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.

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.

I’ll have to tell you about that too before the season is over.

Not long ago, P. asked me whether the verb clafoutir existed in French. I smiled. I found the question so sweet that just for a day, or two, I pretended that it did indeed.

It would have read like this:

“je clafoutis, tu clafoutis, il clafoutis, nous clafoutissons, vous clafoutissez , ils clafoutissent.”

Imagine that, so funny!

Wouldn’t it make sense, though? English as a language always seems to be much more flexible than stubborn old French? Words come and go so much more easily.

Anyway, I know what you’re going to say. Yet another clafoutis!

Well, I’ll have to apologize. But then, it’s really all we’re having for dessert at the moment. It serves the purpose just fine. And we are quite all right with it. In fact, it’s pretty good this way. In view of our life right now, that we’re still able to enjoy a dessert that brings the sweet touch, you know, what we want after dinner, what we need after dinner after too many hours hunched over the computer, busy finishing up the cookbook. I am getting there!

I made this clafoutis a few times over the last few weeks, varying the fruit. In this one, I liked to combine fresh strawberries and rhubarb stewed with orange zest. It’s seasonal, and always a winning association. Then, I mixed eggs with sugar, milk and coconut milk, almond flour and cornstarch. Baked for 25 minutes and ate them lukewarm dusted with confectioner’s sugar.

A lovely every day dessert, simple and straightforward.

Lulu will have to love clafoutis as much as her papa and her maman. Sinon! (or else) But right now, she’s only all about carrots and sweet potatoes. It has to start somewhere!

On another note, I’ll be speaking this coming Sunday, at the Food Styling and Photography Conference happening at Boston University. I hope that I’ll be able to meet some of you, and that I’ll be all right! Oh boy! Wish me luck!

I am a little behind in wishing you all, my dear readers, a happy 2009 new year, non ? But then, I’ve always been told that it was quite all right to give one best wishes until the end of January.

I, of course, will not be able to forget 2008. What an amazing year it’s been in our life! So rich and fulfilling!

First, there’s been a lot of fun and exciting trips that P. and I took, each different in style, each leaving us with memories of good times; there’s been rewarding work accomplishments, like continuing to contribute to the Boston Globe Food Section or working on the photography of a talented baker’s cookbook (not yet released, but I will let you know when that happens). And there is more to come.

In 2008, I’ve cooked a storm, I’ve taken and styled hundreds of pictures — anyone else having digital storage issues? I’ve bought way too many cups, bowls, cutlery and plates, as I am constantly reminded by my darling P., and I’ve enjoyed every piece of it all.

But in 2008, there’s been something larger and more challenging than anything I have ever done before, something no one can ever prepare you for, something much tastier and more enriching than all of the cooking, styling and photography combined, that regularly happens in my house.

Well, you know of it. It started with carrying our small treasured bébé in my belly during nine months in 2008. What a journey it’s been! So natural and common.

Yet, so unique.

I, for one, can vividly remember when P. and I found out that I was pregnant. It was the day in late April when we left for Italy. It’s funny to think about it today. We were somewhat panicked, overwhelmed and excited, I recall, about what was going to come next. And so, naturally, this piece of news changed entirely how the year unfolded for us. In such a rewarding way — we know that we are lucky.

During all these months, you’ve kept coming to visit my blog to say hello. You’ve always been here, to leave me encouraging notes, share stories, ask questions, and chat about food and life — the good stuff! I cannot thank you enough for that. While I do not have the time anymore to respond to every comment you leave individually, know that each matters, and makes me smile. So thank you, once again!

So to finish 2008 and start 2009, let me share a story and recipe with you. The story of this berry pavlova.

So special.

When I made this dessert, I had all the intentions to taste and enjoy it, but I never got to it. And let me tell you why.

On December 23rd, P. and I had made a plan to have a casual dinner with four other dear friends before the craziness of the holidays and the arrival of bébé. My friend L. was very pregnant too.

“Let’s keep it simple,” her husband J. suggested. “We should just do take-outs.”

“Sounds great,” I wrote in my email back. “I will prepare a dessert! Something quick.”

And so the day flew by. In the morning, I drove downtown to buy last minute Christmas presents — this is how unprepared I was this year. I baked cookies which I styled and took photographs of too, I made panna cotta and later in the day, I set myself to prepare my dessert. Of all things, I chose to bake a pavlova.

“I will pick you up at seven, after my massage,” I told P. when he called by late afternoon. “I can leave the dessert in the car, it will be cold enough.”

At five O’ clock, I was in the car driving to the next town, feeling happy at the thought of how good it would be to have my entire body relax. “Oh I cannot wait,” I kept repeating all day.

“When is the baby due?” A., the masseuse at Isis Maternity, asked as she settled me comfortably on the massage table. “Any area you would like me to work on? Any pain anywhere?”

“Nope, I feel pretty good, all things considered,” I said laughing, looking and touching my big belly with both hands. “I’m ready, even if bébé is arriving only in ten days.”

A. was never given the chance to finish the massage. Ten minutes after she started, my water broke and labor started soon after. Lulu could not wait; she was on her way to discover the world.

Before driving to the hospital, we stopped home to finish packing our bags, and have a bite to eat.

“I will bring you food,” J. told us on the phone when we called to tell that we would not be able to come for dinner.

“Oh good,” I told P., thinking about my desserts. “I will give him the pavlova.”

I was just relieved that it would not be wasted, and that our friends would enjoy it thinking about the new adventure ahead of us.

Lulu is four weeks today. Already.

Life has changed. Life tastes better, despite the tiredness and the puffy eyes. I am told it will get better. We are happy, overwhelmed with feelings I did not know before. Every day, I learn something new — and I am challenged. And every day, I continue to cook. Whatever it is, even if extremely basic.

“Stop cooking and rest,” my friend N. told me when I told her about the lamb tajine we ate for dinner last night. I laughed. Rest? Of course, she is right. But stop cooking? She does not know me well enough!

Lulu and I have already made cookies, soups, stews and salads together. I like to talk to her and tell her what I am preparing as she stays close to my chest, cozily nested in a sling. Of course, she sleeps through most of it, but I still wonder whether she notices already the smells and pot and pan noises in the kitchen.

So naturally, I want to dedicate the recipe for this pavlova to our little princess. One day, P. and I will tell her the story of how it happened. She might smile and find it as special as we do.

Happy New Year everyone! May you have a wonderful year. And thank you for being here.