“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 wouldn’t be able to find the house in daytime,” Albert said after he greeted us at the airport. He was standing quietly next to the car that we had just finished to load with our luggage. “I”ll drive ahead,” he added in perfect English, but with a hint of what I assumed was the local accent. The plan was for him to drive ahead and take us to the house we had rented on the west side of Tortola, the largest island in the British Virgin Islands. I was glad he was here because it was already late in the afternoon. From experience, I remembered that the roads on islands could be fairly unpredictable.

“It’s a good thing that you rented a four wheel drive car,” Al, as we quickly called him, went on. He was now smiling. “Someone will meet you at the bottom of the hill and will show you the way up. I cannot get there with my truck. ”

“The hill?” I replied hesitantly, unsure I had heard properly.

What hill? I wondered.

“Wait until you see the view from the top. It’s just amazing.”

The drive from the airport to the house took a solid hour. We couldn’t see much around us since it was night time but as planned, Persia, the woman Al had told us about, was waiting for us by the side of the road.

“Here you are,” Al said after stepping out of his car. We exchanged quick goodbyes; we were keen to continue. As we started to drive slowly behind Persia’s car, I felt as if my heart stopped beating as we took the last turn into the driveway. Not only did I feel tired but now I was becoming worried. Even a bit scared. That turn…the hill…no one had told me about them. I had never seen a road that steep before.

But Al was right. From the top, the view was incomparable. Magnificent. All of a sudden, falling in love with that scary hill became almost natural. Whenever we sat on the patio to enjoy breakfast, lunch or dinner, it felt as if we were on top of everything. Lulu, particularly, loved to point at the sailing boats in the distance, or watch pelicans fly close by. It felt as if we could touch at it all. That it was ours.

At least it was ours to enjoy.

We had one week to embrace Tortola and we arrived without big plans. In fact, the only priority we had was to rest and enjoy family times. Now that Lulu is in our lives, P. and I have obviously learned to travel differently–and right now, this is truly a welcoming change. One that allows us to follow our young girl’s pace.

It’s slow. And it’s every bit pleasing.

The house felt comfortable and easy–beside the fact that we quickly realized that it wasn’t designed for children whatsoever. I liked that it its layout made us feel we were outside when we were in. In the middle of the property, there was an inviting pool with long chairs, an area we naturally gravitated towards.

We decided that we wouldn’t be traveling big distances on the island. When we weren’t at the house–swimming or reading books by the windows while enjoying the view–we spent a few afternoons at the beach. On the way back, we visited local stores for groceries and to buy fresh fish.

One day, it’s parrot fish and doctor fish we found and decided to grill simply. I could not get over how beautiful, in particular, the parrot fish were. Another time, we came back with sand snappers in our bag.

Finding fresh produce was always hard, so when we managed to find locals selling their own produce by the side of the road, we grabbed the opportunity to stop and buy whatever they had.

This was how we were introduced to rose plums. And how we enjoyed delicious bananas.

I had come prepared. I knew I would want to cook. And bake, no matter what.

“Did you bring these muffin cases?” P. asked one morning while pointing at the set of yellow silicone muffin molds carefully lined up on a baking tray, ready to be used. He had a perplexed look on his face that amused me.

Tu me connais, non ? is all I thought of answering. (You should know me by now, no?)

You never know what a place will be like, right?

So with the few utensils I had packed, I managed to bake a few batches of muffins for our morning and afternoon snacks, and one night, I baked these bananas au gratin.

It was an idea that popped into my head spontaneously, I remember. We had limes, coconut milk, hazelnut flour (that I’d purposely packed, just in case). The rest followed naturally.

And so did the rest of our vacation. By looking at the scenery we woke up to and the one we went to bed with, you too might start to understand why I already miss the view.

Even perhaps the hill that managed to haunt my dreams on the first night.

“Betty ?” I heard a deep male voice over the phone. It sounded like my father. Who else, outside my family and people from my home village in France, would call me Betty? I remained quiet for a few seconds until realizing that in fact, it was indeed my father.

“Vous êtes déjà arrivés ?” (Did you already arrive?) I asked, surprised.

I looked at my watch, and then at Lulu who was staring at my hand holding the phone. Then she looked at me, waiting for a push to get the swing moving. We had walked to the park, thinking we’d have time before my parents arrived. “P. est en route pour l’aéroport,” (P. is on his way to the airport) I went on. “Désolée, on ne savait pas que votre avion était en avance.” (Sorry, we didn’t know your plane was early.)

Perhaps my parents’ plane landed early because they felt impatient. It showed right away as they walked into the house to hug and kiss Lulu. Once. Twice. I quickly stopped counting. And instead I watched, and smiled, feeling so happy and thankful for that sweet moment between Lulu and her grandparents. The last time they had seen her was when we visited during the summer. Five months ago. I knew she would look like a different baby. And that she’d be a lucky one to have two fully dedicated playmates with her for two weeks. My parents are so good at it that it has me wonder whether they’ve taken a special class…just teasing. It’s a delight.

So this is what’s been happening in our home. The visit of my parents, as a start, which I’d very much been looking forward to. And me? Working long hours to revise the manuscript of my cookbook. Yes, it’s still going on and I have a new deadline! So add this to that, and this explains why there have not been many recipes and stories in this favorite space of mine. I cannot keep up at the moment.

I’m cooking a ton, mind you. So many foods, in fact. Having my mother in the kitchen by my side is precious. She likes to joke that she is my prep chef. I wish she were here all the time. She’s helping a ton, cooking homey foods for us–dishes I know so well. And miss.

On the night when they arrived, because they were tired from a long journey, I had prepared a light dinner. I made a soup. One that will be for the cookbook.

“Vous n’allez manger que des plats qui seront dans mon livre,” (You”ll only eat dishes that will be in my cookbook) I added, laughing, as I ladled steaming red lentil soup in our plates.
“Tant mieux!” (Good!) my mother answered.

I could see she was enjoying these simple foods. We had baguette, a wide selection of cheese–cannot have my father over without them–roasted beets and a green salad on the table too.

“Et ça aussi ca ira dans le livre ?” (Will this go in the cookbook too?) my father asked when, after we were finished, I brought dessert. I was holding a dish filled with warm pears baked with ginger, lemongrass and vanilla in one hand, and a bowl with plain yogurt in the other.

“Ah non, pas ça. Ça, c’est juste pour nous. C’est tout simple!” (Not this. This is just for us. Very simple.)

Within minutes, we cleaned the dish to the last bite.

I had forgotten how nice it actually is to have them over. We really love food in my family.

And it shows.

Thank you for your patience!

“You’ll make a dessert, ok?” my friend R. asked. We were talking about the Thanksgiving dinner that he was hosting, once again.

“Sure.”

“Can you make something with apple?”

I liked the idea. Especially since I’ve been storing the last seasonal Heirloom apples I could find! Leaving the store, I felt like a squirrel storing her nuts. This is how much I am going to miss local apples.

So I baked a cake. An apple and red kuri squash upside down cake, to me more precise. And this is what I will bring tomorrow to our Thanksgiving dinner.

We’ll enjoy wonderful food and wine, and like most of you I hope, have a fun time with our friends. They are the family we do not have close by.

“What about the sunchokes?” I added.

“What about them?”

“Can I dig some out?”

My friend R. told me he had plenty of Jerusalem artichokes in his back garden — one of my favorite root vegetables. I made him promise that I would be able to bring some home. I am already thinking about gratins and soups and salad!

That was the condition on the apple cake.

Of course.

Have a lovely time everyone!

My friend R. and I were chatting about food while cleaning up in the kitchen after dinner. Then, I told him: “Tu sais, ça fait des années que je veux voir la récolte des canneberges,” (You know, it’s been years since I wanted to see the harvest of cranberries).

“Ah bon ?” he exclaimed, surprised.

I looked at him. He became quiet. He’s thinking, I thought. I could see it. He’s cooking something!

“I think I can help,” he said, with a glorious smile lighting his face.

It’s one of the many nice things I like about R. The fact that he’s têtu comme une mule (stubborn like a mule), persistent — did I say before that he’s a medical doctor? — and that he’s always enthusiastic about anything that’s in relation with food. We’re friends because of that too.

A few days after we talked, he emailed me.

“C’est fait!” (Done!) he wrote.”You’re all set. Going to visit a cranberry bog.”

“How did you do it?” I wrote back.

“I know people,” he had casually added.

What he actually meant was that he had written to a friend working at Ocean Spray, and one thing leading to another, he managed to plan the visit to a cranberry farm for me.

He might not have known it, but that simple thing made me really happy!

On Thursday, we woke up to a bright sunny day. That’s really lucky! I thought. It had rained the entire day before.

“Lulu, on va voir des champs de canneberges** aujourd’hui,” (Lulu, we’ll see cranberry bogs today,) I told her as I was slipping a cozy jacket and a warm hat over her head. It might be windy on the bog, Jennifer, our guide, had warned me. Bring layers!

My friend E. was going to come with me. While waiting for her, I ate one bowl, or rather two, of warm spicy sweet potato and butternut squash soup to keep my energy up, and I packed a few hard-boiled eggs and an avocado comté sandwich along with Lulu’s lunch, cumin-flavored mashed vegetables and stewed peaches I had prepared for her. I knew it was going to be a beautiful day.

** Perhaps the right term is cannebergière, but I like the way words like “champs de canneberges” sound.

It’s hard to know where to start. During the few hours we spent with Jennifer, I learned so much. My eyes were taken by so much beauty as I watched beautiful shades of red coloring the ground generously. Like a happy painting.

It took us forty five minutes to drive south to Carver. As soon as we got out of the car, Lulu looked around swiftly, stared for ten seconds and then started to smile and laugh. I looked around too, and just realized that I wanted to do the same. I was so happy to finally see a cranberry bog in real life!

A tall man with a generous look on his face walked in our direction to greet us. He was Larry, the owner of the farm. With his brother, he started to tell us about the farm and how the harvest takes place. I was all ears. I had my questions ready too.

Cranberries are harvested in various states throughout the United States. Wisconsin is the biggest cranberry supplier, but Massachusetts, Maine, and neighboring states in Canada like Nova Scotia, Québec and New Brunswick have a fair amount of cranberry growers too. To do well, cranberries need an acidic soil to grow, and a climate that combines cold winters — even if they are sensitive to ice and snow — and warm summers, just like in New England.

It takes a year for a crop of cranberries to be ready. Ninety percent of the time, the bog remains dry. Then, by mi-September each year, when the cranberries are ripe, the bog is flooded, ready for harvesting. The harvest will then last until about the end of October. It’s a cycle that repeats every year, with crops better some years than others.

“Many of the farmers believe in Mother Nature,” Jennifer said. “If a crop is good one year, it’s partially because of the weather, of course, but it’s also due to what Nature keeps for us,” she told me her growers often report.

When the bog is flooded, while under water, the cranberries are still attached to the vine. Harvesters drive across the entire the bog on a machine — resembling a tall tractor — that detaches the cranberries from the vine. Once this done, the cranberries are gathered in one area to facilitate the harvest (called corralling). They are pumped, washed and then transferred to a truck.

The process is simple and beautiful to watch. Lulu enjoyed it as much as E. and I did.

“Do you want to taste a fresh cranberry?” Larry said, picking a berry between his big fingers.

“Can I?”

“Sure!” he said, laughing.

He took a knife out of his pocket, cut the berry he was holding open and held it to me. I bite in the fruit, not sure what to expect. “Wow!,” I said, making a face after I swallowed the fruit. It tasted tart. But I liked it. I had to try again. I popped another piece in my mouth. The taste was becoming addictive.

“It reminds me of a red currant,” I told Larry.

“Here!” he said, holding large bags of plump cranberries for me to bring home. For some odd reason, they looked much bigger than the ones I was used to seeing in the store.

“That’s a lot of cranberries,” I said, laughing. He responded something, I knew, but I was already lost in thoughts of what I was going to make with my precious freshly harvested fruit.

And once we were back home, later that night, the first thing I baked was a cranberry and apple crumble. And I made an upside down cranberry cake and cranberry sauce too, thinking that, somehow, the cranberries looked almost as pretty served on the table as they did when they were floating on their bed of water.

Almost!

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.