I am working hard at the moment. I mean, harder than usual as I sit at my desk for long hours in the evenings, busy working on the edits of my cookbook manuscript. That invariably makes my eyes look puffy in the morning, and have me crave for long naps in the afternoon. I wish I could take those naps when Lulu takes hers, but the thing is that as she reaches almost 11 months of age, her naps become scarce–and so do mine malheureusement!

Naturally, this increased brain activity makes me even more hungry than usual for healthy homemade foods.

So to keep a semblance of life normalcy and keep my energy going–and my sanity–Lulu and I take walks to the park where she plays on the swings, never wanting to leave; we have afternoon excursions to local farms before the season is over; and I take her to see the animals, oh yes, we both enjoy that part: the sheep and chicken and Lizzie the cow.

And when we are back at the house, we cook and bake together.

While I stand in front of the stove, she sits on the floor with, in front of her, a large box in which she endlessly puts miscellaneous objects in and out. In and out again.

Lulu seems to like our partnership. How we work together. She laughs when she hears the sizzling sound of butter in the frying pan when I prepare crêpes; she stares at the pot on the stove when I lift the lid to check on a meat stew. She watches me attentively when I whisk and beat and dust and make a mess in the kitchen–I am a specialist of that craft! I hope that she notices the smells that diffuse in the house, of the many cakes that go in the oven, the tarts that cool on the counter top, and the tajines and vegetable stews that simmer on the stove. The fact is that, Dieu merci, there’s always something going on in the kitchen.

A lot of things cooking.

And since I am busy retesting, perfecting and eating all of these foods that will go in the cookbook, at least, despite the lack of sleep and free time, we keep our healthy eating habits. I know that no matter what, that’s simply never going to change.

This chocolate dessert, for example, was supposed to go inside the cookbook. But as I looked back at my recipe list that keeps growing and growing, I realized that I had to stop saying “this recipe has to go in the cookbook“. You know, not everything will, and can, go in the cookbook–and it’s a good thing. It’s all yours now.

I baked the dessert last year, I remember now, and have made it a number of times since then. I find that it’s an easy way to dress-up an honest chocolate cake. In fact, thinking about it, it’s a nice idea to keep handy should you suddenly need dessert brought on the table and you’re short of time but still want something that catches the eye.

I might just have to make it again.

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!

She was holding the small apple tight between her delicate hands. It was colored with beautiful shades of red, orange and yellow blending harmoniously. It was also perfect in size for her. She was casually leaning against P.’s chest but didn’t even seem to notice as she was too engrossed in observing the apple — her new treasure. Right. Left. Up. Down. And again, turning the apple with her fingers.

Lulu seemed so happy, sitting on the grass between P.’s legs, that we simply wanted to stay quiet and watch, eager to prolong the moment. It was the first apple picked right from the tree that she was holding.

It was one of those perfect days in late September in New England, when the sky is blue, the light has a warming yellow hue and the air is crisp, and we had decided to drive to an organic farm forty minutes outside of Boston, to go apple picking. We hadn’t gone yet this year, so we were especially looking forward to the day. We wanted it special for Lulu. I wanted to bring apples home to make compote, tarts and clafoutis.

There were still late summer raspberries and plenty of apples to pick and when we arrived, the place wasn’t too busy — I liked it that way. One family was eating a picnic under a tree with their one year old baby boy toddling hesitantly, which made Lulu very amused. We sat down on a large blanket next to them and ate our lunch. I had tossed together something quick but nourishing, a quinoa salad with cherry tomatoes, avocado and ricotta salata, and we finished with a piece of goat cheese, plain sheep milk yogurt — Lulu’s favorite — and oatmeal cookies.

I carried Lulu on my back while we picked the fruit and, once our baskets were full with raspberries and apples, we sat down again in the shade of an apple tree. It’ll be peaceful, I thought. But I was far from imagining how pleasant it would be.

“Tiens, prends la pomme,” (Take the apple) I told Lulu, holding a small red apple in front of her. She looked at it and then looked at me. Then she looked at P., as if to receive more reassurance. She paused and then smiled. Her eyes were lit with a spark that seemed to be smiling too. It was something special. She knew it. She reached for the apple and took it delicately between her hands and, while P. and I each ate an apple, she kept looking at hers, playing with it in her hands, bringing it to her mouth, feeling the texture of its soft skin against her lips, learning how to bite in it. It perhaps lasted for fifteen or twenty minutes. Surely more. She never let go of the apple. And later in the afternoon, when she fell asleep as we were driving home, she was still holding the apple tight in one hand.

Back at the house, I baked apple clafoutis. And the next day, I stewed apples with spices that made the house smell like fallen leaves in the forest and September in early fall.

Note that in French, a clafoutis aux pommes (apple clafoutis) is often called a flognarde.

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.

I decided to walk to the farmer’s market with Lulu. It was going to take us a solid hour, which I was really looking forward to since it was one of these perfect sunny days of late summer, early fall. Lulu was chatty, making all sorts of ma ma ma da da sounds in my ear, and I was singing silly French songs that I was just making up as the words came out of my mouth.

” ♪ ♪ C’est ♪ ♪ jeudi ♪ et Luluuuuuu ♪ et mamannnnn ♪ ♪ vont au marché ♪ ♪ tra la la la”. Really silly! But it made her laugh so joyfully that I didn’t care — we formed a happy pair and that’s all that mattered on that sunny day.

I told her about the farmer’s market. And to start, about the beautiful eggs that we were going to buy.

“Tu verras, ce sont les plus beaux oeufs du monde!” I sang to her. (You’ll see, they are the most beautiful eggs in the world). I really meant it! The first time I saw them, I fell in love with their color — soft shades of blue, beige and green — and the deep orange yolk they reveal once they are cracked open. The taste is incomparable!

“What kind of chickens lay these eggs?” I had felt curious to ask the young pretty woman selling them. “They’re called Araucanas, ” she had responded. Her smile stretching her mouth wide open revealed perfectly aligned white teeth that contrasted with her tanned face and long dark curly hair. She’s got the healthy look of someone who spends a lot of time outside, I had thought watching her pack my eggs carefully. I liked it. It had me dream again of the life in the countryside.

Then I told Lulu about the tasty crab apples, the corn and eggplants, the Heirloom tomatoes and French beans, yellow zucchini and carrots that we would buy too.

When we arrived on the square, the place was already buzzing with activity even if the market had just opened. I imagined how pretty it would be to look at the place from above, and see this patchwork of bright colors and people busy like ants. We strolled around to look at the vegetables and fruit, comparing them from one stand to the next.

We bought eggs and apples, different varieties of zucchini, raspberries and peaches, and I packed up a few beautiful purple eggplants, tomatoes, fingerling potatoes, French beans and carrots as well. The gorgeous produce inspired me so much that thoughts of menu ideas filled my head, making me seriously forget that I would have to carry everything home — and would just as donkeys do. It’s funny how, whenever I go to the market, I always end up coming back with much more than I plan to buy. Do you too?

“C’est tout!” (that’s all!) I told Lulu. “Y’a plus de place!” (there’s no more room!)

But that’s when I saw them. Those lovely plums neatly arranged on a display in the middle of the market.

You see, those plums were just calling my name with their attractive subtle shades of pink and fushia. They were too cute to walk by and go unnoticed. So, of course, quite predictably, I stopped. I leaned towards Lulu and drawing my face close to hers, I whispered as if I were telling her an important secret: Regarde ces jolies prunes! (Look at those pretty plums!) Ce soir, je te préparerai de la compote de pommes et de prunes avec de la cannelle et de la vanille.” (Tonight, I’ll prepare stewed apples and plums with vanilla and cinnamon).

She smiled. But of course, it’s most likely the buzz of the market that she found funny.

But as promised, when we were back home, I stewed the plums for her. I really wanted Lulu to be the first one to taste our plums.

The fruit wasn’t too sweet, perhaps still in need of maturation under more sun, but at the speed by which Lulu ate it, she obviously didn’t seem to find it too tart. In fact, she kept opening her mouth like a bird, asking for more.

“C’est si bon que cela?” (Is it that good?) I asked her, laughing while giving her the last spoonful left.

It was really nice to watch.

And then, it’s really what made the story of these plum cakes. And how making natural foods for Lulu inspired me to bake.

I felt like baking simple plum cakes that I would be able to eat when they are still warm from the oven. Still to this day, my mother keeps telling moi-at-forty-years-of-age that doing such a thing is silly and a bad idea and that it will hurt my stomach. But I don’t believe it. Or I don’t want to hear it. And I am sure that Lulu won’t want to hear that from me either when she is older.

Anyway, these cakes.

I used buckwheat flour (because it’s one of my new favorite flours to bake with) and quinoa flour, roasted ground walnuts, stewed plums, a couple of my favorite eggs and a few other things.

And do you know what? Eating the cake out of the oven was exactly the right thing to do.

Actually, I ate two, dreaming about what Lulu and I would find at the market the following week.

“Why don’t you like them?” my friend S. asked. “Les figues ? Well, I don’t know, they’re just not citrusy enough!”

It’s true that it’s what I am typically after in a fruit. I want juice. I want to taste food with a bite. I am looking for a burst of flavor in my mouth after the first piece. So even if I sincerely find figs pretty and elegant, especially once they are cut open and reveal their vibrant deep purple color, they simply lack what I am personally looking for when I eat a piece of fruit.

But I never like to say ‘”jamais” (never). And I try. This tart, for example, is an excellent compromise. It’s the case of me, moi, trying to appreciate what figs have to offer.

To start, I needed dessert for dinner — so there was that. Secondly, I really wanted to photograph figs when I caught sight of pretty ones at my store. Lastly, I simply wanted to give figs another chance. After all, I might change my opinion. I wanted to.

It must have been my lucky day. Or the figs’ lucky day.

It turns out that the tart was really tasty. And so simple and fresh. To give the dessert a boost of flavor, I spiced the tart up with ginger and vanilla and I baked it without a custard, to make sure that the flavor of figs would be the first to be revealed.

In fact, I obtained such a delicious outcome that I decided to use figs in some of my savory food too. And so yesterday, as I was preparing a black rice salad to have for lunch with my friend E., I decided to add fresh figs to the salad — and I’ll have to tell you about that later. And then, since we needed a dessert too, I baked a few vanilla-flavored mascarpone flans with figs nested inside.

And it worked. Both the desserts and salad, in fact, managed to reconcile me with figs. Comme quoi, il n’y a que les idiots qui ne changent pas d’avis. (It’s a French expression that translates as “Only idiots never change their mind“.

But I am getting hungry again. So let’s go back to tart which is waiting, shall we?

“Vous avez dû attendre pendant longtemps ?” (Did you have to wait for long?) my parents asked. We were standing at one end of terminal E in Roissy Charles de Gaulle airport, hugging and kissing. My parents were as eager to see us as we were to see them. But I knew that, in fact, they were even happier to greet and hold their little grand daughter. Lulu was snuggled cozily against my stomach in her ergo. We could only see the top of her head and hair and eyes which she had wide open. She was smiling and flapping her bare legs against mine, turning her head to the right, then to the left, not to miss anything that was happening around us. We were all tired but so happy to be home in France.

The thought of traveling back home had filled me with feelings of excitement even if I had worried about our journey to Europe. It was Lulu’s first transatlantic flight. How would she handle it? Would she be fine with the many plane rides, between Boston, Paris, Dublin and Paris again? How would she do with the jet lag? But our little Lulu didn’t mind at all any of it. In fact, she adjusted extremely quickly, much faster than P. and I did.

Summer in rural eastern France, where my parents and brother live, has left me wonderful memories. I realized that it had been years since I had traveled there during summer.

It’s the soft morning light cast on the countryside early in the morning, the colorful wild flowers illuminating the fields, the rich smell of freshly cut grass, the butterflies dancing from flower to flower and the clacking sound of the crickets late at night that I love. It’s the time of year when, I remember, as a young girl, we used to harvest hay at my grandparents’. Sometimes, I was allowed to drive the tractor back from the fields, and proudly did so. Later in the afternoon, my brother and cousins would sneak in the barn to play, jumping on bales of hay neatly stacked high.

Days in the countryside are spent at a slower pace even if summer means it’s a busy time for many who live there. In my family, we like to pick all sorts of fruit to make jams and preserves and bake tarts; we preserve French beans and beets, and make ratatouille. We walk in the grass bare foot and nap under the cherry trees, if we feel like it. We did that very well, I must say, the day after we arrived, then the next, and the day after the next too — and we never seemed to find the activity boring. Would you?

Lulu, too, made the place her own. She and I loved the daily routine we established. There were the usual morning and afternoon naps, the walks to the village to buy baguettes for lunch, and the many hours spent playing on a large blanket spread under the trees, in my parents’ garden. It was delightful to see her enjoy herself so much. She was fascinated by trees and loved to watch the wind move their leaves. She played with the flickering shadows created by the rays of sun filtering through the branches.

I told her about where our food comes from. When I took her to the village, I showed her the cows and sheep and chicken and rooster and rabbits. I pointed at eggs nested at one corner of the hen house. I made her smell red currants and apples and strawberries and plums that my parents grow.

She ate the vegetables — carrots, beans, zucchini, beets and tomatoes — we prepared from my mother’s and brother’s gardens. Every day, it seemed that she was learning something new — her new discovery is to clap her hands (she does that so joyfully, really, it’s cute!) while blowing raspberries at the same time. It’s amazing, actually, how quickly she has changed over the course of these last three weeks away.

Our life is so much richer with her at the center of it.

“Tu veux que je la prenne ? “(Do you want me to take her?) my mum asked me one morning after I had just finished to nurse Lulu. She was wide awake, laughing, talking and kicking her legs above her head. It was also 6 am, the time of day when my mother gets up — it’s brave! I didn’t need to answer. She knew. I felt relieved. Si tu veux! (Sure!)

While falling asleep, I could hear them *converse* with each other in the kitchen at the breakfast table — Lulu sitting in her high chair while my mother was eating her bowl of muesli and yogurt.

It didn’t matter that we did not travel long distances or do much. We did what we had been craving for weeks: we rested.

The food was gorgeous, and I ate a ton. I even wonder where I put it all! Between the fresh vegetables and fruit from the garden, I also indulged in dairy products hungrily, eating yogurts, petits-suisses and fromage blanc as if I was discovering them for the first time again. I devoured cheese greedily, at all times of the day. Oh yes! Everything felt more tasteful and flavorful. My mother cooked — isn’t this the nicest? — and I helped, baking and making fruit tarts.

Every day, Lulu came with me to the garden where I picked more berries and seasonal fruit, carrots, salad and tomatoes for lunch. The mirabelles, prunes de cochon and quetsches were so ripe that we stewed them and made tarts.

One day, my mum and I took Lulu to the local market.

In my brother’s garden, I collected fresh herbs, different types of basil, sage, thyme, chervil, livèche (lovage) — my sister-in-law’s favorite — and mint to make a herb risotto. I’ll have to tell you about it. We enjoyed it so much that I cooked it twice.

We had family lunches and dinners at home that we ate outside and a few times, we drove the scenic winding road, just a few kilometers away, to l’Ecluse 16 — a lovely restaurant nested in the Bonne Fontaine forest, by the canal de la Sarre — where we ate scrumptious modern food.

I thought I wouldn’t find red currants, as suggested by my dad, but I was excited to discover that the bush in my parents’ back garden was still heavy with bright red berries, fully ripe. Every day, my mum used them in fruit salads while I baked them in muffins.

I also made a red currant and almond tart.

Red currants are a delicacy in the US, which always surprises me when they are so abundant and easily found where I am from in France. In the city of Bar-le-Duc near by, locals use the fruit to make a special jam. The tradition consists in removing the seeds with a goose feather and dates back to 1344. The jam is extremely delicate.

If you’ve eaten the berries before, you know that the fruit is rather acidic, and has small seeds inside. The berries are delicious in tarts when they are prepared with a sugary almond batter, which balances the tartness of the fruit.

“I told you it would be worth it,” I told my dad, with a victorious look on my face, when we all sat down at the table again to have dessert. He had jokingly asked that I stopped stealing the last red currants on the tree. It was hard to! One of his favorite thing is to pick and snack on the fruit while working outside.

“Oui, elle est très bonne ta tarte,” (Your tart is really good) he said, helping himself to a second slice.

What I didn’t tell him is that, a few days later, I grabbed another handful of the red berries to bake muffins. I just couldn’t resist.

Everyone commented on how delicious the muffins were.

And the missing red currants went unnoticed.

It’s wonderful how that works.

After one single bite into the plump fruit, I fell in love.

I had not seen Rainier cherries before I moved to the US. Where I am from in France, we grow des cerises noires (black cherries) and des cerises aigres (sour cherries) , delicious and juicy, especially those I am able to pick and eat right from the cherry trees. But Rainier cherries have a je-ne-sais-quoi that takes any variety of cherries a step up. They are sweeter and with their yellow orange hue, seem to be smiling and beaming like the sunshine at sunset.

I remember that when my father and I talked over the phone one Sunday sometime in June, he had told me that their cherry trees were so heavy with fruit that every day during an entire week, he filled buckets with delicious overly ripe fruit, which incidentally made every neighbor and friend stopping by happy as he gave the buckets away. C’est une année à fruits (It’s a good year for fruit), he had carried on, explaining at length how they were going to use the fruit. My father likes to talk about those things too.

My parents worked as a team: while my father was busy with the picking, my mother made jams and filled bags for the freezer. Then, she used the leftovers in clafoutis and tarts.

“Il y aura encore des cerises et des groseilles quand on vient ?” (Will there still be cherries and red currants when we come?) I eagerly asked when, a few weeks later, we chit chatted about this and that as we were — are — getting ready for our upcoming stay with them.

“Ah non ma grande, ça malheureusement c’est déjà fini!” (Oh no, that’s unfortunately already over!)

They knew well that I was going to be disappointed to hear that. This time of year is so special!

So instead, I indulged in Rainier cherries and all the other pretty fruits rouges (red berries) that summer offers here too, and that I am such a fan of. And then fairly quickly, I forgot that I was jealous of my parents’ cerisiers (cherry trees) and cherries and red currants. I could have a taste too and c’est mieux que rien ! (It’s better than nothing!)

I’m sure you know that Rainier cherries come from Washington State, and are a cross between the Bing and Van varieties. Since these jewels have appeared in my local store, I never seem to have enough of them. In fact, every time I buy a bag, I have a plan to cook something cute and scrumptious with them, but they rarely seem to make it into a dish.

Instead, we love to eat them nature.

I like to wash a few handfuls and keep them in a bowl on the kitchen island. I look at them and they make me smile. They are a favorite snack every time I walk by — and I’d walk around with pits in my mouth. At other times, P. and I enjoy them in a fruit plate after dinner, with a little cane sugar sprinkled on top, and a large bowl of sheep plain yogurt and homemade granola on the side.

It’s nice and simple but so rewarding. It makes us rejoice in summer, especially if we are able to eat sitting outside, with the grass brushing against our feet, and nothing to worry about but enjoy the moment — and the fruit.

But on some days, these summer fruit really inspire me to prepare a more elaborate dessert or a salad.

Like these two recipes.

My first idea was to bake a fruit crumble. P. and I really love crumbles! Do you too?

A crumble is one of many comforting everyday desserts so easy to make, one that always seems to welcome any seasonal fruit wonderfully. It does not matter whether the fruit isn’t the prettiest; it’s always going to be tasty in a crumble. In this recipe for example, I combined Rainier cherries and red and white currants and I tossed them in cane sugar and lime juice. Then, I topped the fruit with a mixture made with almond meal, quinoa flour, butter, brown sugar and a generous amount of nuts. With the sweetness of the cherries balancing the tarter taste of the currants, the dessert bursted with flavor. I think that like P. and I, you’ll fall in love with it!

Then on that same day, as I was about to prepare my lunch, I thought about adding Rainier cherries in a crunchy fennel and radish salad. I completed the dish with my favorite soft goat cheese and freshly chopped chives picked in the garden. It was delicious and refreshing, so much so that I made more to accompany our dinner the next day. A recipe that is a real keeper.

And when I was done with my bag of cherries and boxes of currants, I walked to the store to buy more.

I am sure that you’ve already noticed that I am just addicted. It shows and I cannot help it.

Be aware, it’s contagious.

“Slow down! And breathe,” P. whispered when he noticed that I was starting to feel agitated. As if I had to do something. Or make something.

It’s funny but it works and I hate to admit it, especially to P. At times, he reminds me to breathe, respirer !

I am still unsure that I know how I feel. How I should feel.

Sometimes, I imagine that the realization of the last six months is going to hit me. Suddenly and unexpectedly. And when it does, it’ll hit me hard on the head. Bang!

Somehow, it started four days ago, after I handed my manuscript to my editor. When my friend S. and I talked about it, she told me that the minute after she had turned in a book manuscript, she had driven home and cried. I didn’t, I told her. But one day later, I was crying too.

I wasn’t sad, mind you. I was simply starting to really relax. And breathe again. And that can be a process that requires time. I was — am — realizing the events of the last few months, one after the other.

These past six months have been a hike, to say the least. There’s been giving birth to our precious baby, winter in Boston with its snow storms, long days and evenings spent behind the stove cooking, and styling and photographing; writing while breastfeeding and changing diapers — and trying to sleep too, whenever I could. There has been styling and photography projects on the side, an inspiring conference where I was lucky to speak, the visits of my parents and P.’s — and the biggest of all, learning to become a mother.

I loved every moment even if it wasn’t always easy. There’s been laughter and tears; joy and discouragement. But when I look back and see the beautiful smiling face of our happy Lulu, what seemed unbearable and difficult vanishes. Pouf ! It’s magical how it works, really.

So yes, I am still amazed to realize that I met my deadline, handing in my manuscript on time last Wednesday. I am not sure how I managed. It’s perhaps a high dose of adrenaline that helped when I needed it, at the right time.

Of course, that does not mean that everything is done with my book. There is still plenty of work ahead for me, with revisions, corrections and testing — I know that! But the book is brought to life, slowly, and I am excited. And while this is happening, I am now officially on vacation. Oh yes! How nice does the word sound when I repeat it out loud a few times, vacances, vacances, vacances, just to make sure that it won’t go away without me.

Amazing!

We are taking Lulu to Europe this summer. She’s going to visit Ireland and France for the first time — we are so proud to be lucky enough to give her this opportunity. I am so eager for her to meet her Irish great-grandmother and cousins; meet more of my relatives in France; play with her grandparents; spend time in my brother’s garden; see the cows, goats and sheep. I’ll show her salads and apple trees and strawberries. She won’t care but that will make me feel warm inside anyhow. We’ll be having picnics by the river, eat lunch under the cherry trees, and walk through the fields. I’ll show her the details of the life that made me a happy young girl growing up in rural France. It might sound cheesy to say, but she is really the best thing I’ve ever done — and that’s coming from a woman who was never sure whether she wanted to have children. I love to rediscover the world through her eyes — like the day when she found out she could make noise by gently running her fingers on the strings of a guitar.

Nature makes wonders.

But with this said, let me share the recipe of this verrine with you, before the rhubarb and strawberry season comes to an end, and you might have to wait until next year again.

I wrote it last year, for the Cuisine Light magazine. It’s a lovely dessert that works perfectly to conclude a dinner with friends. It’s refreshing and sure to please the eye. I thought you might simply enjoy it too.

It’s a dessert to keep handy for a meal during les vacances — or not — if that’s where you are right now.

Note that it uses biscuits roses de Reims which you might find a little difficult to find. If that’s the case, use Champagne biscuits instead, or finely crumbled shortbread or why not, biscotti. Also, I like to work with gelatin sheets because it’s more what I am used to. If you prefer, substitute with gelatin powder. Note that in general, 1/2 teaspoon gelatin powder = 1 gelatin sheet.

Last June, I was pleased to see that Loukoum had enjoyed preparing the dessert. It’s always nice to get feedback.

I could hear the rain pat against the window pane. I was sitting at my desk, finishing an article I had been working on, and then I looked at the clock. 5:45. Déjà!I thought. Not much time before I feed and put Lulu to bed and start to think about dinner.

Patricia, my mother-in-law, was playing with her downstairs. I could hear them laugh; they were obviously having fun. Probably much more than moi and my article upstairs. I smiled, thinking about Lulu playing hide and seek with her grand-ma.

Well, June has just been a crazy month. But Patricia has been a doll with me. She’s come to stay with us for a few weeks, to help so that I could write and, yes, hear it, it’s happening, finish my manuscript. I am handing it to my editor on Wednesday and then I’ll wait for feedback. Oh I just cannot wait for this to happen.

I was starting to feel tired. Maybe hungry.

I need a nibble! I thought.

I walked downstairs to get a bowl of pecan nuts and a glass of water. When she saw me, Lulu’s face lit up with a smile so wide that I could see her bottom teeth; they are the cutest thing! She dropped the white bunny she was holding in one hand and started to flap her arms. “She is in good form,” I told Patricia.

We laughed.

“Do you mind making dinner?” I went on . “I have a pound of veal for stew in the fridge.”

“Of course!”

It’s been a treat to have her in my kitchen, playing with my foods and testing some of my recipes too. On my end, I’ve enjoyed having her taste recipes I cooked for the book, and others randomly made. Like these muffins.

They happened quite by accident, as a matter of fact. The truth is that I had a bunch of organic bananas that were so ripe that they needed to find a home.

“I have to bake something with these bananas,” I said to Patricia, holding a bunch of dark-looking ones. “I’d hate to toss them.” It happens, you know, when I am too busy and leave them, unattended. Am I alone to do that?

So I thought about muffins. In fact, I was in the mood for something combining coconut with bananas.

I didn’t have a recipe, but let my imagination lead me. And this is how these muffins arrived on our table.

They use quinoa, hazelnut and buckwheat flours; eggs; coconut oil; coconut milk, bananas and brown sugar. They bake in 25 minutes, are really simple to prepare and completely irresistible. And I don’t mean to be bragging. They might not be the cutest muffins you’ve seen but they are extremely moist, not too sweet, and have the texture I love in a muffin.

“Do you like them?” I asked Patricia when I handed her a plate with a muffin still warm from the oven. We were finished with dinner and were having a cup of tea, watching the Michael Jackson news on TV.

“They are divine!” she exclaimed.

I was happy.

I ate one for my mid-morning snack, one for breakfast, Philip took one to work. Then a friend stopped by and we ate a few with him, and I gave more to Patricia when she left yesterday. So in the end, ours are gone. Partis ! Pouf ! Disparus !

In only a matter of one day.

So I had to share the recipe with you. Hopefully, you’ll like them just as much as we did.