I’ve been out of the office, in Florida, to be precise, the not-always-sunshiny-state. It was no vacation (someone had to find this), but it was inspiring and I’ve returned somewhat revived. St. Petersburg won’t go down in my little notebook as a culinary destination, but, to be fair, I didn’t have that much time to explore because of afore-alluded to work activities, nor much in the way of transportation. I hoofed it all over downtown, though, where I found clovey, citrusy Hefeweizen in the proper towering glasses, lime-marinated So-Cal carnitas, brandy-flamed saganaki, pastel-colored bungalows and fiery hibiscus and lush foliage. I drank my beer outside in the warm, breezy night and learned how to play the card game PIG. It felt like a North Carolina April, and has me very excited about spring, delicate lettuces, asparagus, being outdoors on a front porch with more beer and friends and probably some fireworks Kelly imported from south of the border.

The St. Pete black list was much longer, unfortunately. I won’t dwell on it - just take note a certain restaurant actually called Cha Cha Coconuts is on it.

But I’d still happily come back!

So I’m trying to eek out the tropical zen a little longer, despite U.S. Airways’ best efforts to disrupt it. My traveling wasn’t over, even when I got back after many delays and hurdles courtesy of the airline industry. Yesterday, my first day home, I stopped by Trader Joe’s on my way back from Raleigh (I had to make a morning trip there). Now, I’m not wild about product placement, but I like a good tip, and I have to tell you - this place is worth a detour.

Many of you living on the West coast probably already know about the joys of Trader Joe’s - mainly, cheapy cheap delicacies, especially a huge line of frozen food exotica - from wild blueberries to curries to Italian seafood stew - developed by the company in-house. I’m not a huge fan of frozen anything, except if I gather it myself, but I don’t have time to make tamales and chicken chile verde every week, and Trader Joe’s does. The stores are slowly making their way east, and this is North Carolina’s first branch, though it seems as if Charlotte is in for at least two soon.

I don’t if I’d been to Cary since high school, when my cross country team was stomped in a few races at a large park there. A location largely known for its concentration of rootless relocatees, beige-colored, over-sized homes, privileged schools, soccer parks and expensive cars, it’s not a city beloved by many North Carolinians. Sometimes, it gets called “Scary,” perhaps a little unfairly. I got a little lost there yesterday, but since I was still riding that zen wave, I didn’t mind. You all might want to print out better directions. Seriously, all of Cary looks the same.

But check out my loot:

My spoils include three bottles of wine, one white and two red, two kinds of salsa, four pounds of coffee, pistachio-encrusted dark choclate toffee, ginger-speckled shortbread, chicken and chile and cheese tamales, garlic naan, granola, sesame soba noodles, cinnamon chocolate cookies, Marcona almonds, and fresh gnocchi. Damn. It was ridiculously crowded, which made things all the more “quest-like.” I had to really push through the soccer moms to get those Marcona almonds. Cary, if you can provide me with $3.49 prosciutto, I can make time for more visits.

I have another field trip for you. This may come to a surprise to many of you in the Tar Heel State - it’s a sojourn rich in meat but, no, it’s not barbecue. If you live anywhere near Greensboro (as in 100 miles), please get in the car right now and take yourself to Giacomo’s, an Italian market and salumeria. There are two locations to serve you.

The marinated eggplant and red peppers (I believe vegetarian-friendly) are especially stunning, rich, lusty, with the heft of a buttery steak. Giacomo’s makes its own everything - salamis, pepperonis, dry hot sausages, sopressata, ravioli, sauces, rice balls, cold antipasti salads. There are cold bottles of espresso soda. There is a store brand of olive oil, in bottles big enough for wine. There are sfogliatelle, thick rippled pastries the shape and size of large clams, and filled with orange-flecked cream. There are amazing sandwiches, dripping with the marinated vegetables, the house-cured meats and fresh mozzarella on good, crusty buns. When I tried to sweet talk the one of the burly men behind the counter into opening a satellite location to the west, he told me with a deadly serious face that the food might not be as wonderful if they get any bigger. “The same four guys make everything,” he said. That’s an answer I can live with.

But don’t forget these guys came from Brooklyn.

Happy travels!