At long last, our Indian summer has arrived. July, August, even September plodded through dankly chilly, cottony fog, but now, October's pumpkin-and-apple splendor is bursting forth with hot days and mild, even balmy nights. At midday, you might think you're still ankle-deep in August, ice-chunked agua fresca in your hand, shorts cresting your thighs and flip-flops on your feet.

Stroll a few hours closer to sunset, though, and you can feel it: the days are shorter, the nights drawing in. A long wet spring and a lingering cold summer meant everything was slow to arrive this year. Which means we've got the bounty of both summer and fall happening all at once, the vivid reds and oranges of winter squash making a brilliant splash against the sun-painted golds of the Autumn Flame peaches and Emerald Beaut plums.

Normally, my East Coast-bred internal clock is turning towards the deeper, richer foods of autumn by now, the pears and apples, figs and kabocha squash and multi-hued carrots. But this year, there's still a little more precious summer to bask in, a few more strappy sundresses to take out for a spin.

Not to mention more watermelon to enjoy. Seeing huge bins of watermelons sharing curb space with jack o' lanterns is just one of the quirkier joys of our California calendar. Watermelon, zucchini, cucumbers of all shapes, and sweet-fleshed melons are still piled high at Berkeley Bowl and the Temescal and Lakeshore Farmer's Markets. Some are sugary and dripping-luscious, others cool and crisp, but all share a botanical family, the Curcurbitacea, which also includes the vast array of hard-shelled winter squashes, from lumpy-bumpy gourds to acorn squash to Halloween pumpkins. Watermelons and pumpkins, seedy sisters under the skin.

There will be dark months ahead to welcome the comforting starch of the hard squashes. Right now, these last hot days demand something piquant and refreshing, rolling like a breeze over your tongue. Ceviche, gazpacho, lemonade, the tangy brine of seafood. Waiting for the bus on a hot Oakland sidewalk, I think longingly of a salad I had at the now-closed Chickenbone Cafe in Brooklyn on a hot July night. The chef, Zak Pelaccio, who'd trained at the French Laundry, built a crisscross stack of watermelon batons topped with whorls of grilled squid, interspersed with frilled shreds of mint and cilantro, salty bits of feta, and down at the bottom, tiny, tiny sweet-sour cubes of pickled watermelon rind. It was delicious, and also witty: watermelon two ways, both of them unexpected.

And then there was Bangkok melon salad created by John Beardsley when he was the chef at Ponzu in the Tenderloin a decade or so ago, an irresistible mix of honeydew and cantaloupe tossed with fresh ginger, lemongrass, lime, Thai basil and fresh chiles. (Yes, when it comes to deliciousness in all its forms, my palate's memory is a long one, its recall effortless.)

Yes, as cooks in hot climates know, melon goes better with salt and savory than you might think. Think of the Greeks' watermelon-and-feta salads, or the Italians' classic, unbeatable combination of ripe cantaloupe veiled in sheer slices of prosciutto.

What you want with melon is something salty and a little sweet--that proscuitto, for example, or seafood that lies somewhere between silky and bouncy, like shrimp, octopus, scallops, or squid.

Squid is a particularly fine choice here. The locally caught stocks around Monterey Bay replenish themselves easily. Squid is cheap and adapts easily to a host of flavorings and ethnic bents, equally at home in a soy-saucy stir-fry as in a garlicky tomato sauce.

Like I said, squid is inexpensive. Whole, it can run as little as $2/lb; cleaned, $4 or $5/lb. Which kind you buy depends quite frankly on your tolerance for squid eyes, guts, and goo. I vowed, after cleaning my first bowlful of squid sometime back in 1991, that my first time would also be my last. But somehow I came home with a pound of complete squids last night, eyes and all. It's still, shall we say, a visceral process, but possible, if you're really committed to having a hands-on, tentacle-to-tail relationship with your squid. A sharp knife, some loud music, and someone ready to take out the garbage immediately afterwards all helps. Start with about 1 1/2 lbs if you're buying whole squid, to account for all the innards you'll be discarding.

So, here goes: Rinse squid well. If desired, trim off the tentacles (the bits on the top of the head that look like crazy hair) and set aside. There's no real neck to go by, but cut off what passes for a head below the eyes and discard. Reach into the body and pull out the hard, spine-like quill. Starting from the tip, squeeze downward toward the open end like you’re squeezing a tube of toothpaste. Squeeze out whatever's inside, rinsing frequently. Peel off the thin speckled membrane from the body. Trim off the triangular-shaped wings.

Once the body is reduced to a clean, translucent tube, slice it into thin rings. Repeat as needed. Pile rings and tentacles into a colander and rinse thoroughly one more time. (Children with a high gross-out tolerance may find this whole process amusing, and should be put to work immediately.) Pat dry.

If you have a mandoline, use it to make pretty, translucent ribbons of cucumber and radish, and see-through slices of red onion. As for cucumbers, the thin-skinned Armenian or Persian ones are particularly nice, since they tend to be less watery and seedy than your typical waxed-up supermarket cuke. You could also use a few small pickling or Kirby cukes instead.

End of Summer Squid Salad
You can mix and match melons to your taste and visual sensibility. I like some combination of watermelon, honeydew, and cantaloupe, but experiment with whatever you find the most pleasing. You can chill this salad for a few hours before serving, but it's best the day it's made. A mix of lime and lemon juice is fine, if that's what you've got on hand, but don't, under any circumstances, use bottled lemon or lime juice. Not even the organic kind! They all taste like bitter battery acid and will wreck your beautiful salad.

Serves 4

Ingredients:
1 small red onion, peeled and sliced very thin
6 cups mixed melon chunks
1 large or two small cucumbers, peeled if waxed, thinly sliced
a handful of radishes, trimmed and thinly sliced
1 lb cleaned squid, including tentacles if desired, bodies cut into thin rings
2 tsp Thai fish sauce, or to taste
a small handful of chopped roasted, salted peanuts or cashews
1 jalapeno or serrano chile, green or red, sliced very thinly
2 tsp peanut or canola oil
2 or 3 limes
1 tbsp honey, if needed
generous handful of Thai basil, mint, and/or cilantro, or a combination, roughly chopped

Preparation:

1. In a small bowl, cover onion slices with ice water, and set aside.

2. Toss melon, cucumbers, and radish together with juice of 1 lime. Refrigerate.

3. Toss squid with fish sauce, nuts, and chiles.

4. In a wok or saucepan over medium-high heat, heat oil until very hot. Add squid mixture and cook, stirring, until just opaque, firm but not rubbery. This should take less than a minute. Remove from heat and add juice of 1 lime.

6. Drain onions, rinse, and add to melon mixture. Add squid and chopped herbs. Toss and taste for seasoning, adding more lime juice or fish sauce to taste. If it seems too tart, add honey to taste. Divide between plates and serve.

Want to know more about local melons? The Crane family farm, longtime Sonoma melon growers, is offering a tour and tasting on Saturday, Oct. 9th, 2pm-4pm.

What do you do when your oldest friend in the world hits a milestone birthday? For that matter, what do you do when anyone you really care about has a birthday?

You bake them a cake, that's what.

Presents are wonderful, of course: diamonds, ponies, Eastern European babies, and whatnot. Whatever your choice, the recipient of these gifts will be pleased that you took the time out of your busy schedule to honor them.

But a cake? I think cakes are much, much nicer, thank you. Not a store-bought cake, though they can be very good, but one you make yourself. Baking a cake requires planning, it requires effort, it requires the surrender of personal time and energy. And, best of all, it demands focus-- at least, it does for me. You just can't multitask when there's a cake in the oven depending on you. Of course, I'm sitting here at my desk writing about making birthday cakes while the cake is baking away, but I've got my timer on. Since I'm doing nothing but think about this cake as I type, I think it is entirely allowable.

When Squid's husband told me he was having a small get together for her birthday, my first thought was about the cake. "Do you already have something in mind for the cake?" I asked. When he said no, not yet, I asked if I could make it. So here I am, fretting away about a bunch of flour, sugar, and butter.

I had such grand plans for the thing. Two tiers, 35 years of inside jokes together manifested in marzipan, butterscotch, and chocolate. I had everything planned to the last detail. Or so I thought.

Things don't always go as planned when a person like me, who isn't in the practice of baking giant cakes, decides to do so on a whim. When there is math involved, my ideas tend to take a major hit or two. Butterscotch frosting? Oh, just double the given recipe. That should be enough. And it was, except for the fact that I needed about a half cup more powdered sugar than I had on hand. Ransacking one's pantry while the stand mixer is whirring away is not always the best idea. Fortunately, there was vanilla protein powder on hand, so the frosting is now enriched with iron, phosphorous, and good old fashioned soy protein to support the bone and cardiovascular health of those who will ingest it. God bless the ability to improvise.

Baking a big cake? Super, but I can now tell you that merely doubling the recipe for 9" round layer cake doesn't cut it for a 14" square one. Unless you just want one, perfect little layer, without filling. So I will run back to the store early tomorrow morning for more flour, butter, eggs, and vanilla. It serves me right.

But I don't mind one bit. I happen to enjoy making mistakes. Especially tasty ones. So what if I have to bake another layer for the cake tomorrow? There is much to be said for the satisfaction I feel when a tender, vanilla-perfumed cake is first pulled from the oven. When cooling on its baking rack, I see it as a yellowish canvas-- not quite blank, but mildly blistered and neutral, upon which I can go to town, as it were, in terms of creativity.

Protein-infused Butterscotch frosting studded with bits of brutalized toffee slathered in the middle of two layers of cake baked a day apart. I wonder if anyone will know which layer is newer? Hopefully, everyone will be too drunk on beer and sidecars to notice. A thin layer of the icing outside covered in a perfectly smooth coating of chocolate. At least I hope it will be perfectly smooth. Do wish me luck.

The decoration of the thing will be the trickiest part of all. My piping skills aren't what they used to be. My plan was to have a giant squid looking as if it were startled into squirting out the Birthday message in its ink. Trickier than I imagined, believe me.

Instead, I ended up with a squid that looks only mildly bothered. Perhaps I shall have more luck with the starfish.

What started out as an exercise in what I hoped to be flawless, quirky perfection has turned into an exercise in pinpointing my own, personal foibles and fortes (read: therapy). I had hoped to execute something beyond my own particular baking and sculpting abilities and have, so far, not done a terribly bad job at it, though it won't be the image of the perfect (for Squid) birthday cake I had in mind.

And I think that's just fine. In fact, I think she'll think that's just fine, too. Who turns down birthday cake? A birthday cake isn't always about perfection. Like I said earlier, it's about time and the offering of mental space and physical effort. And it's about love, if you hadn't gathered that already.

As I stood over the stand mixer, kicking myself for having to resort to adding protein powder in order to save the frosting, I had a Like Water for Chocolate moment. Was I about to add my own frustration into that frosting? Were my fellow party-goers going to take on my angst as well as a boost of muscle-building protein? I stepped back and thought about what I wanted that cake to say to Squid besides "Happy Birthday."

I took a moment to re-arrange my thoughts and then started speaking into the bowl of the stand mixer, saying things like:

Thank you for being my friend for thirty-five years. I'm glad you had good enough sense to marry my college roommate. Thanks for the wonderful, surprising godchildren. Thank you for correcting me when I call things "retarded" by telling me how "gay" that sounds. I'm sorry I punched you in the face in the 5th grade. Thank you for out-reading, out-writing, and out-drawing me. Thank you for letting me be a part of your family.

Just, well, thanks.

And I hope you love the cake, however it turns out.

Butterscotch Protein Frosting:

Frosts on 9" x 9" round layer cake. Double the amount for a 14" square cake. You do the math, since I can't.

Ingredients:

1 cup unsalted butter

2 cups light brown sugar

8 tablespoons whole milk

3 1/2 cups powdered sugar

1/2 cup soy protein powder

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

a heavy pinch of salt

Preparation:

1. In a heavy-bottomed, medium-sized pan, melt the butter over low heat. Add brown sugar to the butter and bring to a bubbling boil, stirring constantly. Add milk and return to a boil, all the while stirring. About 2 to 3 minutes, or until the sugar has melted and the consistency is smooth.

2. Remove from heat and pour molten mixture into the bowl of a stand mixer with whisk attachment. Add vanilla and let cool to luke warm.

3. On the lowest speed, gradually add powdered sugar until all of your stash has been exhausted.

4. Panic.

5. Rifle through pantry. Locate protein powder.

6. Hastily measure out powder and add to frosting.

7. Taste.

8. Smirk.

9. Frost.