As I settle back into the workaday world after a 10-day respite from the laptop rat race, dual fogs are just beginning to fade from memory. The first is the morning mist that hovered in the Pacific Northwest sky along the Puget Sound and Columbia River — a blanket of moisture so pungent and thick, I felt like I could scoop it up with my hands and eat it like cotton candy.

The second is a hazy cerebral cloud that came with a relentless bout of food poisoning acquired during one of my first days of vacation. (Note to self: Never order biscuits and gravy during happy hour at a bar whose lights are so dim and drinks so strong that even the tartar-sauce-stained jukebox looks good enough to lick after a while).

Despite being temporarily sidelined by something as seemingly benign as breakfast, my taste buds and I had traveled to eastern Washington, Seattle, Portland and places in between to make up for lost time. When I lived in the Pacific Northwest some 25 years ago, my palate for wine and food was weak and directionless. I lacked a chef's curiosity, and I took for granted the bounty that had always surrounded me. Now — when farmers and fish markets from Alaska to Maine are deep in the undertow of a consumer-driven renaissance — seemed as good a time as any to set things right. I grabbed my fork; and man, did I run:

Oyster shooters and Manila clams at Anthony's in Spokane Falls harvested from Willapa Bay; organic Honeycrisp apples larger than a softball at the Pasco, Wash., farmers market; blackberries plucked from a bush outside a hotel room in Vancouver; seared fresh halibut over a hash of sweet potatoes and bacon at Lowell's Restaurant & Bar in Seattle's Pike Place Market — the lot of it, right down to the aromatic rosemary and pickled green bean garnish in my bloody mary and thick, juicy plums in the infused vodka — harvested or grown by Pike Place Market vendors.

If you have lived in Santa Fe long enough and tend to eat your way through a vacation, the term "small world" will inevitably pass your lips when you travel to other American cities. The bartender at Lowell's, an occasional visitor to Santa Fe, said his favorite local hangout in the City Different was the Cowgirl BBQ. Unbeknownst to him when he said this: One of my dining partners that day was a bartender from the Cowgirl. Coincidence continued to play a role at Five Restaurant Bistro in Edmonds, Wash., where, at the end of our meal, we learned that our server was born in Santa Fe and grew up in the city's first solar-powered home on Old Santa Fe Trail.

It was in Edmonds that my partner and friends caught 20 pounds of wild Coho salmon, most of which, after some time under the knife, made a quick trip by airmail to a friend in Santa Fe.

Of course, there were wines and spirits, such as the Kiona Vineyards Rosé of Sangiovese culled from the Red Mountain Appellation near Benton City, Wash. And somehow, by the grace of Dionysus and a Transportation Security Administration agent with a soft spot for the hard stuff, bottles of huckleberry cordial, limoncello and "Desert Lightning" corn whiskey from Black Heron Spirits in Richland, Wash., made it home in my luggage unscathed.

My senses were overwhelmed at the Portland Saturday Market in Oregon, where food booths and trucks share real estate with some of the best dive bars in the country. There was beer from Rogue Ales; ground-garbanzo bajiya (patties) and sambusa pastries filled with beef and lentils from the Horn of Africa Restaurant; homemade kielbasa, pirogue and potato pancakes from Taste of Poland; falafel from Beirut Café ... it will take two return trips to eat through this food mecca.

Despite the variety of food and fun at my fingertips during this trip, there seemed to be something lacking in the experience. It didn't come from my surroundings, but from within me. The aromas of roasted chile and late-summer piñon smoke weren't there, nor was the late-September sunlight of Northern New Mexico, the kind that hits your eyes and the horizon just so, signaling the fast approach of autumn. Aspen leaves in the final throes of green were nowhere to be found. And getting a decent green-chile cheeseburger? Forget it.

For all of the festivals and bounty to be found in other locales, Santa Fe is where my heart and fork are truly happiest. Maybe that haze I mentioned earlier wasn't due to an unfortunate encounter with a plate of biscuits and gravy. Perhaps, instead, it was an incredibly powerful — and necessary — bout of homesickness.

Now that I'm back in Santa Fe, I want to revel in the culinary possibilities, and the next few days are ripe for the occasion.

The Santa Fe Wine & Chile Fiesta is in full swing, offering up tastings, pairing dinners and luncheons, chef demonstrations and wine seminars. Events are selling out fast, so visit
www.santafewineandchile.org for reservations and more information.