I should have known that when visiting Jamaica, I would love the island. I knew it when, for the first time, I saw Jamaicans’ faces. When I caught sight of their welcoming smiles. When I heard the way they spoke. I loved the melody of their accent, and the way the intonation marking their words made their voice go up at the end of each sentence. It sounded like a happy melody.

“I like how you pronounce the word “questions”“, I said one day to our local guide at Prospect Plantation in Ocho Rios. Thin and not looking his age, he liked to share deadpan jokes which were irresistibly funny.

Before October, I had never visited Jamaica, but I had always wanted to.

It started when, at the age of seventeen, I traveled to Canada with a teenager group, and we met Nikki.

Nikki’s mother was French, his father Jamaican, but Nikki lived in Toronto, which made him Canadian too. Nikki was tall and skinny, with long dark curly hair and glasses too wide for his face. He was funny too. He was also always hungry and eating, and at night, after we’d slip inside our sleeping bags under the tent, he loved to tell us stories about Jamaica. Which, despite the fact that I was still young, piqued my curiosity and made me promise that, one day, I’d visit the island.

I finally did when, two months ago, I was invited with a small group of food writers to participate to a culinary tour of Jamaica.

It was exotic. Colorful and inspiring.

I took me a fair amount of time to gather my thoughts and decide what stories I’d share with you. So much was packed within five days. There were so many picture opportunities.

Perhaps, I thought, I should start with the story that happened the day we traveled to the Blue Mountains and our bus got stuck in one of the many sharp curves on the road leading to a coffee farm. It was irresistibly funny! And scary too.

Or maybe instead, I should write about the magnificent house and gardens that Robin keeps at Belcour Preserves, and how I adored sitting on the porch of her house to taste delicate foods and drinks she had kindly prepared for us–all of this while watching with delight a heavy downpour surrounding us. No wonder, I thought, that the trees and flowers look so happy here!

I learned that Jamaica has a strong food culture that deserves to be seen and tasted. I learned that, unlike other Caribbean islands I’ve visited before, locals grow various types of fruit and vegetables.

Thankfully, two months later, I am now finally ready to share the highlights from my culinary trip.

It starts with:

–Traveling the winding road which revealed magnificent views of the Yallahs Valley and led to Clifton Mount Estate, located at an elevation of 4300 feet above sea level. From it, we embraced the majestic view of the Grand Ridge and Blue Mountain Peak at 7402 feet which, as is often the case, hid behind a layer of dense mountain mist. I could not help but love the different local scenes we witnessed on the way: school children wearing dark blue school uniforms; colorful tin-roofed grocery shacks; local bars; clouds hanging around the pointy steeple of a white church perched on the flank of the mountains; lush dark green vegetation which witnessed of the heavy downpours the area receives regularly.

Lawrence and Richard Sharp, the friendly owners of the coffee farm who welcomed us to morning coffee with homemade baked sweets–hello banana bread!–taught us that, because of its location, Clifton Mount Estate is a premium coffee growing territory. With its carefully maintained garden, a paradise to playful hummingbirds, the old house–one of the few remaining Jamaican Great Houses–looks beautiful, somehow reminiscent of another era.

I learned that Lawrence’s farm is 75 percent organic, which means that only a few crops are sprayed with pesticides. Because Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee is heavily regulated by the Coffee Industry Board of Jamaica –assuring the trademarked “Jamaica Blue Mountain” designation, much like the French Appellation d’origine contrôlée (AOC)–Blue Mountain coffee is fairly expensive in comparison to other coffees grown elsewhere in the world.

–Sampling a humble and delicious lunch at EITS Café. EITS (short for Europe in the summer) is a charming open-air café located on the hillside town of Newcastle in the Blue Mountains. The eatery is run by the petite and lovely Robyn Fox and her father. Together, they operate the café, run Mount Edge guesthouse, and Food Basket, an enterprise selling to select supermarkets around Kingston (and by special order) herbs and vegetables they proudly grow on the farm.

There, I learned about French thyme (a variety I had never seen before), which Robin’s father was proud to have me taste. We also sampled Scotch bonnet pepper, an extremely spicy pepper that is traditionally used to season jerk chicken, giving the traditional Jamaican dish its unique flavor.

–Walking through the lush green gardens at Belcour Preserves where owners Robin Lumsden and her husband Michael treated us to homemade local foods and refreshments. Dating back to the 1700s, the lodge was originally a coffee farm. Today, Robin and Michael use it to grow tropical fruit and keep bees. The Lumsden’s 75 bee colonies produce Belcour’s Tropical Honey, a delicate, multiflora amber honey. They also make jams, relishes, condiments, and hot pepper sauce–all using the local produce available.

–Sampling street food–like pumpkin and crawfish soup, corn on the cob and freshly cut open exotic fruit–bought at street stalls found everywhere along the way. Hello avocado pear, guavas, guinep, June plum, jackfruit, papaya (Paw Paw), sorrel, sweetsop, soursop, and Jamaican mangoes, I loved you all. I am so thankful that you educated me to many varieties of fruit unknown to me before.

–Eating a lot of soups. Spicy soups. Pumpkin soups. I was surprised to learn that in Jamaica, pumpkin is common and eaten all year round. I was also delighted to find out that for Jamaicans, Saturday means Soup day. What’s not to love about a gathering of friends and family around a large pot of homemade soup?

–Visiting Irish Rover near Ochos Rios, the first authentic Irish Pub on the island. After working as a musician in Ireland for over 40 years, owner Winston Samuels decides to retire to his homeland where he eventually opens this surprising pub. Unique and well worth the visit.

–Watching how, at Scotchies (a rustic thatched-roof outdoors joint located in Coral Gardens near Montego Bay), the best jerk you can find on the island is made. In fact, I had never seen anything like this before: dozens of pimiento-seasoned chickens and slabs of pork grilling on open flames. I learned that it’s the smoke which gives the flavor to the meat. With jerk, we enjoyed sides like sliced, roasted breadfruit and yam; rice and peas (incidentally I learned that this translates as rice and beans) and festival (deep-fried cornmeal dumplings).

–Eating a piece of freshly cut-open coconut sprinkled with brown sugar. So simple. So good.

–Traveling to Ochos Rios to discover exquisite beaches and swim in crystal clear turquoise waters by late afternoon before heading out for dinner.

–Watching a beautiful rainbow from my room at Sandals resort in Ochos Rios.

–Enjoying a traditional Jamaican breakfast. Who knew I would enjoy eating ackee and salted fish (from ackee fruit and salt cod), with rice and Callaloo, and boiled green bananas so early in the morning? I really did!

–Meeting lots of goats along the way.

–Sampling rum. Bananas. Banana bread.

And, with the head filled with delicious memories (and the suitcase with local treats), return home inspired to prepare seasonal pumpkin soup. And bake my own banana bread.

To celebrate the foods I sampled, and prolong the many special moments I was lucky to spent amongst Jamaicans.

Invariably, that’s always what traveling to new places does to me.

To you too?

“Cet endroit est tout simplement incroyable !” (This is just an incredible spot!) I tell my brother Benoit as we put our picnic basket on the black iron table near the pond.

We are standing next to a pond with willow trees, colorful wild flowers, apple and quetsches trees, raspberries and summer vegetables, and many other plants of which I don’t know the name–but I know my brother does–all looking healthy and gorgeous. There are cute chairs, benches and tables in different corners of the garden. Lots of comfortable and cozy spots for us to rest and take the time to breathe.

The gardens of the abbaye d’Autrey are enchanting.

And maybe I should start with the beginning, and tell you how we happened to picnic in such a magical place.

My brother is a fantastic gardener. An amazingly skilled one. At the back of his house, he and his wife keep a large garden with more than four hundreds plants I think, and trees, that he looks after the way a caring mother looks after her young children. He is excellent at it and it shows. Everything looks beautiful. Behind the outside kitchen and covered open patio, they even have a Swedish-in style pool and a little further, a narrow stream where frogs like to gather runs through the garden and divides the space into a few adorable sections.

His garden is a real haven of peace that I always feel lucky to enjoy when we visit my home village in France.

One day after we arrive at my parents’ house, we are enjoying a tasty dinner of black rice cooked like a risotto with roasted vegetables when my brother says: “On pourrait aller pique-niquer dans les jardins de l’abbaye d’Autrey, non ?” (Shall we picnic in the gardens of the abbeye d’Autrey?)

“Où ça ?” (Where is that?) I ask, intrigued. I’ve never heard of the name before.

“Dans les Vosges. A une heure de route,” (In the Vosges area, one hour drive away)” he adds.

“Je préparerai le pique-nique,” (I’ll make the picnic) Geneviève goes on after him.

“Yes!”

I cannot refrain from showing how much I love their idea. I know it will be delicious and lovely all the way. Because Benoit constantly surprises me about how much he knows about gardens. Because Geneviève’s food is of the kind I could eat every day, without ever tiring of it.

The Abbey of Autrey with its magnificent gardens are located in a small village in the valley of Mortagne in the Vosges department, at only forty-six miles outside of the city of Nancy.

Founded in 1149 by Étienne de Bar, the Bishop of Metz, at the return of the second crusade, the Abbey of Autrey is sold during the French Revolution. It becomes a seminary in 1856.

Taken up by the State in 1905 to be transformed into a hospice, and then a hospital during the first world war in 1914, it becomes a seminar again from 1931 to 1975. In 1911, the church is also classified as a historical monument.

In 1982, the Catholic community of the Beatitudes answers the call of Saint-Dié Bishop and comes to occupy the premises. Today the Abbey remains the only one of the kind in the area where a community of monks reside and devote their time to prayers and meditation. They also maintain the gorgeous park and gardens surrounding the church.

The park covers four hectares of beautiful land with a botanical garden that offers over 3,500 species. I don’t remember the last time when I feel such enchantment from taking a walk through a garden. Every plant looks like it belongs there. That it’s been planted in the best spot possible. And that it receives the best care possible.

Everything breathes calm and serenity.

When we arrive shortly after 11 AM, we are the first ones, and I am also thankful for that. Apart from a friendly nun, a young couple, and the nurseryman, we see no one else.

I am delighted to see my brother so excited.

He walks from one plant to another, from hydrangeas, old roses and rhododendrons looking more beautiful the ones than the others. He tells us the Latin name of everything he recognizes. His face expresses a look of innocence when he walks by a plant he doesn’t know, the way a child expresses curiosity when discovering something new. It’s really sweet to watch how his passion shows. Knowing him so well, I know that the first thing he will do once home is to search for the names of the plants he doesn’t know.

Everyone of us finds a piece of their favorite things to do. You have to go if you happen to travel nearby.

Lulu, in particular, enjoys the open green space. The cutest playground with greens and farm animals she’s seen.

When we walk by raspberries and blackcurrant bushes, she helps us to sneak a few in our mouths. She runs from one corner of the garden to another. Then sits with us under the apple tree. She squeals with delight when she catches sight of the cute chicken and donkeys we discover along the way. She enjoys looking at her reflection in the pond and climbing on rocks and small wooden fences.

Geneviève has packed a beautiful picnic for us. She’s baked my chocolate cake and a savory dried tomato cake. She’s prepared a quinoa salad with shrimp, tomatoes, zucchini and herbs from her garden. With it, we eat delicious ham and blueberries and yogurt. We drink Mariage frères green tea.

And we eat a loaf of buckwheat and nut bread.

“Comment tu l’as fait?” (How did you make it?) I ask her right after I eat the first bite. It’s so good that I want to swallow it quickly to help myself to more.

“Oh tu sais, je n’ai pas trop mesuré,” (You know, I didn’t really measure anything) she answers.

She never does.

“Dis-moi juste approximativement,” (tell me approximately) I go on. We love to share recipes.

“Sarrasin, oeufs et noix.” (Buckwheat, eggs, nuts)

My face lights with a thank you smile.

I, too, know exactly what I am going to do when I return.

Bake bread.

I particularly love to slice the bread finely. I like it toasted or not. Eaten at breakfast, with slices of sheep milk cheese. Or spread with soft goat cheese or sun-dried tomato tapenade, served to accompany a drink before lunch or dinner.

Delicious all the way, no matter how you decide to accommodate it.

Time.

It’s an amazing thing. You think that you have all the time ahead of you and before you realize it, it’s gone and you find yourself in fall. A year later.

I remember last fall. That fall was special. We had taken Lulu apple picking for her first time. She was only ten months old at the time, not yet walking. But already curious about everything. About the wind gently moving the leaves up in the trees; about the soft grass caressing her feet; about every bit of activity around her.

About apples too. Beautiful organic red apples.

I remember that the day we went apple picking, I had baked an apple and hazelnut clafoutis to celebrate the day.

Yesterday, we decided to return to the same organic farm. Because we had enjoyed our time so much. Because we wanted Lulu to share her second apple picking experience with her Irish grandma–who had kindly accompanied me at SAW so that I could teach. Lulu calls her Gang Gang. Seeing them together is the sweetest thing. Seeing them build secrets is precious. Food connections. Yesterday, as they sat in the back of the car on our way to the farm, Gang Gang sneaked a madeleine in Lulu’s small hand.

“You don’t mind Béa, do you?” she said, smiling mischievously.

They were happy. Laughing with their mouths full.

When we arrived at the farm, it was still early so the place felt quiet. It was sunny and comfortably warm. It was surely going to be a lovely day.

We picked apples and raspberries. Lulu was not walking. She was running up and down the narrow lanes between the raspberry bushes, carefully helping us to fill our cartons of raspberries. She was running from apple tree to apple tree, carrying a small bag in each hand, before handing them back to us when she thought they felt too heavy. She looked busy. Concentrated and focused.

She filled the air with joy. While I filled bags with apples.

Content at the thought of having had once again a lovely apple picking time. Happy to know I would be baking an apple and olive oil cake upon our return.

One that tasted like early fall. And family time.

You would not think that it’s been pouring rain outside. All night and day. Unceasingly. All weekend actually. So I bought bunches of colorful Ranunculus flowers, to cheer up the house and make it sunny.

And we took long breakfasts and played games with Lulu, teaching her new hand tricks and how to toss a ball–Oh the joy to see her so proud that she can do it. And when the games were over and she was back to take a nap, I baked muffins and made a pot of red lentil soup for lunch.

So after all, it’s been a lovely weekend. Despite the fact that we didn’t go out. Except for P. heading out to buy milk.

I also felt a sudden urge to bake a loaf of Irish soda bread. A large round loaf with a golden crust that made me want to bite in it the way I would in a baguette–le croûton (the end of the baguette), you know, is the best part.

Patricia, my mother-in-law, would have been proud of that loaf of Irish soda bread, I think. She is the one who introduced me to it during my first visit. Already thirteen or fourteen years ago. And it’s also at her place that, last weekend in Chicago, I found the inspiration to bake. I spotted an Irish cookbook with gluten free recipes, and scribbled down the recipe quickly, right as we were about to leave for the airport.

“You should bake a loaf for Saint Patrick’s day,” she said while she noticed that I was busy taking notes.

“I might, ” I said.

And I did. On Saturday morning. Adding my own touches and edits–such as, for example, not using tapioca flour since I don’t care for the taste of that particular flour in any baked goods, or adding quinoa flakes and using quinoa, millet and sweet rice flours.

“What are you making?” P. asked when he walked into the kitchen filled with the aromas of something obviously baking in the oven.

Before I had time to respond, he went on: “Oh yum!” after he caught sight of the bread in the oven.

It was the first slice of Irish soda bread that Lulu ate–since after all, she is 50% Irish too.

It was also the first slice that we ate since quite a long time.

Too long, both P. and I agreed.

If you recall, last year, I told you about the first cookbook I contributed to, styling and photographing the foods. Jennifer, the author, came to my house for a few days to work — we immediately became friends. Her cookbook was just published and I am so honored to have been able to work with her and the people at Chronicle Books.

It’s a book about Gingerbread and every goodie that comes with it. It’s funny to think about it. I was three months pregnant when I worked on this project last summer. It was so hot, I remember, and I was completely morning sick, but it was a marvelous experience to team with Jennifer. She’s funny and witty, and full of energy–we worked really well together.

Her book is now available in bookstores and amazon, if you are interested. And, since I baked all the recipes with pictures attached, I can tell you that they work fantastically! So if you like gingerbread, you know what to do next. It’s the season!

Note that the second picture (a gingerbread I baked from her recipes) in this post is not in Jennifer’s book, but I just liked it so wanted to put it here! Simple and tasty!

I came with the intention to tell you about beautiful purple eggplants and how delicious they turned into dinner but instead, here I am, again, with the story of a cake.

It came as the priority — my eggplants will have to wait a little.

After spending ten days with us, my mother traveled back to France yesterday night, which left me with a sudden urge to bake at 10 pm. It was hard to see her go. “I should be used to it by now,” I thought. But it’s not becoming easier and I’ll never get used to it, in fact.

While I was nursing Lulu on the bed upstairs, I was thinking about P. driving my mother to the airport, and the two of them waiting in terminal B by the American Airlines gate with the sign Paris Charles de Gaulle.

I know well that I am going to miss our daily lunches and walks together — between her, Lulu and I. Every time it happens, that traveling-back-home and saying-goodbye-we-will-see-each-other-soon, you know, there is the same pinch to the heart, the same tightness in the stomach — and the same urge to bake.

And then, with my hands busy beating eggs and sugar, I kept thinking about how much my mother would have enjoyed making that special cake with me. It’s something that I didn’t learn from her, that cake. It’s something that belongs to the culture that I slipped into. Here. It’s about the recipe and culture of a cake that I am happy to share with her, something that she can bring back home. To France.

By 11:30 pm, as P. and I walked upstairs to slip into bed, the cake sat at one corner of the kitchen counter top, leaving a waft of sugar everywhere in the house. Making us dream about something soft and sweet. Delicious.

When I was little, my mother taught me what I needed to know about how to start to bake. Today, I like to think that I can also teach her something new and different about baking.

It’s something about the relationship between a mother and her daughter in the kitchen.

Bon et le gâteau alors !

This cake is deliciously dense. Add as much chocolate and nuts as you like — more than required cannot hurt. It’s a cake that isn’t too sweet, because I like cakes this way; it’s cake that keeps well for a few days, if you need to, but it rarely reaches the point when you need it to keep. It’s made quickly; it’s eaten just as fast.

The road leading to the nearby bird reserve can be busy during rush hour, but that does not stop me on my bike. P. insists that I wear a helmet, but I am still being a bad sports about it. The afternoon feels windy and warm when I leave the house, and I am looking forward to biking on the rugged lanes of this favorite place of mine. Every time I come here, I feel I am in the middle of the country side, and that is plenty to allow me to refill with good energy. The community gardens part of the area are in full bloom at this time of year, and when I catch a glimpse of large tomatoes turning red in one of the first gardens, I refrain myself from not stealing a few. They are so temptingly good! Nobody would notice, would they?

I like to bike in this part of my neighborhood. I rarely see anyone when I go, beside a few gardeners during the summer. In winter, the entire place is quiet and cool, and in the summer, the place fills up with the many noises that make summer so noticeable. Have you noticed how loud crickets and birds can be? They seem so unaware of how much noise volume they produce. Still, I do not mind since it reminds me of a lot of good times. Even if summer is not necessarily my favorite season, I’ll be honest: there are also really nice sides to it that I really enjoy. Cycling in the warm wind and eating filled-with-sun local fruit and vegetables from the market is one.

Observing the beauty of nature, the bees at work in the open fields full of multicolored flowers, is another one.

A few stops along the way are a must, to enjoy every detail of the life going on there. There is much to see and observe indeed. It feels hotter now that I’ve cycled up and down the path, and I am battling with the mosquitoes that are pretty greedy and alive too. In a funny selfish way, I feel sorry P. is not with me since I know he would attract them more than I do. We keep joking that they prefer Irish to French blood.

There are no fruit to pick here, unfortunately, but I’ve packed a few delicious apricots, roasted almonds and a drink to keep me company if I feel hungry. P. used to tease me about the many snacks I always pack when I leave to the beach or for a walk, but I always tell him : On ne sait jamais ! (You never know!) In fact, he’s learned to need them as much as I do.

When it is time for me to head back, the sun is still quite high and I sense that being in the shade will be a nice welcoming change for me. In fact, I am convinced of it, especially with the prospect of the lovely treat waiting for me upon my return: a chocolate, nuts and banana bread baked earlier in the day.

I don’t think I knew what a banana bread was before moving to the United States. First, I was surprised people called it bread since I would rather have called it cake. But be it. I’ve quickly learned that there is a real banana bread culture, with many various recipes that abound. I am actually secretly convinced that every single American home cook has a favorite recipe. Non ? So it will be no surprise for you to hear that, over the years, I’ve become as infatuated with this cake as any American, and for good reasons. A banana bread is moist and delightfully nutritious: the perfect food to provide many good times.

In my recipe, I use rice and quinoa flours, along with tapioca starch. There is not butter, but olive oil (or canola) and almond butter which add a lovely touch to the baked goods. And because I am such a sucker for dark chocolate, I could not resist but add coarsely chopped pieces of my favorite dark chocolate, along with dry roasted nuts, pumpkins and walnuts.

This cake is delicious on the day it is baked, but also keeps well for a few days when well wrapped, and placed in the fridge. If the bread is a few days old, I like to heat it for a few minutes in a non-stick frying pan, so that it comes back to room temperature — yes, I am not a fan of fridge-cold foods. Then, I also love to pack it whenever I go out for a long walk or cycle, or when I am lucky to be hiking somewhere inspirational.

Well, what can I say? I just hope you will like it as much as I do. I am already planning to make another one for our upcoming weekend getaway.

At 9 am, I woke up feeling rested. Unlike other mornings at the same time, I noticed that it was rather quiet. As I was still lying in bed, I turned over to my side to warm myself against P.’s body. To my surprise, he had already risen and was downstairs preparing breakfast. I stretched my legs down towards the foot of the bed and cracked open the window to feel the chilly winter air gush in. Too cold. I stuck my head under the covers and fell back asleep in the warmth of P.’s body heat still in the bed. And when I woke up next, the house was silent and he had gone to work. I finally opened my eyes, and smiled. I could recognize the type of light coming through the blinds still down. I knew that today was going to be the day; I could sense it everywhere.

Snow was on its way.

What is there to dislike about winter? Shoveling snow, getting your feet wet, having the tips of your fingers cold despite wearing thick winter gloves, waking up to a gray sky for many days in a row? Possibly. These are pretty good reasons. But I personally like to remind myself of what there is to love about winter. For me? Everything. When some people crave beach and sun, I long for wintry snowy landscapes.

“I don’t understand your thing about winter,” my friend K. told me when I said that I was dying for snow to arrive.

There is everything to love about my thing for winter.

I imagine going out for a walk in the snow and noticing the marks left by my long footsteps; feeling the snowflakes gently brush my skin and melt within seconds; smelling the healthy brisk air that turns my nose and cheeks pink red, and mainly, paying attention to the stillness around me. Have you noticed how loud summer is in comparison? Then, I look forward to baking, drinking hot chocolate, making large pots of hearty soup, and then, I start to do all of these again.

Because it feels as good the second day as it did the first.

I love when winter welcomes the first snow of the season. Every year, I get as excited as I did the year before. Not surprisingly, as soon as the first snowflakes started to slowly fall outside, I felt a strong urge to bake, go for a long walk in the park nearby, play in the snow, and take pictures. I did every single one of these. And when I came home, I had a homemade soup waiting for me. With it, I prepared two hearty tartines.

I used two slices of a seeded multi-grain bread, and topped each slice with St Maure cheese. I put the tartines under the broil, enough time for the cheese to melt, and then I topped them with prosciutto and thin slices of pears. Since I had prepared a vegetable soup the night before — with whatever-I-had-in-the-fridge vegetables, as often is the case on Sunday nights: parsnips, celeriac, potato and squash, seasoned with cumin and coriander — I only needed a dollop of crème fraîche and fresh chopped coriander to complete my lunch. The same morning’s quietness filled the space. Within thirty minutes, everything was covered by a thin coat of snow.

“I want to go out again,” I thought when I was almost finished with my lunch.

I quickly cleaned the table, and as I was leaving the kitchen to put my coat and walking shoes on, I grabbed a slice of the pistachio* dark chocolate brownies that I baked earlier in the morning, using amaranth and quinoa flours. It was already my second batch within two days.

* I added the special pistachios recently purchased. You cannot get greener than that!

“It’s supposed to snow for two days,“P. told me when he came home, earlier than usual.

I have to hope so. Then I can start all of the previous again.

I am sure that they will taste just as good.

Even if it will no longer be the first day of winter when it happens.

It was meant to happen. Since we have returned from California, we have kept thinking about the delicious plum brioche pudding that we greedily devoured at Tartine Bakery’s. I knew that the pressure to make one at home would be rather high, as shown by P.’s persistence. “Did you make bread pudding?” he asked me every single day of the week.

“No, I need to make a brioche first!”

And so Tuesday and Wednesday went by, and nothing happened in the kitchen. I felt lazy, unable to drag myself to start the brioche-making process. Then came Thursday morning, and things veered in another direction. All of a sudden, although I only had thirty minutes before heading out to a meeting, I felt an irresistible urge to dip my hands in flour, and thought about the brioche I had kept postponing. “I still have time,” I told myself when I looked at the clock in the kitchen. I quickly took everything I needed out, flour, sugar and baker’s yeast — I was lucky to have soft butter and eggs ready. Working the dough was quick — thank God for my Kitchen Aid. “The dough will rise while I am gone,” I kept repeating to myself. Not thinking further, I dashed out, leaving the kitchen in a mess.

But this turned out to be perfectly wise planning.

Perhaps I still had flour on me or my hands when I finally arrived to my meeting, but I did not care. Two hours later, when I was back home, I found a beautifully risen dough. And then, I knew that soon, we would be able to enjoy a slice of plum brioche-bread pudding. Only a few extra steps were needed.

Remember that it is the quality of the ingredients used that will make a difference in the outcome of your dish.

Perhaps you might prefer to buy brioche. If so, make sure to choose a quality one. I personally preferred to make one and used the recipe of my simplest brioche: easy to make, tasty and not too rich. To prepare the plums, I sprinkled them with organic cane sugar and Grade A cinnamon so that they softened. The next step required a short cooking time, just long enough in order for the plums to cook but still keep their shape. As I wanted to prepare a rustic, messy-looking brioche pudding, I preferred to arrange the diced brioche slices loosely in my dish. I made a two-people pudding and two individual ones, for variety.

“It is not dripping juice as it was at Tartine’s,” P. told me when I brought him a cup of warm plum brioche pudding after dinner on Saturday night.

“Quoi ?” (What?)

Gutsy, non?

“Je plaisante,” he added, with a big smile on his face (I am joking). “Delicious! Is there more?”

And so, if we used a bit of our imagination, we could almost feel as if we were sitting at a table outside Tartine’s once more. Except that this time, if we wanted to, we would be able to quickly get a second serving. For a second, this almost felt even better.

Technorati Tags: La Tartine Gourmande, Food Photography, Food Styling, Plum, Brioche Pudding, Cinnamon, Bread Pudding, Custard, Comfort Food, Tartine Bakery

On Friday morning, I woke up at 7 am, had breakfast and got dressed, ready for an exciting day. My sister-in-law lives in a condo on the 34th floor of a tall building downtown Chicago, close to Division Street. This is where I stayed for a few days this past weekend. It is quite a convenient location, I must say, offering magnificent views of the city, a lovely outdoors pool on the 8th floor where I swam every day. In truth, the whole experience seemed surreal.

“Walk to the lake, turn right and then continue on” she told me when I asked her the best way to reach Navy Pier, where the Blogher conference was held. “It is only one mile and a half.”

So I did.

It was only a few blocks before I reached the lake and when I arrived, I realized that I had forgotten how pretty it is, and how pleasant it is to walk along its white-sanded beach early in the morning. Lake Michigan is massive, like an ocean. Looking at it, you forget that you are still in a big city like Chicago. Un vrai poumon, a breath of fresh air next to miles of concrete. I really enjoy visiting this Midwest city, the “windy city” as it is referred to, perhaps also because this is the first place I lived close to when I moved to the States.

The conference is now over, and I’ve just returned to Boston. Can I really summarize the weekend?

It went fast and was full of great moments. From meeting food bloggers in person, finally being able to put a face on a name or hear a real voice instead of imagine it through words — my friend Lara of course and Elise whom I knew already and was delighted to see again, new people like Nicole, Kalyn, Alanna, Jasmine, Nupur, Catherine, Katie, Ruth, Susan, Gemma, Shuna, Claire and more names that I am sure I am forgetting — hanging out with P.’s sister whom I rarely see, to catching up with my great friend M., an old roommate from the time when she and I lived at the French House in Champaign. It was a collection of many good things.

On Sunday — the last day I had in Chicago before heading back — I had a few hours to wander around. The city’s wide streets were busy with people enjoying a gorgeously sunny day. At the beach, I caught a glimpse of people swimming, playing volley ball or running. Some were also sun-bathing. Again, I had to shake my head to really believe that this was all happening so close to downtown. I managed to steal a few snapshots here and there ( and was so bummed to have missed a lovely farmer’s market on the Saturday, just one block away from my sister-in-law’s condo. The only day I did not bring my camera with me!)

Both Lara and I were nervous before our food photography presentation. But it went well (from our point of view) and we hope, of course, that it met the attendees’ expectations. Within only one hour, there were so many things we wished we could have said and shared. There is so much to say about food styling and food photography. Hopefully, there will be other times. Thank you for attending!

While Lara discussed some technical aspects of food photography, white balance, aperture and depth of field, talking about the differences between manual and automatic focus, shooting with or without flash, and Jan gave useful Photoshop tips, I focused more on the prep steps involved before a food shoot, giving tips that I learned along about food styling. Because to me, no matter how advanced a camera is, or how technically skilled a photographer is, without a good composition, a food image can be disappointing.

How to compose an image is obviously something that varies from one person to another, according to our sensibility. We all have a different style and opinion of what looks good. For me? It is intimately tied to my strong attachment to Visual Arts. With slides supporting my presentation, I tried to give ideas on the how-to to make what I consider a well-balanced food photograph.

In my food pictures, I typically want to create a story and produce an emotion. Here are some of the things that I tried to convey and share, from my personal experience:

And so the recipe in this post will come as an example to try to explain my choices in deciding to style these savory muffins.

I discovered savory muffins while living in New Zealand, in the many cafés found everywhere in Wellington. I will always remember the first one I ate. What a great discovery it was. Since then, I have enjoyed experimenting with different flavors and ingredients.

I am suggesting here a vegetarian version using parsnip — a too often forgotten vegetable, yet so tasty — sun-dried tomatoes, chestnut flour and basil.

Easy to make, great for a party when cut in finger food bites, these muffins also accompany well any type of soups or salads, and make a treat at brunch. When I brought them as an amuse-bouche at our friend R.’s house, they did not last for a long time. I took it as a compliment.

These muffins would also have been perfect as travel food. Airport food, I have said before, is not my best friend, especially this time when, on my way to Chicago, I was stuck for a few hours at the airport after my flight had been canceled. I hope to remember next year.

The Blogher conference was great. A big thank you to all the Blogher organizers and attendees. It was an honor to attend and speak.

Technorati Tags: Food Styling, La Tartine Gourmande, Food Photography, Chicago, Blogher 2007, Savory Muffins, Nigella Seeds, Parsnip