a man I can banter with happily, for hours, unless he is in uniform, at which point I start blushing and go all googly-eyed.

So uniforms do it for me, and yes, I'm afraid motorcycles do too. We do not have a motorcycle, but Beloved has a Vespa, and one of our very first unofficial dates was a Vespa ride through the country roads of Weston. I love a man on a bike. and I love a man in Uniform. And, oh Lord, why? My town has just guaranteed I will never be able to look a policeman in the eye again...