I’m holding this moment close to my heart. On Christmas day, we celebrated Lulu’s birthday.

She turned three. I am amazed we are already there.

It’s an amazing age of innocence and curiosity for every detail of life. The time when her world is filled with teddy bears, butterfly stickers, coloring pencils and markers, hot chocolate sipped with a straw, Charlie and Lola, kitties, puzzles, doudous, T’Choupi books and legos. Lots of openness and love. And what’s this, qu’est-ce que c’est, and what’s that questions about the world in which she is growing.

I’m in love with this age. I’m in love with her exponentially.

For the first time since Lulu’s birth, my parents were with us for this special time.

The perfect occasion to build together a lovely French Christmas celebration–I was really excited.

My mother and I spent a lot of time together in my kitchen. That was where she felt comfortable. It made me happy to watch her make it her creative space.

Most days, we cooked simple meals. Every day foods that I’ve learned to cook by my mother’s side. One day, it was an organic chicken flavored with garlic and a bouquet garni that she prepared with mashed sunchoke and potatoes. Another day, she treated us with braised fennel served with wild Alaskan salmon and short brown rice, and we also begged, Lulu included, that she cooked her petit salé, an old favorite.

Foods we were so glad to eat after taking walks to the farm and at the park.

On the day of Lulu’s birthday party held a week before the day, she even pulled together a large dish of paella to feed a crowd.

Next to her, I prepared custards and chocolate cakes and muffins and puddings.

“C’est toi qui t’occuperas de faire les desserts, (You’ll be in charge of making desserts) she told me on the first night after they’d arrived.

Because between the two of us, I’ve always been the one known to make desserts.

To have them taste some of our daily favorite dishes, I prepared lentil soups and spaghetti with vegetables and langoustines.

We ate lunch and dinner in the French manner with baguette, cheese and salade verte to seal our meals–my dad is so French about it.

I liked to watch my mother create our meals. They came effortless to her. In a beautiful sort of way.

And so quite naturally, we ended up giving our Christmas an obvious French flair.

I don’t know whether you know this, but for the French, le réveillon de Noël–the dinner eaten the day preceding Christmas–is as important as Christmas day. It’s when the festivities start late in the night with family members gathering around a table filled with out-of-the-ordinary delicacies.

I keep lovely memories of our réveillons: smoked salmon and snails and an array of colorful amuse-bouches were treats that we’d enjoy after going to midnight mass. On Christmas day, when my dad was busy opening oysters and a bottle of champagne, my mother would prepare scallops or foie gras with onion jam, chapon (capon), duck, pintade (guineafowl) or game meat which she’d serve with seasonal petits légumes and airelle relish. Invariably, my brother and I kept our eyes and interest largely riveted on the chocolate bûche de Noël that always finished our meal.

I wanted that our Christmas spent together had a little bit of it all.

Together, my mother and I imagined tradition in our menu. But as the words fresh, colorful, and earthy kept popping inside my head, I knew that our foods would have a bit of each. And, since neither my mother nor father had seen my book before, the idea to cook from it made sense as well.

It really felt right to make it happen in that way.

So we did it.

On the night of the réveillon, we ate delicious, plump and sweet oysters from Island Creek Oyster Farm. We enjoyed a mâche and scallop salad dish, from the same recipe I had imagined for the Christmas the year before. I loved that it was so easy to make, but so eye-catching too with its pretty finely sliced potato galettes arranged on top. And then I prepared a veal tajine with preserved lemons, Turkish dried apricots and millet, and a homemade raspberry sorbet for dessert.

“Avec les cookies du père Noël !” Lulu had exclaimed excitedly as she was pulling a plate filled with the cookies that she and I had prepared in the afternoon for Santa Claus.

Then, on Christmas day, we used recipes from my book: Endives leaves with roquefort, grapes, radishes dressed in a pistachio vinaigrette served as an amuse-bouche; dressed-up crab and avocado appetizer (I used a fresh leg of cooked crab to replace fresh salmon in the recipe). Then, my mother cooked cailles aux raisins (quails with grapes) and a potato gratin dauphinois, two French classics. And I made a raspberry charlotte which brought oh and ah to the table when Lulu caught sight of the three small candles lit on top of it.

“Souffle fort !” (Blow !) we encouraged her while singing “Joyeeeuuuux aannniversaaaiiire, joyeux anniiivvveerrsaaiire Lulu” (Happy Birthday) in French.

She was beaming. She looked touchingly shy. But so happy with all of us gathered around her.

She is a Christmas baby.

She had just turned three.

And she looked beautiful.

I hope you all had a lovely Christmas celebration. And will have a wonderful night to enter into the new year. Can you believe that we are so close to 2012 already? My last post of 2011.

Bonne année ! I will talk to you next in 2012!

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?

A few months ago, I met Mika, a Japanese cookbook author who had flown from Paris to work with me. Together, we were going to create the photographs for her upcoming cookbook.

I quickly understood why I had liked Mika even before meeting her. She was an energetic young woman with creative ideas and style, and for an entire week, she and I had a lot of fun in my kitchen.

And I learned.

I learned about Japanese food. I learned about new ingredients. Amongst them, Mika introduced me to Chia seeds.

“They are so good for you, and so easy to use in pretty anything you are already used to cooking,” Mika said one day while adding some to a noddle dish I styled and photographed. My curiosity was piqued instantly, and the next time I was at the store, I bought a bag of Chia seeds, imagining ways to use them creatively.

Chia seeds look like minuscule dark grey and ivory sesame seeds. They are delicate and subtle in taste, and are rich in omega-3 and omega-6 essential fatty acids, fiber and B vitamins. Ancient Mayan and Aztec cultures treasured them. I knew I would adopt them right away.

I started to add them to a chocolate muffin batter. I ate them in granola and porridge in the morning. I added them to garnish a plate of spaghetti with sauteed vegetables.

And I baked a fruit galette, hiding them inside the pie crust I prepared.

“Will you bake this galette again?” P. asked when he saw how excited I was with my apple dessert and newly discovered ingredient.

He didn’t need to ask. He knew the answer.

So I did, and shortly afterwards, I baked an apple tart tatin.

“What about Thanksgiving?” I inquired a few days later.

“Don’t you have other dessert plans already?” he asked, confused.

He was right. I had talked about many things, between my pear and chocolate clafoutis and a lemon mousse. But I could not help thinking that I’d want to honor the last seasonal apples purchased at the last farmer’s market of the 2011 season. With Chia seeds hidden inside.

I knew I would pique my guests’ curiosity too. And that they’d not mind.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

I know that I am lucky to live in New England. I am lucky because we have gorgeous distinct seasons, and most particularly, we have pretty colors during the fall.

“Regarde maman, cet arbre est tout rouge ! ” (Look maman, this tree is all red!) Lulu exclaimed one day as she and I were driving back from school. It was impossible not to notice. She noticed. I noticed. We were feeling excited and warm inside from just looking at the display of the cheerful colors lining up the road. It looked so happy! Secretly, I wanted for this everyday scene to last for weeks. Until Thanksgiving at least, I thought.

We are actually not far from it happening for real. Beside our unexpected snow storm, the weather in Boston has been mild and beautiful. The farmer’s markets have offered amazingly pretty and tasty fall produce: from winter squashes, radishes, apples, fresh ginger, cranberries, sprouts to colorful root vegetables.

It’s colorful.

It’s inspiring.

I’ve not grown up with the Thanksgiving tradition but I’ve learned to love it. For years, we’ve been invited to friends’ houses who cooked amazing meals. It’s during one of these dinners that I most likely ate my first pecan pie ever, wondering why I had never eaten one before.

This year, however, I am hosting the holiday with P.’s parents in the comfort of our own home. And I am really excited about what we will be cooking together.

Sharing and blending different food cultures.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot.

A month ago, an editor from Cooking Channel asked that, amongst a group of food writers, I shared my Thanksgiving ideas with a photo collage and a story. I liked the thought. So I said yes.

My Thanksgiving menu is not set in stone yet–still thinking and rethinking, something I’m rather skilled at–but I already know that there will be turkey. Perhaps traditional. And I will prepare a kabocha squash and apple soup, using a favorite recipe of mine that I’ve made over and over during the years.

This year, our soup will have aromas of ginger, lemongrass, mace and coriander, and I will round the taste with a dash of cream, freshly sliced apples and toasted hazelnuts. We tested it. We loved it.

I will bake a potato, celeriac, apple and butternut squash gratin. Because a root vegetable gratin celebrates the fall like no other dish does.

We will eat chocolate, with individual ramekins filled with cardamom-flavored pear and chocolate clafoutis.

And we’ll eat salad. A fun colorful salad full of crunch. The first time I made it, I loved it even before trying it.

The thought for this salad came last week after I visited one of my local farmer’s markets where I found delicious-looking young heads of celeriac. I knew they had to go in a salad.

What about if I added red cabbage, radishes and apples? I thought while adding a few pieces of each to my basket.

I looked for a name to qualify my newly imagined salad, and because of its finely chopped texture, somehow the word taboulé (tabbouleh) came to my mind. So I dressed the salad with exactly what I would have for a taboulé: loads of aromatic fresh herbs, lemon juice, hazelnut oil and a rich fragrant extra virgin olive oil (I actually used one recently offered to me by California Olive Ranch which I’m enjoying a lot.)

“Yum!” P. said when we sat down at the table to eat lunch. “I love it!”

“Really? Enough to include it to our Thanksgiving dinner?” I asked.

“Sure. It’s really surprising and different.”

I looked at him and realized it was. And at the same time it wasn’t since the French often eat raw celeriac in a salad.

But what I understood was that my unusual tabbouleh would be a wonderful addition to our menu to celebrate gorgeous local fall produce, the Thanksgiving holiday, and my French roots.

Next week, we will feel American. French. Irish. Together.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! What will you be cooking, I wonder?

The snow melted within two days, leaving room to fall again. A gorgeously sunny one on top.

We were glad that we’d only had a tease of winter. We were not ready. I was not ready to leave some of my favorite vegetables and salads behind. In fact, despite the fact that we are between seasons and soon enough homegrown vegetables will become scarce, these days, I am really inspired to cook.

See? I’ve been really busy making things in the kitchen. Trying new things. Revisiting old ones. And loving every piece of it. Here are a few snapshots from what happened.

Today I even found Romanesco.

I could not help but let a few words of excitement escape from between my lips when I spotted them, gloriously bundled up inside a woven basket in a corner of the local farm stand. They looked so inviting that I wanted to pick one after the other until the basket was empty and I had them all.

I wanted to store them the way squirrels sneak in to put nuts aside. So that they’d stay and keep me company during the upcoming wintry months.

“Will you sell more Romanesco over the next weeks?” I asked the young girl at the cash register.

She looked surprised, with a I-don’t-know-why-do-you-ask expression on her face.

I didn’t wait for her answer. She didn’t know anyhow. And on my end, I knew I’d come back to the store to check regularly.

When I returned home, it was almost eleven thirty and I was feeling hungry. The radio was playing a Jane Birkin’s song while P. was working in the office.

“Are you hungry?” I asked him from the kitchen.

I wanted him to be, because I had a great lunch idea in my head.

I imagined a dish of pasta loaded with greens–something delicious and comfy to nourish our big appetite.

Linguine, I thought. Lulu will clap in her hands at the sight of pasta. I knew she would.

So it happened. I cooked linguine and then I blanched peas and baby lima beans and zucchini with my Romanesco florets. I sauteed scampi and prepared a light white sauce with a dash of Vermouth and lots of fresh herbs.

It was a lunch quick to fix. Loaded with flavor and contrasting textures. Inviting!

We loved it.

The next day, after a walk to the botanical garden in search of pretty leaves, I decided to experiment more and baked a Romanesco gratin–and a chocolate and pear clafoutis too (you’ll want to taste this one). Which made us equally happy. Hungry for more.

I was assured that I’d want to cook these dishes again this week. And hopefully the next.

As long as I can find Romanesco.

Fingers crossed, oui?

Ah fall, I really like your colors and flavors.

A lot.

I took these pictures right before it snowed.

Yes.

Not only a little touch of snow.

But enough to cover hills and gardens and roofs and roads and make us imagine we were in the depth of winter. Enough to damage trees and deprive a lot of households from power. It came quickly. Unexpected.

When we woke up on Sunday night and opened the curtains of our bedroom, Lulu took a peek outside and exclaimed:

“Wow, maman, regarde la neige !”

Everything outside was painted white: trees, garden, roof of neighboring houses, Lulu’s bike and sandbox. It felt quiet and peaceful. Without a sound. Without a soul outside beside the adventurous squirrel hopping on to a fallen branch.

As if nothing had happened.

It was beautiful.

But I felt for the farmers, thinking that this was obviously going to affect them in a bad way.

On Friday, I went to the farmer’s market downtown. I am thankful now that I did. I wish I had bought even more to support the farmers. To tell them how precious what they do is. I will miss them during the winter.

I was so pleased to still find a wide selection of scrumptious-looking root vegetables. They were more colorful and beautiful the ones than the others. I knew that I would rub them simply with garlic and thyme, adding perhaps coriander or cumin. Then, I’d roast them, so that my vegetable dish would reveal the taste of each vegetable while offering a patchwork of cheerful colors.

I left the market with my basket filled with radishes of different types, turnips and carrots of various colors, red and yellow and pink baby beets, celeriac and apples, fresh ginger and garlic.

They looked so pretty together in my basket that they made me feel giddy.

I used half of them in a roasted vegetable dish I cooked and served to accompany our lunch with friends on Sunday. And with the apples, I prepared Apple verrines–a recipe from my cookbook–which was the dessert that sealed our meal.

We laughed a lot. Lulu dressed up like a butterfly. She was beaming. She kept talking about the ladybug girl outfit she was going to wear to school.

We almost forgot about the snow.

But when everyone had left and the kitchen was cleaned, Lulu and I walked to the park and ran in the snow. Despite the sun, the park was almost empty. She was disappointed that she could not use the slide. But instead, we enjoyed looking at the footprints our boots left in the snow.

“Aujourd’hui, c’est un jour particulier,” (Today is an exceptional day) I told her as we walked back, holding hands. “La neige est arrivée tôt,” (The snow came early) I went on.

“Aujourd’hui, c’est un jour particulier,” she repeated while, once again, looking down at the footprints her boots were making in the snow.

Often, things in life seem to happen in a series. Don’t you agree? Good or bad. It’s part of the cycle of life, and it’s funny to observe how it works.

For me these days, it’s all about books. Great ones.

Like this beautiful crafts book, called Handmade Zakka and Craft by Tuesday. All in Japanese. In its looks. In its language.

It happened quickly and spontaneously.

In the same way Jo approached and asked me to contribute to her book, Tomo Togawa in Japan asked whether I’d be willing to contribute to the book that he and his wife Chiyo, a graphic designer, were going to write. They are known as Tuesday.

I said Yes. Because I loved their style and approach to design. Because I love Japan. And names like Lotta Jansdotter, Yumiko Sekine, Marisa Shimamoto, and Tetsushi Inoue & Kristina Detwiller. All inspiring me.

Tomo’s idea was to incorporate snapshots of eight artists, with each one of us showcasing our craft, inside the book. In the same style Yumiko’s Around Fog Linen book–Tomo designed it–looked.

Tuesday‘s book is just lovely: Light, fresh and clean. Somehow looking to me like a blend of Japanese and Scandinavian styles.

Inside the book, you’ll find inspiring sources for all sorts of crafty design ideas: whether it’s using paper and fabrics to create cards, tree ornaments, clothes, pillow. Their book is really for anyone who likes to create beautiful things for the home. For adults and children alike.

My contribution to Tuesday’s book was my Millet with steamed spring greens and its lemon vinaigrette recipe, along with the following recipe for these Chocolate and Hazelnut Financiers.

I cannot help it. I love financiers. Of all flavors. Shaped like a muffin or a rectangular. Baked with chocolate; vanilla; almonds or hazelnuts.

Or even pistachios and aromas of cardamom, a recipe you’ll find inside my cookbook. I baked two batches of these over the course of the past two days. Every single one of them is gone–granted we had crowds at home.

But ahhhhh these chocolate financiers…with fragrant hazelnut and the earthy aroma of amaranth.

Yes.

Chocolate always makes us happy.

Chocolate always makes Lulu happy.

It’s a family matter. One that keeps us snug and cozy together. In chocolate haven.

“We are chocolate and financiers addicts!” we like to sing in chorus.

Perhaps you can become one of us too.

And join in.

Thank you Tomo for thinking about including snapshots of what I do inside your book. I am honored to be amongst such a great crowd of people.

Below is the list of the eight artists featured in Handmade Zakka and Craft:

Lotta Jansdotter : Surface Designer (Brooklyn, U.S.A.)
Jenny Hallengren : Photographer (Stockholm, Sweden)
Meiko Takechi Arquillos : Photographer (Los Angeles, U.S.A.)
Tetsushi Inoue & Kristina Detwiller : Furniture & Textile Designer (Oita, Japan)
Béatrice Peltre : Food Writer, Stylist and Photographer (Boston, U.S.A.)
Hello Sandwich : Designer, Artist, Crafter (Tokyo, Japan / Sydney, Australia)
Marisa Shimamoto : Photographer (Tokyo, Japan)
Yumiko Sekine : Shop Owner (Tokyo, Japan)

When I get up on Friday morning, I know the day will be busy. I am excited because that morning, we are meant to go foraging, have lunch at Timberline lodge near Mt Hood National Forest, after which a visit of a distillery with its fruit orchard is planned. I feel impatient about every piece because it means that we’ll spend our time discovering the natural scenery and outdoors near Portland.

I always wanted to come to Oregon just for that.

I don’t think for too long about what to wear, and eventually decide to go for a light summer dress layered over a t-shirt that goes with my pair of gray sneakers. But minutes later, when a dark-skinned man with a shovel and a spray bottle attached to his backpack walks in the room where we all sit for breakfast, suddenly a doubt about my choice for clothes fills my mind.

Wearing his outfit, he stands out amongst us. At first, I don’t know neither his name nor who he is. But between the noise of the voices and giggles coming from the small groups gathered joyfully at each table, I hear someone exclaim: “He must be one leading an activity this morning!”

Oh oh…that’s looking really serious! I hear myself utter louder than I’d like.

We quickly understand that he is going to be our edible plant guide. And immediately, I know I am not alone to suddenly feel completely ill dressed for our outing.

John is wearing serious-looking hiking boots, a vest and a pair of jeans. His entire head is buried behind dark sunglasses and a large beige hat, the type explorers like to have, that makes it hard to discern the expression on his face.

But we can see that he is happy to be there. He is smiling.

When we walk outside of the hotel, a small bus is waiting for our small group. Everyone is in a happy mood. It’s sunny. The air feels healthy. It’s going to be a nice day.

“It’s like going to camp,” someone exclaims once we are settled inside the bus. In a charming sort of ordered way.

Our first destination that morning is Trillium Lake.

With Mt Hood reflecting onto the lake in the distance, the place feels serene and magnificent, and I am sorry we don’t have hours to spend exploring the area.

John is friendly and knowledgeable. As he walks ahead of our group, he shows and explains which plants are edible and which aren’t. And while we understand that this time of year is not the prime for foraging edibles (Spring is the best time), we still manage to taste leaves and berries that surprise by their unique flavor. That’s the first time I eat wild ginger.

“You will have some of these in some of your dishes for lunch,” one of the chefs from Timberline lodge tells us as he and another chef accompany us on our walk. Right away, my curiosity is piqued. And I wonder what they will do with what we find along the way.

And rightly so, lunch at Timberline Lodge is outstandingly delicious.

Used as an Alpine ski lodge in winter, Timberline Lodge is an integral part of American heritage. Built at the bottom of Mt Hood, the building gives a feeling reminiscent of the past.

“The road leading to the lodge was the one filmed in the opening of The Shining,” our driver tells us a few minutes before we arrive. Who would have thought? I cannot help but think, looking at the winding road ahead outside my window.

Each dish we are served is so appetizing that, while our five-course menu looks like a lot of food, I keep eating, hungry for more. By looking at everyone’s face while eating, I guess I am not alone to really enjoy the food and wine that keeps being poured with each dish.

Robert Morus from Phelps Creek Vineyards is sitting at the table with us. He is also wearing a hat, I notice, amused. His upper cheeks are red and round and, with every smile, his eyes become minuscule in the middle of his friendly face. He, too, looks like he is pleased to spend time with us. I know why. He is telling us his passion for wine.

As we leave the table, I feel ready for a nap.

“Look behind,” I tell Sean sitting next to me on the bus. We are amused. Almost everyone is actually asleep, including John who is sitting next to our driver.

I am convinced that not a single piece of food or drink will be able to fit inside my body. But as our visit takes us to Clear Creek distillery where I catch sight of the orchard behind the small apple stand, I know that our drive through the countryside is worth every minute we spend in the bus. It’s as if I am hungry again. For fruit.

Steve McCarthy started Clear Creek Distillery twenty-six years ago because he wanted to find the best way to use the fruit from his family’s orchard. During his travels throughout Europe, he became exposed to a number of traditional European spirits– among them, an eau de vie made from Williams Pear. An inspiration and an idea were born. Clear Creek Distillery followed naturally.

I am not typically someone known to drink spirits but I know I will go with the flow.

We taste grappa and pear brandy and cranberry liquor–and probably more than I can remember. When I hear the word mirabelle, I am curious and ask the dark-haired girl working at the distillery where they grow them. “In an another orchard nearby,” she says. The thought of lines of mirabelliers and quetschiers trees brings a smile to my face as I think of my father and his parents on their farm making their own mirabelle and quetsche liqueurs.

While everyone is still gathered around the picnic table, busy drinking and chatting away, I decide to take a short walk through the orchard. As I wander through the apple and pear trees, and I notice the aroma of sugar and fruit that I am so familiar with, I think about my grandparents’ and brother’s orchards. I know this taste so well. I’ve always loved everything about it.

Later that night, a reception on top of the sixth floor of a building downtown welcomes us to a wide open view of Portland. Chefs from Metrovino and the Gilt Club have come to serve us tasty hamburgers prepared with unusual elk and lamb flavors. We drink beer. The evening feels like the kind sealing a perfect day outside.

Casual as we like it. Full of the good energy of being in the outdoors.

Back to my room, my mind wanders back to the thought of the apples though. It’s what feels familiar and right. I think about the orchard and the time we’ve just spent outdoors. In a lovely part of Oregon I want to visit more in depth. I think about fall and how much I am impatient to go apple picking once I am back home.

It just happens like that.

And I know that I will be baking an apple tart.

Une tarte rustique au bon goût de pommes.

Because a fruit tart is always the first dessert I am inspired to bake after I visit an apple orchard.

Disclosure: My trip to Oregon was sponsored and fully paid by Travel Oregon. I was neither asked nor received any compensation to write about my experience. I am doing it because I want to share and I enjoyed what I did and saw.

Why can I have neglected to visit Cape Cod more often? I wondered.

I didn’t expect that Cape Cod, the Cape as we Bostonians call it, would look so beautiful with its near-to empty beaches and warm September sunlight.

But it did.

I found out this last week when P., his father, Lulu and I drove to Truro near Cape Cod National Seashore where we spent five days to celebrate the end of summer. P.’s mother was supposed to come too, but an event kept her in Ireland, so eventually she could not come. For a while, we were hesitant as to whether we’d go. But in the end, we decided that the four of us would make the trip anyhow.

We didn’t regret once. As to Lulu, she was simply happy to have her grandpa all for herself.

Of course, in the thirteen years I’ve lived in Boston, I’ve visited the Cape on many occasions. But the truth is that I somehow always avoided to come, finding excuses like “It’s too hot“, “It’s too busy” or “I just cannot deal with US 93 and Route 6 traffic to get there“. Each time, I dreaded Cape Cod’s summer crowd and its touristy side, despite the fact that it was right there, at my doorstep.

But this time…how could I have guessed that it’d be different? And that the five days we spent in our rental house would charm me in such an unexpected way.

Between Wednesday and Sunday, we flew many kites on beaches near Wellfleet and Truro, trying a new one every time. Finding each one always almost empty.

We built sand castles, drew faces on the sun-warmed blond sand and wore hoodies, excited to feel cooler temperatures announcing fall. We watched small crabs in the marsh near Uncle Tim’s bridge and chatted with a friendly fisherwoman who told us interesting fishing stories about bluefish and seabass. We saw seals and watched the ocean surf. We ran on the beach and then when we were too tired to continue, we skipped stones. We made 60-piece puzzles with Lulu and told her about crickets singing loudly every night. We visited Provincetown Saturday farmer’s market and Truro vineyards.

And between every single one of our activities, we ate very well.

“It’s weird,” I told Eddie, my father-in-law, one day as we were waiting for our fish tacos at The Juice. “It almost feels as if we could be somewhere in Europe, doesn’t it?”

“So true!” he exclaimed, perhaps thinking about Ireland where he grew up. We couldn’t explain exactly what it was but the feeling was perceptible. We could all feel it.

We were hungry for seafood, and felt lucky to find it so fresh and tasty everywhere we stopped for lunch.

One day, I chose mussels and the following day, an order of fish tacos and lobster rolls were the foods that pleased our bellies. At the fish market in Wellfleet, I bought lobster and little necks clams that I cooked in a coconut milk and white wine sauce to serve with spaghetti and zucchini for dinner one evening.

“What are you making?” Eddie asked on our last night when he saw that I was busy peeling a few peaches before slicing them finely.

“Not sure,” I said. “Dessert.”

“Of course! ” he went on, smiling.

We always have dessert, no matter where we are. And how simple it is.

“Just something nice and simple to use up ingredients before we leave.”

“How do you call it?”

“Not sure either. A gratin clafoutis maybe?” I responded hesitantly, not certain which word was the right one to use.

“Glad you came?” I went on.

He smiled again.

We were all so glad to have come.

I’d fallen in love with the beauty Cape Cod offers during the low season.

I was impressed.

These were the first radishes I grew in my garden this year.

I loved how small and delicate they looked. How peppery they felt in the mouth. Crunchy and light.

I kept them for Lulu, knowing how much she’d enjoy les premiers radis du jardin.

It’s a small thing, and it might sound silly, but these radishes made me feel very excited. And happy. Because Lulu loved them. Because I grew them myself.

Once the crop started, they came in numbers. Every day. Most of the time, I used them in salads. But at other times, we preferred to eat them nature, or finely sliced and arranged on top of a piece of toasted bread. With butter and Fleur de sel.

I had meant to tell you about my radishes and vegetable garden all during June. And July too. Even August.

I wanted to show you my mesclun salads, tomatoes and cucumbers. The carrots and zucchini. Looking so healthy and strong and inspiring me to cook fresh summery dishes.

The taste of the various cherry tomatoes I grew made incredible salads. They made me fall in love with homegrown tomatoes all over again–as if I could have forgotten how much joy homegrown tomatoes bring to our foods.

I wanted to tell you about the delicious gazpacho I’ve prepared over and over this season. I’m sorry for not telling you about it before because I know you’d love it just as much as we do.

You know, it’s just that Summer, with its radishes and tomatoes and peas and zucchini and berries, all too pretty, seems to just be going faster than me.

Perhaps for many, Summer translates as a time of year when things slow down, the way I remember les grandes vacances when I was a kid. For me, summers have been just the right opposite over the past few years. They disappear before I notice.

I blame it on the weather. Seriously, it’s just too nice to stay inside! But it’s also largely the fault of the growing season, with its abundance of tempting pretty fruit and vegetables, and everything else that comes with it and that turn me into a busy bee–no pun intended. With my eyes always bigger than my stomach. With everything that needs to be used and eaten right at the same time. Tell me, have you ever been able to return from a farmer’s market without just what you had planned to buy? C’est tout simplement impossible…

The truth is that I love all of it: our farmers’ markets; the sound of the wind that feels warm and summery; dinner on the patio with a walk afterwards; cooking a ton; staying up late. I simply wished I had more time to share every snapshot of what makes me feel giddy about summer.

But I understand that it’s not going to happen, and I hope you’ll be fine with it because I still have a chocolate cake recipe for you. A delicious one. It’s actually our favorite chocolate cake at the moment. Lulu’s, P.’s, and mine too. It’s a family opinion.

I’ve baked one today, just before we leave. And I realize that I need to tell you about that part too.

This week, we are traveling to Europe. We are going to London where I will teach a Food styling and photography workshop at Food Blogger Connect. Where I will be eating at Petersham Nurseries and Ottolenghi tables. Meet friends.

Then I will be in France where I hope to be able to find red currants and other goodies in my parents’ back garden. We will spend a week in Camargue. And then we will be in Lorraine.

I am so looking forward to rest, eat and soak in the culture. Enjoy the rest of our summer in its most simple but most beautiful form. With rain, sun, warmth and cold. Between England and France. With a lot of popsicles in the middle–my mother told me that after she knew Lulu loved them, she was planning to make some too. It’s cute!

The recipe for the cake is actually quite special. It’s coming right out of my upcoming cookbook.

Yes!

I know I have not talked a lot about my cookbook lately. It’s not that I don’t want to. I so much do! I have so much to say, in fact. But I am still working on some details before making a proper announcement, with everything you need to know. It will happen when I return.

In the meantime, I wish you all a wonderful end of summer. Enjoy. Cook and eat well. I might pop here and there to say hello. When I can. And if I can.

And, before I forget, bake this chocolate cake. It’s really light. A recipe perfect for summer, to pack for a picnic, inside a lunch box. Or, like for us, sneaked inside our travel bag on our way to Europe.

A bientôt !