Lulu and I in the kitchen, it’s a scene.

She likes to sit on the floor at one corner of the room with pots and pans and muffin molds to play with while I’m busy at the sink and stove. Cooking. We both make a mess in our own way. Occasionally, she looks up at me to make sure that I am still there, within reach, before she concentrates again on her imaginary cooking game. Then, when she is done, she walks to me, pulling on my dress so that I carry her. She wants to see what I’m doing. What I’m cooking. It’s funny because right now, my kitchen is not the most inviting room in the house with boxes piled everywhere, yet Lulu and I don’t seem to take notice of the untidy space. Every day, we end up liking to spend time in the kitchen. Playing and cooking together.

It’s been natural.

When I became a mother, I didn’t know anything about introducing food to a baby. I didn’t know what Lulu would love and what she’d refuse to eat, and how I would end up dealing with it. I was unaware, too, of the challenges this natural process would keep along the way.

But Lulu likes to eat. I like to think that she must remember when I used to tell her stories about the good foods we were having when she was still in my belly. Watching her eat joyfully makes me feel warm inside. Every single time.

Just as my mother did, I want to educate Lulu to the art of homemade foods.

We walk to farmer markets together where I name to her all of the foods we like to eat; I have her smell fresh herbs and notice the beautiful colors of vegetables and fruit; I teach her how to use my Peugeot pepper mill to season rice and vegetable stews–one of her favorite foods by far.

And I show her how to hold the spoon. And stir.

She loves to stir. And help.

The other day, it’s stewed berries that we prepared together. She kept going for the spoon I had put inside the pot. So I let her do it. And I helped, discreetly, whenever I was needed.

It made me feel proud. I was proud of her.

When the berry sauce was ready, I looked at the jar, imagining how tasty it would be with a bowl of plain yogurt. Then, I imagined berry parfaits. I wanted something delicious and healthy; I wanted to show her about a beautiful food we’d be able to eat for breakfast, or as a midday snack.

And I told her a story about it.

To build a strong memory of our time in the kitchen. Mother and daughter cooking together.

Tomorrow, I am taking Lulu to France again. I wonder what new foods she will be discovering this time.

A bientôt…I will have pictures, stories and foods to share.

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.

Along with cookie and wow, “A table” (The French expression a cook uses to call the family to the table for lunch or dinner) are right now two of Lulu’s favorite words. It’s really too funny! She probably does not yet know exactly what the expression means, but she surely knows that it involves food–and no doubt that she likes this part very much.

Mind you, I am pretty sure that in the midst of it all, she always has the hope that there will be cookies on the table too.

But instead, today–and yesterday too–we had apricots at home.

If you are anything like me, you must be enjoying apricots at the moment. They are beautiful and tasty. This year, I am also happy to report that I remembered to freeze some, for the times when I crave apricots and cannot buy them in the store.

Some ended up inside a clafoutis (a combination of this one and that one) while others…well, that will be for another day.

A table !

We’ve been eating cold-to-refresh-your-entire-body popsicles. Tons of them. Some made with raspberries; others with strawberries and apple juice, with or without yogurt.

And then there were these. Made with irresistible juicy raspberries and peaches that Lulu and I bought when we walked to the farmer’s market this past Wednesday.

The fruit was spectacular. And so were the popsicles.

Before last week, Lulu had never eaten a popsicle. And oh the immense pleasure for me to watch her discover the food. Her first popsicle, ever! I was really curious to see what she would do with it.

Can you remember the last time you discovered a food for the first time? Wondering what it was? Whether you could actually eat it? And how? I find the feeling magical each time it happens.

And I must say, Lulu was pretty amazing. At first, she started to eat the popsicle by the wrong end. But shortly afterward, she figured out that she had to turn it in order to get to the interesting part. The ice.

Ouah !, (Wow !) she exclaimed with her lips and mouth touching the ice. She wasn’t sure whether she should bite. Or lick. But she decided to bite. Instinctively.

That’s what my grandfather E. would have done too. Bite into the ice. I always loved that about him. And I’ll always remember that about him too.

“Je préfère mordre dans la glace,” (I prefer to bite into ice cream) he used to tell my brother B. and me with an amused expression on his face as he was biting into a cone of vanilla ice cream coated with chocolate, his favorite by far. It’s silly but that scene used to give us the giggles.

And inevitably, the three of us would end up sitting on the couch in my grandparents’ small dining room, with each of us biting into an ice cream cone while watching something on TV.

It was special.

“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.

It was easy to fall for them. They sparkled like ruby stones with their rich red color. Perhaps I am the only one noticing them, I thought. How could no one else seem to see them? Or want them? They suddenly brought memories of treasured moments spent in my mother’s small kitchen, when she and I made preserves and the house smelled sweet like a sugar mill.

We were canning sour cherries. Des cerises aigres. Those small bright red cherries that many people don’t care about because of their more emphasized acidic taste.

Nous?

We would never get enough of them. We’d pet the sour cherry tree in the back garden with love. And great care. Hungry, when summer came, for a taste of the delicate fruit in our mouths.

Frankly, I didn’t think that I would still be lucky enough to find sour cherries at this time in the season. But I did. And I indulged when I caught sight of a few boxes in the store. One box. Two boxes. Three. In my cart.

I wasn’t sure of what I would make with them but was nevertheless convinced that I’d find something tasty to render them justice. It was a necessity. And I’d have to work fast too since I knew the fruit would spoil quickly.

Then Saturday came and there was a spontaneous dinner invitation for friends to come for dinner. The kind we love. It was a hot summer night, and we enjoyed the breeze as we sat outside to eat on the patio. We were eating grilled fish, potato and radish salad with a melon cucumber soup to start.

And for dessert, I made a cherry soup infused with lemon thyme, and served it with a fresh strawberry sorbet and a dollop of mascarpone. It’s an idea that crossed my mind while not knowing really what I would eventually serve.

The dessert offered subtle flavors that worked wonderfully, leaving us light and refreshed after eating. The best during summer.

So the next day, between a walk to the playground to explore our new neighborhood, I made it again. This time, using Rainier cherries to compare, curious to see whether I would like it just as much.

The color of the Rainier cherry soup was pretty but Les cerises aigres stood out.

Making the sour cherry soup is easy. Prepare a light syrup and add spices that you like. I flavored mine with lemon-thyme , lime juice, vanilla and cane blond sugar. Then, simmer the cherries in the syrup until they soften. The cooking time will depend on how ripe the fruit is and how you like it. Then, serve the soup chilled with mascarpone cheese and a scoop of homemade made berry sorbet. I made mine using delicious fragrant organic strawberries, confectioner’s sugar–that I made with blond cane sugar–lime juice and a few tablespoons of apple juice.

Together, it was an explosion of some of the best aromas of summer fruit in the mouth.

Fresh and bright.

I am sure you’re busy preparing for the long weekend, so I promise to be short. In fact, I am right in the middle of our house move, so I am also short of time (we just ate our first homemade meal in our new house–and let me add that I am *really* looking forward to a new kitchen in it!)

This dessert recipe is a quick one you might like to keep handy. For the 4ht of July? Peut-être ? If you have guests? It’s bound to please a crowd. And is simple to prepare. Fresh. Beautiful. Summery and light.

I hope you like it. There’s nothing else to add….so enjoy the well deserved holiday. That’s what summer is for. Lovely days, great company, and seductive foods. On our end, we will have a picnic in our new yard, Lulu’s new play area.

And mine.

The tart.

Maybe you’ll wonder what happened to it.

I had one second. Two, if I was lucky. Until the tart was gone. And I didn’t have time to photograph much of it.

That was Lulu. Stealing the miniature apricot tart I had especially baked for her–while I baked larger ones for us.

It was sweet, really, to see her hands covered in juice and sugar. To watch her delicate lips and tiny teeth nibble on the crust with care. My Lulu really likes tarts. The tiny ones, more particularly, because they are fun. And the crusts. Oh the crusts!

“Elle a l’air gourmande,” (she looks like a gourmande) a French friend told me last Thursday when we met at the park and I told her my apricot tart story. I had to. I found it so funny. I wished I could have caught on film Lulu’s small hand grabbing the tart. Swiftly. Unnoticed, she thought.

“Elle a de qui tenir,” (she’s just like me then) I responded, smiling.

“I’ll have to make more, right?” I later told P.

It will be easy. Apricots are amongst my favorite summery fruit. Lovely at this time of year.

“Next week,” I went on. “When K. and D. come for dinner.”

That’s because we’ll celebrate one of the first nights inside our new house. Before the kitchen work begins and we have to move out again.

The church bells rang four o’clock. The afternoon felt warm, certainly less cool than some days we’d had in May.

“Bing bang!” Lulu exclaimed with a smile. She was already used to the cyclical pattern of the church bells in the village. No matter the time of day. One o’clock. One thirty. Two o’clock….I pulled out a blanket and arrange it under the cherry tree where we sat.

Lulu was busy collecting pebbles that she dropped, one after another, in one of the small metallic buckets my father likes to keep outside. The air was filled with a light breeze that was moving gently between the leaves, which caught her attention. I looked up at the patches of red nested in the foliage, which indicated that the cherries were ripening…finally…

“On les cueille dans quelques jours?” I asked my father who was just walking by. (We’ll pick them in a few days?) He’d admonished me for stealing some that he assured me were not yet ripe. “Tu vas avoir mal au ventre,” he had added in a fatherly tone. (You”ll have a sore stomach)

Did I care? Fresh cherries are a weakness. Cherries picked right from the tree are a necessity. I was glad to be there at this time of year, even if the season started late.

The next day, my father pulled the ladder up against the tree and started to work. After one hour, we had a few buckets filled with beautiful fruit.

Lulu who was watching from a distance was running around with excitement, walking back and forth between us to feed us with cherries. My father picked her up and carried her closer to the tree. “Prends une cerise,” he whispered, prompting her to pick a few cherries herself. She was hesitant at first but then extended her arm to reach for the fruit. I was watching the scene. So pleased to see the proud look on her face as she was drawing a bright red cherry to her lips.

“Je fais un dessert aux cerises ce soir?” I asked. (Shall I make a dessert with cherries?)

It wasn’t necessary to ask. That night, after indulging in salads served with BBQ-ed steaks of deer, we ate cherries baked in a flan made of almond, eggs, sugar, butter and cream. It was a delicious dessert extremely simple and quick to prepare, ideal to seal the evening meal we enjoyed outside as we sat with our feet brushing the grass.

Ah the first cherries of the season!

You know how much I like chocolate, n’est-ce pas? Luckily, both P. and I do, so I am never alone to eat it–not that it would stop me at all, by the way. And now it turns out that we are even three to eat it at home, as Lulu has happily joined the family. Our chocolate group. I don’t think I’ve seen her practice sign language with more enthusiasm than when she asks for more chocolate.

So there you are. I made these cakes before we left on our recent vacation, to celebrate Easter early. In our family, Easter rhymes with chocolate, and molten chocolate cakes, more particularly, are a weakness of mine. The truth is that I’ve stopped counting the number of recipes I’ve baked. I never tire of the dessert. It’s gooey. Lukewarm. Rich and creamy.

Quick.

Easy.

Tempting.

Delicious.

Making Lulu ready to go…. see?