I wanted to start the new year with delicious salads. Made with légumes secs (legumes), vegetables, and fruit. Offering zest and crunch. With mixed flavors of the earth and sea.

This verrine recipe has it all. It showcases black chickpeas, which I had never used before. I simply fell in love with its unusual color…

Yesterday, on the 1st of January, we had a picnic at the beach. I cannot begin to tell you how excited Lulu was at the idea! And how both P. and I were looking forward to it too!

“On va faire un pique-nique à la plage,” Lulu kept repeating to my mum on Skype while helping me to pack a picnic basket.

The truth is that we could not have dreamed of a more glorious day.

Oh the weather my dear readers! “What happened to winter?” we’ve been wondering….

It felt mild and calm outside. So sunny. So soft. Similar to a day in late summer or early fall.

After the holidays, Sunday was the first day when P., Lulu, and I were alone again. All family had returned home. The house felt too big. Too empty. I wanted that day at the beach. I knew it’d feel soothing to be outdoors.

To clear our heads…

We packed simple foods: A thermos filled with African Roobois tea; slices of chocolate cake; clementines and sheep yogurt; and our black chickpea, crab and fennel salad. Next time, I might even add finely shaved jicama or red grapes in it.

It might sound like it was the perfect day.

It really was.

Quiet.

Calm.

Reflective and full of lightness.

We were lucky.

Hopefully, it is setting the tone for the year to come?

Happy New Year to you all! May this new one bring happiness and love and fulfillment in whatever area that is dear to you.

May you be inspired to cook! In one of my next posts, I will share more pictures reflective of the past year….

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!

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.

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.

A few weeks ago, Esther who works for Martha Stewart magazines sent me an email, asking whether I’d like to receive a complementary copy of the special Everyday Food summer issue.

I’d be happy to, I said.

I love summer.

It almost went without asking. Especially since, I later found out, recipes from fellow bloggers Heidi, Aran, and Ree, were featured inside the magazine. With more goodies from New York food writer Mindy Fox.

I promised to give my feedback.

Don’t be surprised when I tell you that I wasn’t actually familiar with the magazine at all. I know.

In a way, it was probably good. I didn’t have any expectations.

The magazine arrived and I found myself enjoying what I read and saw.

The cover was pretty. The magazine was filled with beautiful pictures of mouthwatering dishes. With a strong enchanting summer feel. There was even a delightful feature of Aran and dishes she made to celebrate a summer pool party with friends.

All charming.

Obviously, many dishes caught my attention–like a zucchini frittata and Mindy‘s roast chicken. But because of the way my life goes at the moment, I knew I wouldn’t have the time to cook my way through the magazine right away.

I have the rest of summer to do just that.

Yet, I started with a few selected dishes.

Like the gorgeous corn soup that Aran made and styled. It was a dish we loved.

I adapted the recipe, experimenting each time I cooked it.

The soup is served chilled with chopped pepper and scallions, and coriander flowers. I was glad to find coriander flowers in my garden that I gladly used for the garnish as well. We found the soup superb to start a meal on a hot day.

In one of my interpretations of the dish, the recipe I am including here, I liked to add leek and fresh herbs, because I have lots of them in the garden that speak summer flavors. I also garnished the soup with fresh pieces of crab that offered a welcoming contrast of texture and flavors, a bit like a cross between Earth and Water. Try these if you happen to have the ingredients handy. And I served the soup lukewarm. In the end, I really enjoyed the original recipe and the variants I tried. It was fun to make the soup again and again and see what happens each time we ate it.

Then came the popsicles. Beautiful refreshing bâtonnets de glace à eau, as we call them in French, with colors that popped out of the pages. So inspiring, I thought. Perfect for the season.

I knew I had to try a few.

I had mangoes at home, juicy peaches and raspberries bought at the market, and my favorite apple juice. Inspiration with a new recipe idea in my head.

That was just the way the mango and peach popsicle recipe that follows was born.

I kept it simple. Without any sugar added. I wanted to taste the aromas of the fruit. I wanted that Lulu enjoyed them just like that too. I wanted color. So I decided to sneak a few raspberries inside each popsicle. And nothing else.

We ate them when my father-in-law and P.’s sister, who both live in Chicago, paid us a surprise visit for lunch. It was a perfect summer day, I remember. Not too warm. So comfortable. I had prepared a carrot soup flavored with lemon thyme that we enjoyed with crusty millet bread, slices of prosciutto, and cucumber from the garden that I sliced finely and dressed in a yogurt, mint, lemon juice and olive oil sauce.

The popsicles sealed our meal beautifully. They were gone within seconds.

So I made more. With red currants and raspberries that time.

“Red ones!” Lulu exclaimed when she opened the freezer and found them, ready to be eaten.

She ate one. And then she was off running again.

Ah the flavors of summer…

Did I like the magazine?

I did.

I also told Esther that I wished that the future issues would stay in a large format, like the summer issue (the current Everyday food issues are printed in pocket size).

Photographs need to be big, I added.

They really do.

N’est-ce pas ?

Berry crumble is a serious dessert at home. I have to tell why. I sense that it will even make you feel happy.

A few weeks ago, my next door neighbor A. asked if we’d like to go blueberry picking with her.

You don’t need to twist my arm, I answered spontaneously.

She most likely didn’t know that fruit picking was one of my favorite summer things to do.

Not because I’ve gone blue berry picking often. I actually haven’t.

In Lorraine, the French region I come from, we grow myrtilles instead.

The berries–also called brimbelles–look like their American blue berry cousins but they are much smaller in size. Perhaps darker in color too. In the mountainous Vosges department where the berries are popular, especially for its traditional tarte aux myrtilles, the fruit is harvested with a wooden comb. When I was a child, we’d drive every summer to the neighboring mountains in search of myrtilles. And invariably, we’d return home with baskets full. They ended up in jams and tarts that we enjoyed with whipped cream on the side.

The promise of blueberry picking brought me back right there.

A. and I made a plan to go the weekend before last.

At 7 AM on Sunday, the air was feeling already warm. We knew that the best thing to do would be to arrive at the farm before the midday heat, so we left early.

“On va à la ferme cueillir des bleuets ce matin,” (We are going to the farm to harvest blueberries) I told Lulu who was already walking with her red polka dot hat on.

“Farm?” she replied while looking at me. “On va voir les cochons ?”

We drove forty five minutes outside of Boston to Ward’s Berry farm. When we arrived, there weren’t many people, which meant that the blueberry field would be mostly ours.

Despite the heat that was surely going to peak, it felt like the perfect blueberry day.

Everything on the farm smelled like summer.

Ward’s Berry Farm is a family run farm that features lovely seasonal fruit and vegetables, flower baskets and plants, deli produce, pick-your-own strawberries, blueberries & pumpkins–and oh so deliciously-cute animals. Behind the farm stand, I was delighted to find geese and pones, baby cows and chicken, baby goats and sheep who enjoyed sticking out their friendly faces to say hello.

We were told to follow a narrow dirt road that would eventually lead to the blueberry field. Hearing a few people happily chatting away on the way enveloped me with a feeling that the morning was going to be glorious.

And it was.

As we walked closer, I noticed long lines of fresh herbs spreading out. There were carrots and salads, raspberries and peach trees–or were they apricots–and I imagined returning just for that reason.

I found the berry bushes beautiful. And the berries just like jewels shining under the sun.

Some berries were pink; others were mauve or blue. Or green. They all mingled harmoniously and looked gorgeous nested between the healthy-looking green leaves of the bushes.

It was still early in the season, so we were careful to look for the ripest blueberries, showing Lulu which ones were ready to be harvested.

“Another one!” she’d exclaim with joy every time she found a dark-blue looking berry. Clearly she was enjoying our berry-picking game. But as the heat started to seriously peak and she looked tired and more interested in the slide and swings spotted on the way in, we knew that we’d better work fast.

So while we did, I kept thinking about the berry crumble that would follow.

I ate my first crumble when I traveled to England at the age of twelve. I will never forget. I loved everything about the dessert. Then, crumbles only showed up occasionally during most of my teenager and young adult years. Until I met P. and his Irish family.

That was when crumbles seriously entered my life.

Every one in P.’s family loves crumble. Rightly so. In their company, I’ve eaten crumbles with rhubarb and strawberries. Some with apple. They taught me to love crumble as much as they do.

I love them for that reason too.

I wanted a crumble with character.

For the fruit, I decided to use juicy apricots, red and white currants, raspberries and blueberries that, I thought, complemented each other really well. For the topping, I chose pistachios and oats and vanilla, and then I tossed in light brown sugar, almond meal, millet and teff flours.

While the crumble finished to cook, making the house smell heavenly, I sat down at the table. Waiting until it was ready.

And thinking.

It looked like the perfect crumble. Flavorful and crispy.

And then I imagined how much I would have loved to share my crumble with every one of P.’s Irish family member. With plain yogurt on the side, just the way I ate mine.

I knew they would have also seriously fallen for that crumble recipe.

Vraiment, aren’t you glad I told you about it too?