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

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

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

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

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

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

A lot of things cooking.

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

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

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

I might just have to make it again.

You probably recall that I recently wrote about making nutritious healthy baby food. What I didn’t tell you then, I realize, is about the utensil I actually use to prepare meals for Lulu. Magical! Oh how grateful I am to own a Beaba Babycook! It’s really the best kitchen gadget for a new maman! Perhaps you think you do not need one, and that’s fine too, but I must say that, it’s really simplified the preparation of Lulu’s foods. The bonus? It’s useful for that purpose and for whatever else you want.

So I wrote about it for Short Orders in the Boston Globe’s food section–and the article can be found here.

Today, for example, I prepared a white sweet potato, purple turnip and chicken meal for Lulu. I flavored her food with garlic and coriander. She ate the whole thing, with red quinoa on the side. Meanwhile, I was having a carrot and parsnip soup with coriander too. She ate some of that as well! And I ate some of hers.

We were in fact both enjoying one of the last supplies of local vegetables from our farmer’s market. I told Lulu how sad I was to see them go for the winter. She gave me a cuddle. Then we went to the park and she would not love the swing.

It made the two of us happy. With very happy bellies too.

I’d been thinking about spending a long weekend on Martha’s Vineyard island for a while. Ever since we’d returned from France in late August. I knew we would wait until the summer crowds were gone and the place would become tranquil, with the exception of the activities of the locals and occasional visitors, like us.

At first, I tried to reason myself, though, thinking ce n’est pas raisonnable Béa!, but the thought faded. Really vanished, in fact. And fairly quickly, I could hear the pleasing melody of an insisting voice whispering softly into my ear: Just do it, you’ll love it!.

And this is where the story started.

One morning, in early September, I told P. in an assertive tone: “We’re going to Martha’s Vineyard!” I remember him looking back at me without showing any sign of surprise. And then he smiled. “Ooh, je sais!” he said. “I know you well enough!”

And so this is how on Saturday of last week, with the car loaded with luggage, a loaf of chocolate cake , fresh produce and groceries, we hopped on the ferry that took us to the island.

And ooh how glad I am we made the trip!

To start, there was the lovely house where we stayed. Set in a secluded area near the gorgeous Long Pond Wildlife Refuge, it was full of charm and character. Because of its large open living area and perfectly equipped kitchen, we immediately felt cozy staying there.

“What a gem!” I exclaimed after I walked inside. My eyes were immediately drawn to the long farm dining table and tall silver milk jug sitting in the middle of it. I so much wanted it!

The house had inviting patios with colorful long chairs where we relaxed, enjoying an early morning cup of tea in the shade of the tall oak trees surrounding the place. The decor witnessed an obvious attention to detail. And naturally, Lulu made the place her home too, crawling into every corner she could find. Finding them all, in fact!

We had visited the island once before, but never in the fall. It was a real chance to be there at this time of year: the trees were magnificent, showcasing the first shades of red, orange and yellow which confirm that fall is winning over Nature; the beaches were empty.

We did easy things, clearly with the intention to catch up with life and spend quality time together. Just the three of us, as a family.

So we enjoyed long breakfasts, napped, played and read books with Lulu. We took walks to the beach and visited local farms where we bought apples. In the mornings, I also set time to work on my book, and then, in the midst of our daily activities, I cooked homey foods for us to enjoy.

Of course, how could I have done otherwise?

One night, I prepared a pot of winter squash soup that we ate with cheese, crusty bread, salad and fried eggs. One morning, I served lemon poppyseed pancakes at the breakfast table and the next day, we started with bowls of warm porridge topped with brown sugar, roasted nuts and blueberries.

On another evening, I stuffed eggplants and served them with sauteed quinoa and a tossed salad on the side.

Lunch was made of straightforward but nourishing foods: a mixed rice salad with cheese and leftovers from dinner the night before or plates of spicy tagliatelle cooked with lime and zucchini, and topped with generous amount of freshly grated parmesan cheese.

With dessert to finish our meals.

One evening, I baked apples in a light sweet sauce infused with vanilla, cinnamon and lemon and served the fruit with yogurt on the side. The juice the fruit released was so rich in taste that P. and I kept adding yogurt to our plates to prolong the taste in our mouth. Actually we were so eager for more that the next day, I baked another batch to repeat the experience over again.

And another night, we enjoyed coconut rice pudding with pomegranate seeds and cranberry sauce, scraping the pot to the last bit of rice.

Our meals were made of humble, rustic foods that, in many ways, connected us even more to the tranquil slow time we had decided to have.

“It was too nice to be real,” I said to P. on the last morning while we were packing the car. I just didn’t feel like going home!

“Me neither,” he said. ”

It’s a simple idea to have a weekend like this one, doing uncomplicated things; it’s a down-to-earth episode in our life with, at its center, family, nature and food.

“Easy!” he added. “We’ll just have to come back.”

It was all I needed and wanted to hear.

It’s wonderful the things we do for the people we love.

Prepare food, for example.

With Lulu, it started when she was still cozily nestled inside my belly. I remember thinking, every time I was putting food into my mouth, how much she would benefit from those foods. Comté, sole, rice pudding, carrots, zucchini, gratin, sweet potatoes, sweet and savory tarts, kale, peach, watermelon, apple, pear, blueberries, granola, veal, beef and milk — Oh the foods that I ate and enjoyed!

Then when Lulu was born, I started to nurse her, and then, when she was interested and had teeth too — did I tell you she has 8? — came the time to prepare foods for her.

It was somewhat intimidating, at first, knowing what foods to prepare for my baby. Trying to guess what she would like. What she would dislike. How would I know that she would love peaches and doesn’t care too much for bananas? That she’d love sheep milk yogurt and turns her head away from a piece of tofu? It’s a process I’ve learned. A world that I continue to explore, every day. Something that keeps changing too, with her. A life that I truly enjoy.

And somehow, along the way, I started to improvise fabulous food associations, combining vegetables with meats or fish, herbs and spices. Making the food nutritious and taste delicious. In fact, my rule is simple: if I like what I’ve prepared and want it for my lunch, then Lulu will have it! And hopefully she’ll enjoy it as much as I do.

Lulu is almost 10 months now — does time fly by for you too? She’s been eating many things. She loves quinoa buttermilk pancakes and anything that tastes like sweet potato — especially the Japanese white ones — and winter and summer squashes, cauliflower, broccoli and fennel. Yesterday, for example, she ate sole with Japanese white sweet potato, cauliflower and zucchini flavored with thyme and olive oil while dancing in her high chair to the tune of Charlie Winston playing in the background. And tonight, she had red quinoa to start, then winter squash steamed with fennel, chicken, sage and cumin. Not a single spoonful was left on her plate.

That alone never fails to make me feel warm inside. Happy.

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.

Moules marinières — mussels cooked in white wine, shallot and parsley — is a French classic. It’s also a dish that P. and I adore, especially if the dish is paired with thin oven baked fries on the side — our favorite are parsnips and carrots (these are yellow carrots!)

This is exactly the kind of dish I wanted to prepare for my most recent contribution to the Seasons column in the Boston Globe.

In fact, I made the recipe last week when my mother was visiting. She helped to clean the mussels — and I was glad since we bought three kilos — and gulp down the food. Because whenever there are mussels and fries for dinner, this is exactly what we end up doing! I am not sure how much each of us ate, but by looking at the pile of mussel shells on the table, I guess it was a lot. Then, I shelled the remaining mussels, kept the broth, and the next day, prepared a dish of spaghetti and sauteed julienned vegetables in which I added the reserved mussels and broth. Scrumptious!

In this mussel recipe, the flavor of the white wine-based broth is boosted with the addition of an earthy spice like saffron, orange bell pepper for a touch of color, and crème fraiche for smoothness. Make sure not to forget a loaf of crusty bread on the side, to sop up the broth.

It’s simple but delicious! The kind of honest food that tastes even better eaten with your fingers, making sure to lick them afterward.

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.

“Let’s have a lobster weekend,” my friend R. said. “I’ll talk to my lobster guy.”

“Your lobster guy?”

“Yes. You’ll see. You’ll love to meet him.”

Quite frankly, I was excited. First, we really love to hang out with our friends R. and E. Secondly, they live in a beautiful house on the South Shore, with an amazing view on the ocean, a huge (me happy!) pool and jacuzzi. Then, my friend R loves to cook — and does it very well — and he grows a vegetable garden. He also speaks French, and that’s always something relaxing for my end-of-week tired brain.

“I’ll make dessert!”

“Parfait! he exclaimed joyfully.“And what do you think about a lobster salad with tarragon?”

What did I think about it? I loved the idea!

That’s how our conversation ended and how P., Lulu and I had a great plan to look forward to for the weekend.

I packed on Friday night, filling our bags with delicious foods I wanted to bring, and on Saturday morning, we drove down south.

“J’ai déjà commencé,” (I’ve started already) R. said when we walked into the kitchen. He seemed jolly, busy working along behind the stove. I caught sight of three pink lobsters on the counter and felt relieved. I’ve never liked the part that involves plunging the lobsters into a pot, and I was glad that he had done it for me. “I still have four more,” he added with a wide smile lighting his tanned face. Clearly, we were going to dine on a lobster feast.

We sat in the small wooden shelter nested by the pool, eager to chat and catch up — we hadn’t seen each other in weeks. We were treated with a lunch of homegrown juicy tomatoes and cucumber that we ate with Italian prosciutto and Tallegio cheese. And as expected, R. and I started to talk about our dinner plan.

“Demain, on ira voir Tommy Alioto,” he said. He was talking about his lobster guy, Tommy, who owns and runs the Cohasset Lobster Pound on picturesque Cohasset Harbor. “You’ll see, he is quite a character! He’s got a smile!”

We made a salad with local Heirloom tomatoes and the next day, I picked vegetables — squash, eggplant, pepper and fresh herbs — that filled a basket to bring home. We debated what best lobster salad recipe to follow for our meal and settled on one inspired by Jasper White.

R. cooked four small 1 1/4 pound lobsters and removed the meat for the lobster salad along with the meat from the 5 pound lobster we used to serve the salad. He made the tarragon mayonnaise and I assembled the lobster salad and baked raspberries almond mascarpone flans.

We chatted and ate our food and drank a Chassagne-Montrachet Premier Cru “Les Chaumées” 2002 — a perfect accompaniment to lobster. We enjoyed a fabulous dinner.

And the next morning, as planned, we went to see Tommy.

Tommy had quite a smile indeed! He gave us a generous welcome, we shook hands and he took us downstairs to see the lobsters.

“Here’s the beast!” he said after pulling a gigantic lobster from the tank which he held proudly in front of him. The lobster weighed twenty pounds and seemed enormous. “Wow, that’s a big one for sure!”

I could not help but think that that one was just as heavy as Lulu!

I learned that Tommy buys his lobsters from about thirty Cohasset lobster boats and arranges their sale. Up to 7000 pounds of lobster are stored live in his large seawater tank and many are shipped daily to Milan in Italy.

“What about a lobster bisque?” R. asked after we had finished our dinner. It was hard to believe we were already thinking about the next meal but it’s never a surprise, really. Quite a habit instead. “Let’s make one for lunch tomorrow,” he added.

So this is how he started to make lobster broth late at night while tidying the kitchen. He took a large stock pot out in which he dumped the lobsters carcasses from our feast. He covered with water and brought the food to a boil. Then, he added some white wine leftover and added an onion, a leek, a few tomatoes and carrots. He added a few celery branches and 1 tablespoon of tomato paste — you can also add saffron. He brought the broth to a boil, seasoned with salt and pepper and then reduce the heat to let it simmer for 1 hour and a half. We left the broth sit overnight so that the flavors develop even more, and the next morning, R. strained and reduced the broth on high heat. To serve the lobster bisque, we added a few pieces of lobster meat we had kept and thickened the bisque by adding 1 to 2 tablespoons of cornstarch. We finished with fresh tarragon, a generous dollop of heavy cream and a dash of sherry to round the taste. It was simply astonishingly delicious. Trust me, you’ll have to try it!

“Do you want to take some broth home?” R. asked.

It was hard for me to hide my excitement. Of course I wanted broth! I was so happy that I could have kissed him for even suggesting it. Well, I think I gave him an honest kiss on each cheek as French people like to do!

And so the next day, when we were back at home, I made my own lobster bisque for dinner. It was so good that both P. and I ate as slowly as we could, making sure not to leave a single drop in our bowls.

“Nothing goes to waste,” I remembered R. had added when preparing the broth.

I couldn’t agree more, especially when food tastes that good.