This summer, I'll be heading back to the North Fork of Long Island, where we've managed to borrow or rent little places for the last few years. The kids will chase minnows and each other at the pebbly, imperfect beaches. We'll buy some fresh-caught bluefish to grill and local rosé to drink all day. We'll eat ice cream in the car and take naps and everything will take on the slow rhythms, the comforting contours and low-expectation satisfaction of perfect days spent doing nothing together. That's the plan anyway, the goal. A little discovery is welcome, in moderation: a new clam shack to try, a different winery. But familiarity is central to the mission. And cooking—for and with and around each other—is always part of the recipe.