Melons. Les melons. Aren’t they glorious too?

I don’t know about you but I simply cannot buy a melon when it’s out of the season. I remember when I was a child and my parents, my brother and I drove for our summer vacation across France, to another corner of the country. Sometimes it was to the west coast we’d travel–just as we will in a few weeks–and sometimes it was south that my parents had decided we’d spend les grandes vacances (summer vacation). To my brother and me, it didn’t matter where we were traveling, as long as that involved the seaside. On allait à la mer !

One year, we vacationed in the presqu’île de Giens. My parents had rented a cute cottage by the sea, which was very convenient since my mother was able to cook and we had easy access to the beach. Every morning, we liked to walk to the local market to buy local fresh produce. And on the last day, my mother purchased a large cagette de melons (a box filled with melons), and one of apricots–something she invariably did each year, no matter where we vacationed.

In fact, there was never a vacation that didn’t involve bringing local food home.

I keep a vivid memory of our family vacation by the seaside. And of the drive back each year as the car smelled sweet and delicious from the fruit we had put in the trunk.

The melons were always remarkable.

So naturally, in summer, most likely like a lot of you, I enjoy eating heaps of scrumptious melons. I tell P. that they don’t taste as sweet as the ones from our summer vacation, to which his response is that I feel this way because I was young and carefree, and that everything by the seaside seemed to taste better. He’s probably right. Although…

Nevertheless. The other day, it was this salad that glorified a summer cantaloupe. I had made a point to leave the fruit out on the counter top for a few days until it was ripe and à point. I made the salad with mixed greens and leftovers of a roasted chicken. The marriage between the tenderness of the meat, slices of melon, raspberries and mixed greens tossed in a pistachio & lime vinaigrette was incredible.

In fact, the salad was so tasty that I ate it within minutes–not always a good thing, is it? Lunch left Lulu and I feeling light when we finally set off for the park. I was happy with the salad. Lulu was with the sandbox at the playground. And cookies.

On the way back home, I decided to make a quick stop at the store for milk. What I didn’t expect to find there was what follows. Boxes of delicious looking white currants and gooseberries, local it read on the box, were neatly arranged in the fruit section. It so rarely happens that it frankly took me by surprise. “What am I going to do with those?” I kept thinking as I handed a $10 bill to the cash registrar. Blank. Hence the berries sat in the fridge for one day. Until the word tart, in all of its glory, popped into my head.

It was a spontaneous simple tart, in fact, that I ended up choosing. I didn’t have much to prepare since I already had handy leftovers of a rustic crust . Which left me with the preparation of the fruit only.

Minutes after I started to work, Lulu caught sight of the box of berries. “They are mine and I am going to give them to maman“, the look on her face seemed to be saying as she proudly carried to my small working table the box she was holding tight between her hands.

I cannot help but smile whenever I picture the scene again.

You can really use any fruit and spices you like. At each time I bake a tart like this one, it always evolves into something new.

So the result was a delicious dessert with character.

One that invariably makes me think about the beach. Our time away with the family. And of a day in August building a memory around food.

I am not ready to forget my princess’s tiny hands holding the fruit either.

“It’s too late in the year,” Pamela said. “The cows will already be back in the barn.”

“Really?” I replied, trying to hide my disappointment.

“Yes, sorry. You’ll have to wait until the spring if you want to see them outside.”

Pamela, one of the owners of Robinson’s Farm, was just as friendly as I had imagined her after we spoke in November. At the time, I wanted to visit the farm with Delphine, for the Envoyé Spécial la suite TV program she was working on with me.

I felt sad that Delphine, Cyril and I never made it to visit the farm in November–although our lobster trip was *really* good and made up for it–so I made a mental note of what Pamela had said. J’irai au printemps (I’ll go in the spring), I told myself, determined not to give up. Je veux vraiment voir cette ferme (I really want to see this farm).

Because at Robinson’s farm, they make raw milk. And are starting to make cheese too. Both of which really piqued my curiosity.

But spring came and I was away. Then summer followed naturally and I wasn’t sure it would still be a good idea to go to the farm. Maybe it was going to be too hot then and the cows would have traveled to an exotic place where they’d be cooling off…who knows what cows have on their mind?

“No, no,” Pamela said, when I emailed her back in early July to ask whether I could come. “It’s a great time. Come over to visit!”

“Can I bring Lulu?” I went on.

“Sure! we’d love to meet Lulu.”

That was how it started. And that was how, two weeks ago, I finally made it to visit Robinson’s farm.

I didn’t go alone–and I was glad. I wanted that my Lulu could run around on the farm, and that she saw cows and calves, trees and vegetables, chicken and eggs. So not only did my beautiful princess come along (did I already tell you that we’ve not yet spent one day away from each other?), but a dear friend of mine decided to accompany us with her son. We packed a tasty picnic made of quinoa salad, sandwiches, watermelon and financiers I’d baked the night before, and after a two hour drive, we arrived at Pamela and Ray’s doorstep.

We had an amazing lunch. And a memorable day.

The Robinsons live in rural Hardwick, a small town west of Boston, and they have been farming since 1892. “Four generations,” Ray had said proudly when I’d asked how old the farm was.

I had not yet visited this part of the state and wasn’t really sure what to expect. As soon as I arrived, though, and caught sight of the large red barn with balls of hay and cows grazing in the fields nearby, I felt relaxed. Taking a deep breath in and closing my eyes for a minute, I could almost imagine that I’d been transported back home.

Presque.

This rural setting is suggestive of a slow pace of life. Yet, people on the farm work hard. Long hours. Whether it’s dry, humid or raining, hot or cold–no matter what the weather decides to be.

Pamela and Ray own a forty-cow pasture based herd comprised of primarily registered and grade Holsteins, with cross breeding practices which include New Zealand Holsteins, Jersey & Normande breeds. They’ve been making raw milk for five years now and like it this way. They believe that clean, fresh milk from grass fed cows provides all of the nourishment nature intended without destroying the enzymes and probiotics that assist with digestion. They are fully certified organic, which means that the pastures, hay, chickens, eggs, perennials, and herd found on the farm are organic. Every summer, they grow vegetables and flowers they sell at local farmer’s markets or at their farm stand, along with grass fed beef, “rose” veal and yogurt from Sidehill Farm (which is made with their milk). And this coming fall, they hope to sell their cheese too.

They told me that they’ve been making cheese for a while now and are keen to continue. If you visit the farm, you’ll be able to taste their practice cheese. We did. We had just settled for our picnic lunch at the back of the farm when Pamela brought a large platter of cheese for us to enjoy. I quickly noticed that every time she’d walk by the wooden table where we sat to eat, she’d nonchalantly grab a slice of cheese.

“I saw you!” I exclaimed jokingly, seeing she was putting cheese in her mouth. “You’re snacking on cheese all day long, aren’t you?” I added. She laughed.

Why wouldn’t she?

We sampled a few types of hard cheese: Robinson Family Swiss, Tekenink Tomme, Hardwick Stone (brick) and a Barndance (abondance). We could not stop eating. Lulu, ma petite gourmande, neither. The cheese was tasty. It was the perfect food to accompany our lunch.

After lunch, we also had a tour of the farm. We walked through Pamela’s large vegetable garden that gave me real vegetable envy; we saw where they make raw milk and cheese; we met the calves and cows who were smartly gathered in the shade of tall trees; and we visited the chicken.

“Lulu isn’t scared at all! Pamela exclaimed when we stepped inside the hen house to collect a basket of fresh eggs. “That’s right!” my friend E., who was holding Lulu by the hand, went on.

“Can we have some milk?” I asked.

“Of course,” Pamela replied. “I also have some cheese for you.”

Before leaving, we packed a gallon of raw milk, a large container of yogurt and three pieces of cheese each. We were happy. We’d spent a simple fulfilling day.

I was keen to taste the milk to find out whether it would taste like the one I’d grown up with. At my grandparents’ or my parents’ house, le lait cru (raw milk) was what we’d drink.

“Qu’est-ce que tu vas faire avec tout cela?” (What are you going to make with all of this?) E. asked when we were back in the car.

“Je ne sais pas encore,” (Don’t know yet) I said.

But it didn’t last for long. Back home, ideas started to come.

I was going to bake a herb-scented vegetable tart, a variant of this one that followed my inspiration. And small cute ones for Lulu too.

Prepare a melon and cucumber soup with yogurt and fresh herbs from the garden.

In the morning, drink milk with a batch of homemade granola.

And make a vanilla-flavored custard, and serve it in verrines with strawberries sauce and fresh strawberries–a dessert I frankly have a strong weakness for and could eat every day!

All of these foods tasted like summer, no exception.

Just like home.

Lulu looked at me, then she opened her mouth, keen to take the spoonful of gazpacho I was holding in front of her. I was watching her carefully, curious to find out what would happen next. Her face stretched into a grin and a funny-sounding laughter escaped through her lips, one that seemed to tell me “Tu plaisantes maman?” (Are you joking mummy?)

“Oh oh, de la gaspacho, ma Lulu!” I exclaimed. “Essaie !” (Try)! “Tu n’aimes pas?” (Don’t you like it?)

She was eating the soup for the first time, so I didn’t worry if she didn’t seem to like it. I knew that one day, when feeling ready, she’d come back to it. And enjoy the flavors of the soup that rhyme so magically well with summer. Suffice to look at all this eye-catching red!

She pointed at the bowl of radishes on the table instead.

“Tu préfères un radis ?” (Do you prefer a radish?) I asked, holding a pink radish to her. She took it from my hand without hesitation, murmuring a Thank you in her own words, and then she bit into the radish. Happy now, it was obvious.

I grabbed one too and we both sat at the dining room table by the back garden, busy eating our radishes with contentment, appreciating the crunchiness and peppery taste that the food released on our tongues.

Lightly seared salmon and a pot of warm brown rice cooked with marjoram, cumin, cream, peas and watercress were following–foods she never says no to either.

Just like the fresh raspberry and custard tart I had baked in the morning.

As to P. and I, we were thankful for the pot of gazpacho I had prepared. A large pot with colorful toppings to give more body to the soup.

“Miam, c’est super bon,” P. said after a taste. (Yum, it’s delicious!) I had found beautiful organic tomatoes that had the name gazpacho written all over them. So gazpacho there was. Plenty of it, in fact, in the week that followed.

The first time I prepared the soup, I used leftovers of brioche previously soaked in water. The next time–this recipe–I decided to skip the brioche, and served the soup with toppings that included fresh corn and diced avocado. We had enough for two days, which is always a bonus with a food like gazpacho as flavors will have had the time to develop.

I am still not sure which recipe I preferred. They were different but similar at the same time–I am sure you have your own variant too, non? Both were a refreshing way to start our meal. Ideal for the warm temperatures of the day. Summer.

Of course, the best tomatoes make the best gazpacho. Which means that gazpacho is really at ist best when prepared during summer. En été.

I remember that when I was still living with my parents, my mother never bought out of season produce. I remember that she always made a point about it even more at times when I’d beg for strawberries during winter. In the French countryside where I grew up, it was hard to find them anyway. So we ate seasonal food. In summer, vegetables that grew in the garden, like peas, salad, haricots verts, carrots, beets, zucchini, radish.

And tomatoes. Des tomates.

Oh homegrown tomatoes!

They simply stand out, don’t they?

Make a large pot and serve it as an appetizer or a main course for a light meal. Or serve the soup in shot glasses, as an amuse-bouche to start a meal. I’ve done this many times, and it’s always something our friends enjoy.

We all do.

“Un pour Lulu, un pour maman, one for Lulu, one for mummy, ” I was humming with one hand fumbling through a colander filled with fresh peas while the other was cracking the pods open to toss one pea in a bowl, one inside my mouth and Lulu’s. Rhythmically. Lulu was making faint giggling noises, obviously enjoying our silly eating game–especially when she was trying to eat the pods too.

Peas. When comes the season, I am fretting with excitement. Peas are loaded with summery memories. Our vegetable garden. Les grandes vacances. Afternoons in late June, early July, when it was so hot that we’d have the shutters close to keep the house cool and I’d sit on the back terrace with my mother and a friend, for fun–and we’d be cleaning peas.

My friend and I loved to clean peas because it meant that we’d eat them. Raw.

Peas sing on my plate like nightingales early in the morning.

Yesterday was my first time at the market since we’ve been back. And oh the joy of finding so many fruit and vegetables and pleasing colors! Feeling the buzz of summer–-the very things that make me rejoice in the season.

I couldn’t help but fill my market basket with more than I needed: strawberries, raspberries, currants, peas, radish, watercress, arugula, tomatoes, sprouts and fresh herbs. So that after we were back home, I could prepare foods that speak S.U.M.M.E.R. In capital letters.

I started with dessert and made a simple strawberry salad that revealed the best aromas of the fruit.

I continued with a lemon and mint flavored pea spread–which I decided would be lunch– eaten on slices of toasted brioche (mine was gluten free) with a watercress and radish salad.

It’s funny, you know, these foods. They worked like magic. They lifted my spirit. And so after eating our tartines, salad and strawberries, and Lulu had had her nap, we left for an afternoon walk, maman avec sa fille, ….with banana and chocolate muffins awaiting upon our return.

Summer. It’s all about these pleasures. And it needs to last.

As to the pea recipe…

Most of the time, I prefer to cook peas lightly–although a slow simmering veal tajine with peas is quite something…

I blanched the peas in salted boiling water for two minutes and rinsed them under cold water. When they are prepared in this manner, peas keep a beautiful bright green color that cheers your plate. I added goat cheese, lemon juice, tahini nut butter, a chopped scallion, mint and finished with a drizzle of hazelnut oil. Make your own variant (like me today when I ate more of it with slices of coppa and fresh tomatoes).

The sweetness of fresh peas is simply exquisite.

Some dishes inspire me simply by their name. Potato salad. Salade de pommes de terre. I’ve always had a strong relationship with potato salads. Particularly my mother’s. She prepared hers at least once a week when I was growing up, using potatoes from her garden or my grandmother’s, which turned the salad into a dish that, my brother and I believed, couldn’t be equalled by any other. To this date, I still think that her salade de pommes de terre is the best I’ve ever eaten.

Perhaps then being married to an Irish man is no accident, after all. Potato salad is a dish, amongst many, that brings P. and I together. When that’s what we eat, nothing is ever left in our plates.

This scene, as a matter of fact, happened a few Mondays ago. Spontaneously. I had a bag of organic fingerling potatoes, des rattes, and a bunch of fresh watercress. I was craving food that would speak like spring. So I thought of making a potato salad with the first potatoes of the season, les pommes de terre nouvelles.

In this recipe, I added radish and cucumber that I decided to marinate beforehand, filling the vegetables with juice but leaving them with crunch. I then added tasty goat cheese and lightly sauteed asparagus to make a more complete meal. Simple but always inspiring and nourishing.

Lulu looked at the food but didn’t venture to try. That didn’t matter, though. One day, we told ourselves, we are convinced that she will understand her papa and maman‘s strong attachment to potatoes. And she’ll surely join in. It must be in our genes.

Both sides.

Right now, she is simply more interested in exploring other parts of the world than potatoes.

I’ve been meaning to tell you about my weakness for anything involving potatoes.

Growing up, my mother prepared râpés de pommes de terre (grated potatoes cooked like small galettes, close to latkes) perhaps once a week, which invariably made my brother and me extremely happy. Because it was food that involved potatoes, and because hers were deliciously crispy, always cooked to perfection. She liked to serve them with a dollop of silky fromage blanc, a sprinkle of sea salt and freshly chopped chives, and a side lettuce tossed in a vinaigrette with piquant. That was dinner during a wintry week day: simple and gorgeous in every way.

I’ve been a lover of that type of comforting food since then. During the winter, that’s what we have for dinner at least once a week.

Sometimes my râpés will make a casual meal, just as we used to eat them at home, and at other times, they’ll dress up our meal, as I prefer to serve them as an appetizer, topped with crème fraiche or mascarpone, a slice of tasty smoked salmon and pear.

While my mother never uses eggs to prepare hers, I use a few — like in this recipe. I also find root vegetables delicious in this dish, and often make new variants following the produce seasonality and my fancy. Here, you’ll see that I used white sweet potato, parsnip and carrot. You’ll thank me for it! It’s a real boost of flavors and vitamins in your plate.

When I prepared these a few days ago, I remember looking at Lulu when she and I sat at the table for lunch. “Je suis sûre qu’elle va aimer,” (I’m sure she’ll love that) I couldn’t help but think.

That didn’t fail.

She took a small piece in one hand and looked at it cautiously at first, as she always does. Then she grabbed another piece delicately with the other hand, before bringing the food to her mouth and looking at me with a smile in her eyes.

It’s a funny thing to admit but the fact that she ate the râpé enthusiastically really made me happy. Enjoying these just like her papa and her maman.

Tomorrow is Christmas. It’s the day when many of you, and us too, will celebrate with family and friends. For us, it’s also the day when last year, our little Lulu was born. The meaning of Christmas has completely changed since then; life has never tasted as sweet since our daughter has been with us.

She is truly the best Christmas gift that we will ever have. What an amazingly rich journey this year will have been! I wonder what 2010 will keep ahead…

Have a wonderful celebration! My best wishes for this end of year and for the next.

And many thanks for being such a fantastic crowd on the other side of the screen! Between the writing of my book and taking care of Lulu, I might not have been as present, but know that every email and comment you wrote was special and meant a lot. Merci !

Joyeux Noël et bonne année à tous !

And testing recipe ideas for our Christmas appetizer.

Are you too?

I still have to decide what we’ll eat. So I better get my act together I am curious to know what you’ll be doing.

Moules marinières — mussels cooked in white wine, shallot and parsley — is a French classic. It’s also a dish that P. and I adore, especially if the dish is paired with thin oven baked fries on the side — our favorite are parsnips and carrots (these are yellow carrots!)

This is exactly the kind of dish I wanted to prepare for my most recent contribution to the Seasons column in the Boston Globe.

In fact, I made the recipe last week when my mother was visiting. She helped to clean the mussels — and I was glad since we bought three kilos — and gulp down the food. Because whenever there are mussels and fries for dinner, this is exactly what we end up doing! I am not sure how much each of us ate, but by looking at the pile of mussel shells on the table, I guess it was a lot. Then, I shelled the remaining mussels, kept the broth, and the next day, prepared a dish of spaghetti and sauteed julienned vegetables in which I added the reserved mussels and broth. Scrumptious!

In this mussel recipe, the flavor of the white wine-based broth is boosted with the addition of an earthy spice like saffron, orange bell pepper for a touch of color, and crème fraiche for smoothness. Make sure not to forget a loaf of crusty bread on the side, to sop up the broth.

It’s simple but delicious! The kind of honest food that tastes even better eaten with your fingers, making sure to lick them afterward.

“Let’s have a lobster weekend,” my friend R. said. “I’ll talk to my lobster guy.”

“Your lobster guy?”

“Yes. You’ll see. You’ll love to meet him.”

Quite frankly, I was excited. First, we really love to hang out with our friends R. and E. Secondly, they live in a beautiful house on the South Shore, with an amazing view on the ocean, a huge (me happy!) pool and jacuzzi. Then, my friend R loves to cook — and does it very well — and he grows a vegetable garden. He also speaks French, and that’s always something relaxing for my end-of-week tired brain.

“I’ll make dessert!”

“Parfait! he exclaimed joyfully.“And what do you think about a lobster salad with tarragon?”

What did I think about it? I loved the idea!

That’s how our conversation ended and how P., Lulu and I had a great plan to look forward to for the weekend.

I packed on Friday night, filling our bags with delicious foods I wanted to bring, and on Saturday morning, we drove down south.

“J’ai déjà commencé,” (I’ve started already) R. said when we walked into the kitchen. He seemed jolly, busy working along behind the stove. I caught sight of three pink lobsters on the counter and felt relieved. I’ve never liked the part that involves plunging the lobsters into a pot, and I was glad that he had done it for me. “I still have four more,” he added with a wide smile lighting his tanned face. Clearly, we were going to dine on a lobster feast.

We sat in the small wooden shelter nested by the pool, eager to chat and catch up — we hadn’t seen each other in weeks. We were treated with a lunch of homegrown juicy tomatoes and cucumber that we ate with Italian prosciutto and Tallegio cheese. And as expected, R. and I started to talk about our dinner plan.

“Demain, on ira voir Tommy Alioto,” he said. He was talking about his lobster guy, Tommy, who owns and runs the Cohasset Lobster Pound on picturesque Cohasset Harbor. “You’ll see, he is quite a character! He’s got a smile!”

We made a salad with local Heirloom tomatoes and the next day, I picked vegetables — squash, eggplant, pepper and fresh herbs — that filled a basket to bring home. We debated what best lobster salad recipe to follow for our meal and settled on one inspired by Jasper White.

R. cooked four small 1 1/4 pound lobsters and removed the meat for the lobster salad along with the meat from the 5 pound lobster we used to serve the salad. He made the tarragon mayonnaise and I assembled the lobster salad and baked raspberries almond mascarpone flans.

We chatted and ate our food and drank a Chassagne-Montrachet Premier Cru “Les Chaumées” 2002 — a perfect accompaniment to lobster. We enjoyed a fabulous dinner.

And the next morning, as planned, we went to see Tommy.

Tommy had quite a smile indeed! He gave us a generous welcome, we shook hands and he took us downstairs to see the lobsters.

“Here’s the beast!” he said after pulling a gigantic lobster from the tank which he held proudly in front of him. The lobster weighed twenty pounds and seemed enormous. “Wow, that’s a big one for sure!”

I could not help but think that that one was just as heavy as Lulu!

I learned that Tommy buys his lobsters from about thirty Cohasset lobster boats and arranges their sale. Up to 7000 pounds of lobster are stored live in his large seawater tank and many are shipped daily to Milan in Italy.

“What about a lobster bisque?” R. asked after we had finished our dinner. It was hard to believe we were already thinking about the next meal but it’s never a surprise, really. Quite a habit instead. “Let’s make one for lunch tomorrow,” he added.

So this is how he started to make lobster broth late at night while tidying the kitchen. He took a large stock pot out in which he dumped the lobsters carcasses from our feast. He covered with water and brought the food to a boil. Then, he added some white wine leftover and added an onion, a leek, a few tomatoes and carrots. He added a few celery branches and 1 tablespoon of tomato paste — you can also add saffron. He brought the broth to a boil, seasoned with salt and pepper and then reduce the heat to let it simmer for 1 hour and a half. We left the broth sit overnight so that the flavors develop even more, and the next morning, R. strained and reduced the broth on high heat. To serve the lobster bisque, we added a few pieces of lobster meat we had kept and thickened the bisque by adding 1 to 2 tablespoons of cornstarch. We finished with fresh tarragon, a generous dollop of heavy cream and a dash of sherry to round the taste. It was simply astonishingly delicious. Trust me, you’ll have to try it!

“Do you want to take some broth home?” R. asked.

It was hard for me to hide my excitement. Of course I wanted broth! I was so happy that I could have kissed him for even suggesting it. Well, I think I gave him an honest kiss on each cheek as French people like to do!

And so the next day, when we were back at home, I made my own lobster bisque for dinner. It was so good that both P. and I ate as slowly as we could, making sure not to leave a single drop in our bowls.

“Nothing goes to waste,” I remembered R. had added when preparing the broth.

I couldn’t agree more, especially when food tastes that good.