“I am completely mesmerized by the color of the grass,” I tell Dan who is sitting next to me in his red Chevrolet pickup. The road is fairly bumpy and dusty but I don’t pay any attention to it. My eyes are glued to the scenery that slowly unveils as we approach the ranch where he and his wife Jill live.

The closest connection to any country store is an hour away. “And this is the last place to get gas,” Dan adds while pointing at a small shabby-looking gas station along the endless interstate highway that connects us to Rapid City. I cannot help but smile. Even if I still have no idea of what is waiting for me ahead, I already know I am going to really like it.

“It’s my first time in South Dakota.”

“Good,” he says with a friendly smile.

I like the way he speaks. The pace of his words sounds peaceful and quiet. They mimic the appeasing feeling that runs through my body when my eyes catch sight of the yellow rolling hills which surround us as we drive along.

“I cannot believe the weather here either,“I add. “Everyone had told me it was going to be so cold!”

All of a sudden, the long gray winter jacket, the woolen hat and gloves I am wearing feel inappropriate and uncomfortable. I am dying to change into lighter mid-season clothes.

“It can change quickly though, so you never know. It’s good to be prepared.”

I realize that Dan is right when, a few days later, we wake up to 20 F, wind and a light veil of snow covering the plain.

But the light. Oh the light! that colors the Great Plains.

Every day.

Over and over again.

I’ve never stayed on a ranch before. I’ve never seen buffalo before either. But deep inside, I know one thing: the week I am going to spend in South Dakota to work with Dan and Jill O’ Brien will be amazing.

Jill and Dan O’ Brien are the force and talent behind Wild Idea Buffalo. I am only arrived on their ranch, getting to know them more, that I quickly understand that their vision is not just about selling buffalo meat. Their goal is about making sure that their animals are kept happy in the Great Plains, that they receive the best foods, and that the environment is preserved.

They believe in a sustainable eco-system.

They believe in a better place.

And it shows.

I’ve come to teach Jill food styling and photography. And so during the entire week, she and I cook, style, and photograph food.

Jill has a beautiful smile and a generous laughter.

I love working with her in the kitchen. I love hearing her story.

When she tells me that she grew up on a South Dakota dairy farm, and that she learned to cook because this was what you did when you came from a large family, I cannot help but think about my father, his upbringing on the farm, and the long communal table in my grand-mother’s kitchen where family and workers would always sit to refill on hearty dishes my grand-mother had prepared.

As I feel curious to know more about her family, I keep on asking: “Did your mother and grand-mother like to cook?”

By looking at her energy and strength in the kitchen, I can guess the answer.

“Oh yes!”

“No wonder you are such a generous cook!” I tell her as I watch her serving us bowls of steaming buffalo stew that reminds me of my mother’s boeuf bourguignon. The food is so delicious that I close my eyes with the attempt to slow the moment down. I want to keep the taste of it in my mouth longer.

Jill educates me to buffalo meat. And to my surprise, I even don’t mind eating more meat than I am accustomed to.

“The flavor is really delicate. The meat has great character,” I tell her when, one night to celebrate Jilian’s birthday, she prepares a cut of buffalo tenderloin for dinner. The words “délicat et léger float in my head.

Each buffalo dish I eat leaves me feeling light.

To refill our energy and creative spirit, between photo shoots, Jill takes me to see the horses and chicken.

“I want to raise Araucana chicken!” I tell her, laughing, as she hands me a couple of warm blue and white eggs we’ve just fetched from the henhouse.

We take walks with the dogs. I particularly enjoy watching Henry-our French hunting dog as Jill enjoys reminding me–run freely through the fields and between the hills.

We observe antelopes and coyotes in the distance. We watch sun sets and moon rises.

Every day, I marvel at the sight of the blond grass. And of cotton trees set against bright blue skies.

“I really want to swim in it,” I tell Dan and Jill each time we walk or drive by a field–to which they laugh.

I cannot get enough of the oranges and yellows of the light that embraces the Great Plains every day at the same time, comes four O’ Clock. It has an intensity I’ve not seen before.

Dan takes me to see the buffalo herds by the majestic Cheyenne river near their ranch. I help him to feed the baby buffalos that he and Jill have rescued.

“These are only three months old,” he tells me as he points at small buffalo that are more red than the others. “You can tell by the color of their hair.”

“They are still frail but we are planning to let them join the older ones in a week.”

With Dan, I enjoy talking about writing too.

“I didn’t know that you were such an accomplished writer!” I tell him with admiration when he humbly acknowledges the numerous novels he’s written over the years.

As we chit-chat more, I soon find out that not only Dan is a talented writer, but that the French have also befriended him warmly. His ranch and admirable work with the wild buffalo have been featured in many French magazines, including Géo, my utter favorite when I was growing up!

I learn a ton over the course of my week.

I discover an American state with delightful landscapes that transport me to old cowboys movies once watched when I was young. Papa, tu adorerais !

I learn that life can be much simpler. Quieter. I learnt that when need be, you can always make do with what you have at hand.

I fall asleep while hearing the howling of coyotes.

I watch the moon rise. And the sun set.

I eat scrumptious country foods. I eat the best buffalo burger with homemade red potato chips. I dine from elegant dishes.

I make new friends.

And I return home with the recipe of a delicious Vietnamese Bison Salad.

Thank you Jill and Dan for welcoming me into your home. I cannot wait to come back to see the grass turn green. And to show P. and Lulu the buffalo, the Great plains, and have them watch a moon rise and fetch fresh eggs.

Lulu will love to meet you and pet the cats.

She will love to run freely on top of the hills.

I am convinced that she will really enjoy the taste of buffalo meat too.

Of course, when I returned, I could not help but recreate my own variant of Jill’s salad in my kitchen. Mine had zucchini and carrots, and I used veal instead of bison. It didn’t take long to become a real favorite.

They were P.’s words. I could not agree more.

“How did you end up deciding to go to that island?” my friend R. asks. She is casually sitting on the bed next to me while I am packing our suitcases. Clothes are lying everywhere on the floor.

I must pause as I don’t actually know how to answer.

“I am not sure,” I eventually mutter. “We just need a break, you know. P.’s heard about the island from friends who went. We wanted something simple and low key. Then, I found a house with a pool. Not too expensive. And it was not too far either. So I made it happen. Voilà ! You know me, that’s how it goes.”

We wanted to see turquoise blue waters. Feel the warmth of fine sand under our feet.

And breathe.

It’s close to noon on Saturday morning when we arrive at the airport of Miami. The place is bustling with activity. We have less than an hour to wait before our next flight. It’s short. Lulu is casually resting on my lap, feeding her baby doll, and despite our early start of the day, I can feel that my body is finally starting to relax.

It‘s happening.

Everything has been so far easy and it feels weird. This time, I am glad not to have forgotten a passport back at home. These things happen now.

The flight connection works fine. We don’t experience delays. Lulu is happy. So we are too. And now we even have a car ready for us at our final destination. Our next stop after that will be the house. At that point, I am simply craving a dip in the pool.

“Look at these colors!” I tell P. as I catch a glimpse of reefs in a beautifully clear blue sea, minutes before we eventually touch the ground.

The change of weather is striking.

“Wow, I had forgotten how summer feels! ” I tell P. as I watch him toss our bags in the trunk of our small rental car.

I am wearing a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and converse shoes, and all I wish for now is a pair of flip flops, a light skirt and a tank. Lulu looks tired and hot, but like us, she shows real signs of excitement about the new environment surrounding us. Especially when she catches a glimpse of the booster seat loosely installed in the back. While we are worried it might not be secure enough, she loves it right away.

“She looks grown up in it, don’t you think?” I tell P. when I see the big smile that lights up her entire face.

“She does.”

We don’t need to say it. We both feel proud of her for handling the trip so well. We are also very happy to have a quiet vacation, the three of us, on an island for an entire week.

“Is the house far?” P. asks after I start the car. I prefer to drive while he navigates. We always seem to work more efficiently this way.

“I can’t be.”

Provo–as the locals call it–is small indeed. It’s part of two groups of tropical islands in the West Indies that form Turks and Caicos.

The islands lie southeast of the Bahamas and north of Haiti and Dominican Republic. The land area covers 430 square kilometers and the total population is around 36,000, of whom approximately 22,500 live on Providenciales in the Caicos Islands.

We’ve decided to stay on the quiet side of Provo, away from the bigger and more touristy resorts. As is common with us when we travel.

Our house is located in a quiet neighborhood near Long Bay Beach. The kitchen, I quickly notice, could do with better equipment, but I make do with it.

“I feel less silly about the vegetable grater and knife I’ve brought with us,” I cannot help remark. to P. He always likes to tease me about this weird habit of mine. I like to think of it as useful instead.

With the privacy, the pool, jacuzzi and beach are what make the place.

Our days start slowly and follow an even slower routine with neither phones nor computers which we embrace with great ease.

That’s all we want.

After a morning swim, we eat at home, or we end up in pretty-looking beach bars, lunching on conch ceviche or tacos, mussels cooked in white wine, rice and peas and BBQ-ed fish. In the afternoon, we read, nap and go swimming again before dinner, and then we take a walk on the beach to watch the sunset. With the dogs who live on the property escorting us back and forth each time.

And the next day, we repeat the same pattern.

“It’s funny how people decide that one beach is amongst the most beautiful in the world,” I tell P. one morning while the three of us play in the sand on an empty end of Grace Bay beach.

While preparing for our trip, we had read that guide books refer to Grace Bay beach as one of the world’s top beach destinations. We understand why. The contrast between the green turquoise of the water and the lightly colored sand is stunning. Truly eye-catching. But yet we still prefer by far the natural beauty we find in Long Beach beach on the other side of the island where we stay; Whitby Beach in North Caicos and Mudjin Harbor beach in Middle Caicos that we visit as well. There are no crowds or fancy resort hotels there. If you wanted to, you could have the beach just for yourself.

On the Tuesday night, while we sit on the patio and enjoy a dinner made of white quinoa with stir fried vegetables and shrimp cooked in coconut milk, lime juice and lemongrass“, I tell P.: “I am really excited about tomorrow.”

“I know!” he says looking amused. “But it’s going to be a long day….”

I know it will, especially for Lulu, I fear. Yet that night, I cannot help but feel selfish. I am thinking about the visit of Government Farm in North Caicos, one bigger island near Provo.

P., I know, understands my eagerness. Over the years we’ve been together, we’ve traveled to a fair amount of islands in the Caribbean, and this time is my first to visit a farm on an island and see how local produce is grown.

Writing that I am excited is simply an understatement.

The trip to North Caicos is a short thirty minute ferry ride, which amuses Lulu who enjoys saying hello to every passenger. Before we know it, she has become the amusement on board.

“Will you tell me on this map how to get to the farm?” I ask miss Suzy, the short woman waiting for us on the dock.

Plump but moving with grace, wearing glasses covering her face, Miss Suzy who is renting us a car looks friendly and motherly right away. She bursts into a loud laughter and then says: “Sure, but you’ll just have to follow my directions, not the map. There are no signs“.

She is right. I am doubtful that we will be able to find the place, but oddly, her directions–plus a few stops to ask locals by the side of the road—work.

And the visit to the farm is a true delight.

“Oh, des moutons!” Lulu exclaims joyfully after we make a turn left through a fence onto a rugged path leading to the farm. Surprised, P. and I look around to see whether we can see sheep too.

“Où ça ?” (Where?) I ask her.

“Là-bas !” (Over there!) she says as she points directly in front of us. We burst out laughing. Dozens of goats, old and young, are gathered behind a fenced area where they can run and play.

Lulu has found friends.

A few footsteps away, I spot three men bent down. They are busy cleaning lines of zucchini, they tell me after I ask what they are doing.

“Are you selling anything right now?” I then ask another man who piques my curiosity. Tall and slender, he carries himself in a way that makes him look focused. Even serious. At first, I even have a hard time understanding him.

”Vous êtes française ?” (Are you French?) he eventually says.

Surprised, I look at him, unsure about what to respond. But when he eventually smiles, I smile back and let a faint “Oui” escape between my lips.

“Je suis haïtien.” (I am from Haïti.)

His name is Iram.

He walks me around the farm, showing where they grow eggplants, bananas, papayas, thyme and parsley–and so many plants I don’t know or recognize. I am enchanted to find so much. Iram enjoys talking. We chat away in French. “We just need a lot of water,” he tells me when I ask whether it’s hard to grow vegetables. “We can grow a lot. It’s easy.”

“At the moment, we also have a lot of callaloo,” he continues on.

Hearing that, I feel thrilled. I recall P.’s conversations about callaloo, and the fond memories he keeps of eating callaloo soup when he lived in Trinidad as a child.

“Can I have some?”

Before I know it, I am leaving the farm with a bag full of parsley, papaya, zucchini, peppers, a large bunch of callaloo that I stir fry that night, and four eggplants.

“And what are you planning to do with those?” P. remarks, seeing the heavy bags I am carrying in each hand. “Did you forget we are leaving in two days?”

“No.” I am smiling. I have ideas.

“You’ll love it.”

The night that follows, we are eating stuffed eggplants. De belles et délicieuses aubergines farcies !

My recipe is simple. Mix ground pork with carrot, sweet potato, tomatoes and eggplant flesh cooked in olive oil with garlic, shallot and spices. Then, stir in cheese and parsley, and then an egg to bind the ingredients together.

Once cooked, the eggplants are tender and melt-in-mouth. Their taste improves even more the second day.

“I cannot wait to try the recipe again at home.”

We are finishing lunch. Our last on the island.

“Oh please, yes!”

That dish, we agree, will always bring the memory of Iram; the visit to the farm; Callaloo; Miss Suzy; daily swims in the pool and deep green waters; drawing turtles in delicate fine sand; beautiful smiling school girls walking home by the side of the road; conch shells found on Long Bay beach during our evening walks; our first taste of conch; Lulu’s growing confidence in the water, and her discovery of bumpy roads and lizards.

All of it.

They finally came.

Ten years later. Admittedly, it took time. But it does no longer matter now. The important thing is that it really happened. For real.

I am talking about my brother Benoit. And my sister-in-law Geneviève. We like to call her Ginou. Lulu prefers to say Ninou. She still cannot figure out how to pronounce Benoit so instead, she’s made up the word Ota. It’s cute!

Benoit and Ginou came with my mother–my father stayed back home in our village in France because he’s injured one of his fingers while building a table. “C’est arrivé en bricolant”, (It happened when he was puttering around) my mother told me the day I called and she said that he was in the hospital. I got scared. But he is ok now. My father is a tough man. He’s been like this his entire life. Like my grandfather. Un vrai fils de fermier.

“Je garderai le chat et les maisons,” (I’ll look after the cat and the houses) he had added when I called to try to convince him to come too.

He is also known to be stubborn. In a nice kind of way.

We missed him.

But we nevertheless had fun.

So much of it. For two weeks (and that’s also why you didn’t see me here during that time.)

It sounds common. But for me, it’s not. I’ve never had three members of my French family travel to visit me, us, in the States before. And do you know what? We did exactly what we always do when I visit them in France.

We cooked. We ate. We gathered in the kitchen. Often. We talked about food. A lot.

We went for walks and visited the ICA museum, where Lulu loved to explore. We dined out and even indulged with a night at the symphony to listen to Dvořák. I had forgotten how it felt. So sweet. So special.

Four or five of us in the kitchen felt cozy. Never crammed. With everyone participating–my mother is the best sous-chef one can imagine. I am lucky to have a family who loves to cook and eat as much as we do. And that doesn’t tire of it. Ever. Ça vous colle à la peau, (It runs in your veins) P. always comments when we gather. Le clan français, (the French clan), we like to joke.

Ten days went by quickly. It was marvelous to always have a table full, and cook and share many of the dishes I love. We ate spaghetti with Maine shrimp and zucchini; chicken with preserved lemon, olives and thyme; kabocha squash risotto; carrot latkes; arugula and fennel salad; crab and avocado verrines; and stuffed potatoes. I baked financiers, chocolate cakes, apple tarts, custards and fruit crumbles.

That’s not even everything that happened.

One day, too, I prepared my favorite Japanese dish that triggered oohh and ahhh amongst everyone. “This dish is at the top of the things you make,” P. added while eating spoonfuls of rice soaked in dashi broth.

And then, we ate soups. Many of them.

One day, it was this lentil soup; another day, this sunchoke soup.

And then there was butternut squash soup.

Maybe you’ll want to stop here. Butternut squash soup? Too easy.

Sure.

But this one. Oh this one!

“Tes soupes sont toujours super bonnes,” (Your soups are always so delicious and tasty) Ginou said the day we sat at the table for lunch and I brought a pot of fragrant squash soup to start our meal. It had snowed heavily the day before, allowing us to plan for a joyful afternoon of play in the snow. We were probably even more excited to go sledding than Lulu.

“Vraiment ?” (Really?) I said, blushing. “Merci !” She didn’t know it but her comment *really* made me happy.

“J’ai un ingrédient secret,” (I have a secret ingredient),” I replied, smiling.

It was teasing her. But maybe not, after all. There was indeed that genius spice I had just found out about and fell in love with.

“Quoi?” she went on.

“Mace.”

How come I had never heard about it before? I don’t even know the French word for it. Macis is what my online dictionary reads. No one knew what it was.

Are you anything like us?

In any case, now that I know about it, I am not close to forgetting about it.

Mace is simply wonderful: fragrant and full of body; sweet with strong hints of nutmeg.

I decided that the first time I would use it, I’d be making a soup that would taste sweet and have tons of character. I’d be making a soup that would be smooth and feel nourishing. Carrots, leek, sweet potato, parsnip, turnip and butternut squash cooked with fresh herbs and mace gave me exactly that irresistible scrumptious result.

Suffice to say that we licked our bowls of soup clean. Even Benoit who claims to only like les soupes avec des morceaux (chunky soups) asked for seconds.

I was proud to have a happily fed family. Simply. Around a bowl of tasty soup.

Okay, around these stuffed potatoes, apple tartlets and pear custards too.

≈

When I was a young girl growing up in France, Sundays were often the days when my mother cooked a boeuf aux carottes (beef stew with carrots) during the winter. She’d start cooking hers early in the morning, leaving it to simmer on the stove for a few hours. The aromas of onion, sauteed meat, wine and spices made the house smell like lazy mornings and Sundays and hachis parmentier. Oh yes! She’d always make sure to prepare a large pot of stew so that she could use what was left the next day, to prepare stuffed squashes or hachis parmentier.

That thought inspired these two recipes (check the boeuf aux carottes recipe here, and the winter squashes here), which I wrote for Sunday Supper, the new food column in the Boston Globe.

I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as we did. They’re lovely meal ideas of honest traditional French food.

What my mother knows how to make so well.

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.

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.

“Can I have two pounds of veal stew?” I asked the stocky man standing behind the counter at the meat department. He did not seem to be in a rush, but I had to be quick to order since Lulu was starting to feel impatient in her stroller. Well, I thought, I would need to cut my shopping trip short. “Encore quelques minutes Lulu, j’ai juste quelques bricoles à acheter ! (Please, a few more minutes Lulu! I only have a few more things to buy,)” I whispered as I drew my head closer to hers.

But it was getting too long for her. So yes. I would not leisurely browse through the aisles of the store in search of new ingredients as I like to do, but instead, I would go to the point. I remembered my dad pointing out to how efficient my grocery shopping trip with him had been when they came to visit in February.

“Ah ben toi, tu ne perds pas de temps !” (you are not wasting time!) he said after we returned to the car. My shopping cart was full and paid for after only a twenty-minute trip.

“Je savais ce que je voulais ! (I knew what I wanted!),” I answered, laughing.

But I must admit that indeed, my shopping trips are following that pattern these days: well timed, so that I can get in and out quickly, and efficiently. It can be a juggle at times.

“Maman va préparer un ragoût de veau au citron et aux légumes printaniers,” (mummy will prepare a veal stew with lemon and spring vegetables) I told Lulu while buckling her tight into her car seat. She stared at me, then at her new Sophie the giraffe toy, and resumed munching on it greedily, like a hungry lioness.

“C’est bon la viande de girafe ?” I said with a smile, before giving her a large kiss on her chubby right cheek.

It was a nice spring day with generous sun and pleasant walking temperatures, and I was looking forward to the casual dinner I was going to cook for two of our friends that night. We would enjoy the veal stew, a side salad and then, to finish our meal, a refreshing verrine as dessert.

But things did not turn out the way I had imagined.

“Guess what!” I told P. when I called him at five pm, ready to start my cooking preps while Lulu was napping.

“They totally screwed up! I went on, quite annoyed.

“Who?”

“This guy at Whole Foods. He did not sell me veal but beef!”

“Oh no,” he exclaimed. “What are you going to do then?”

I did not have much time to rethink the whole menu. In fact, I literally had five minutes.

But surprisingly, a spontaneous idea came to my mind, and I thought about a dish my mum prepared often when I was young, one that made me think differently about beef.

“Well, I think we’ll eat a boeuf aux carottes.”

I remember how I became infatuated with this dish and how at the same time, I never really cared much for the dish itself. In truth, what I was always looking forward to was what my mum would invariably prepare with the leftovers – no surprise since she is also the queen of how to use leftovers. My dad likes to remind us often that “chez nous, on ne jette rien.” (Nothing is wasted at home!)

I’ve learned from them.

A hachis parmentier is the perfect way to accommodate leftovers. Recipes abound but the principle remains the same: use leftovers of any beef stew such as a boeuf aux carottes or a pot-au-feu, and top the meat layer with one of mashed potatoes. Simple and straightforward, it’s a dish that makes a full meal when it is served with a side salad. We love it.

Over the years, I’ve prepared many variations. Sometimes I use beef and at other times, I prefer meats like duck or chicken; sometimes I use potatoes, and at other times sunchokes, sweet potatoes or a blend of different root vegetables.

Both recipes worked like wonders.

We enjoyed dinner with our friends, and the following day, a hachis parmentier between the two of us.

“Do you think it’s my accent that played a trick on me?” I asked P., feeling still somewhat upset about the messed up meat order. I was still having cravings for a veal stew with lemon.

“I don’t care. I would have hachis parmentier any day!” he said, smiling.

I would too, in fact.

Invariably, we ask for more.

“You will smell olive trees and oregano when you land,” my French friend E. tells me when I tell her about our upcoming trip. Her parents are Greek, but they moved to France when they were still young adults. Talking about Crete with her makes the thought of traveling to the Greek island become real.

By 10 am, it’s already quite hot when we arrive at the small airport of Chania in Crete. I am glad it’s windy too! The road to Maleme, the village where we are staying, is not particularly attractive, and we are far from imagining the lovely spot we find when we finally reach the house we’ve rented for a week.

“Are you sure about the directions?” P. asks, starting to feel a little impatient after we’ve driven for a while as we look for two pink pillars leading to the property. The truth is that breakfast is only now a faint memory: we are getting hungry, beside being eager to refresh with a dip in the pool.

“How would I know? Why don’t we call to check?” I answer, feeling a bit deflated. It’s getting hot in the car too.

But luck is on our side. Just as we are about to give up, we finally discern two pink pillars indeed on the way out of the village. Behind them stands the house, with its lush flowered gardens, and the pool that sparkles like an inviting gem.

Our rental house is a comfortable and spacious stone villa — once a building where people made wine — with a great pool surrounded by olive trees, a paradise for us who have come to rest. When I first see it, I am beaming with excitement. As I’ve also come with the desire to cook and discover Greek local produce, I am not disappointed either: the kitchen is decorated with taste, meticulously equipped with everything a cook needs. As is in fact the rest of the house.

Our days follow an agreeable routine which we think me might quickly tire of.

But we don’t. Far from it.

When we are not swimming, playing volley-ball in the pool, or taking long naps lying under the olive trees in one of the many long chairs found in the generously sun-filled garden, we read or chat away, looking at the ocean in the distance. Then, when we do not feel lazy, we take off for a drive to visit the nearby villages, traveling on narrow, winding roads surrounded by majestic mountains, before eventually finishing with a swim that cools us off, when we stop at one of the numerous beaches on the west coast. We prefer to travel short distances because for once, we simply feel this way.

As the biggest of over six thousands Greek islands, Crete stands out as an island full of contrasts. Located at the southern edge of the Aegean Sea, it only takes a thirty-minute flight from Athens before we arrive in this 260 km long island. There, we discover one part largely touched by tourism, with unappealing resorts and hotels, crowds and tourist shops — which we quickly avoid — next to untouched rural areas where life follows a much different pace, slow as one would expect in this part of the world, much closer to what it used to be before tourism left its marks.

The drives we take through the countryside offer splendid views of rugged ranges of mountains where sheep and goats graze and run freely. Before our eyes unfold mountains which appear dry and arid or, by contrast, richly covered with trees.

And everywhere, there are olive, orange and lemon trees arranged in straight lines growing in the valleys and villages.

“Look, these are pomegranates,” P. exclaims when we pass one of the villages on our way to Elafonisi island.

I secretly wish I could have a taste of everything. When I go out for walks, I enjoy taking a peak at people’s gardens to see what they grow. Of course, on an island like Crete, zucchinis, eggplants, peppers and tomatoes are vegetables commonly grown. They seem so happy in this environment.

Stefanos, the proprietor of the villa, is a tall friendly man with impeccable English; when we meet him the first time, he welcomes us with a solid hand shake and a genuine smile. To our delight, he likes to tell us stories about the village and his country, and even agrees to take us to the olive oil coop in the village, where he explains the olive oil-making process.

“Everyone in the village has a little bit of land to grow olive trees. Olive oil is a second income for many,” he tells me when I ask if the activity remains widely spread in the village.

The harvest of olive oil starts in November and can last until February. After the olive oil coop tour Stefanos gives us, to explain the machinery used and the system they follow to produce the oil, he drives us aboard his 4×4 outside the village to show us the olive trees, and the irrigation system they use.

“Oh, these black hoses are for water!” both P. and I exclaim, laughing. We are embarrassed to acknowledge that we’ve taken them for electricity cables the first time we notice them.

“How much oil does a household consume a year?” I ask, curious. He tells me that this is the main source of fat they use to cook.

“Probably a hundred liters for a family of four.”

We learn about the different grades of olive oil, from the first press to the following ones. His olive oil is made organically, and has a rich green color pleasing to the eyes. It’s spicy and peppery, giving a wonderful touch to the many salads and the Tzatziki I prepare daily.

Most of the olive oil produced at the village coop is sold to Italian companies, and we are surprised to hear that the buyers are not required to indicate the origin of the oil once they’ve purchased it. I cannot help but then wonder whether the olive oil I regularly buy as Italian is in fact Cretan.

In the mornings, while I set up the breakfast table outside on the patio, P. walks to the nearby bakery to buy a fresh loaf of bread for us.

“This one is called the village bread,” the lady with a tanned face sitting behind the counter tells me on our first visit. She looks surprised when I ask if I can take a few pictures.

“Pictures of the bread?” she exclaims with a puzzled expression. “Sure!”

The bread is rustic, both dense and light; at breakfast, we enjoy it with apricot jam and Greek yogurt drizzled with local honey. Then, later in the day, we have it as a satisfying snack, dipped in olive oil, or feta cheese and tapenade.

Every day, the weather looks identical: you wake up with the sun, and you go to bed with it!

“Oh, it can be like this until November,” Stefanos tells me, laughing, when I joke about the weather pattern.

The Saturday open market of Chania (now located by the courthouse) is a favorite time to connect with Cretan local produce. When we arrive at around 11 am, it’s already quite hot and busy on the square. Olives, zucchinis, eggplants, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers are by far the vegetables that the farmers sell the most, but we also find various types of cheese, juicy-looking peaches and grapes, stacks of lavender, a man selling fresh rabbit, displays of whole pieces of fish, and eggs. I am also attracted by the interesting greens I see, quite different from what I know, and the fresh pistachios which I am learning about.

“What is this?” I ask the stocky man with a gray curly mustache standing behind a counter where a high stack of pink-looking beans are loosely arranged. He looks back at me and smiles. It’s obvious that I won’t understand his Greek, and him my English. So to explain, he picks a bean between his fingers, removes the outer soft shell skilfully with only one hand, and holds the pistachio in its hard shell back to me.

“Here!” he tells me, convinced that I can now guess what it is.

“It tastes just like a walnut when it is open fresh,” I whisper into P.’s ear after I take a small bite.

We return home with a large bag full of fresh vegetables and fruit, and two pieces of whole fish that I am planning to grill in the evening. P. chooses the pieces. The young woman at the fish counter cleans them skilfully, without even looking at what her hands are doing.

We are excited to have found fresh fish because on the island, we soon find out that paradoxically, a lot of restaurants and tavernas serve mostly frozen fish. The mystery as to why remains.

The beaches in Crete are all different in style. We decide to visit only a few — the pool is quite convenient, and tranquil, I must say: from Stavros located on a peninsula east of Chania (a beautiful little bay with the Zorba mountain as a backdrop, the setting used in the movie Zorba the Greek), to Falassarna and Elafonisi, on the west coast.

During our stay, when we dine or have lunch out, we eat in tavernas where the food is down-to-earth and unpretentious, and always extremely fresh. Amongst the dishes we enjoy, there are tasteful olives of all flavors, the unmissable Greek salad, moussaka, stuffed vegetables, stuffed wine leaves, grilled sardines and octopus, Saganaki (fried Graviera cheese), fried zucchinis, shrimp slouvaki, plain yogurt and honey, and to finish, always a slice of complimentary watermelon or melon coming with the bill. Every vegetable tastes like it’s been basked in the sun for hours, giving the best summer has to offer in your plate.

Venetian Harbor in Chania

One morning, we decide to drive to Chania to stroll along its picturesque Venetian Harbor Port. The place is busy with tourists, tavernas and cafés, but it manages to keep an authentic charm with its historic buildings.

“In fact, it’s perhaps what the island used to look like years ago, minus the restaurants,” Stefanos tells us when we ask him about the port. We soon find out that like in Athens, Cretans do not seem to mind building modern in the middle of more ancient. So keeping a place like this harbor is a must. That day, we enjoy a tasty lunch made of simple, honest food, as we sit at the table of one of the many tavernas by the water.

It’s unusual of us to plonk ourselves in one place for an entire week. Instead, we typically long to cover distances to see as much as we can. But this time feels different. This time, we need to slow down too.

And we are happy.

We have a relaxing and quiet vacation. Perhaps because the house is so comfortable, perhaps because we enjoy many of the pleasures of life we are fond of, like swimming, observing Nature, reading, strolling and cooking. Simply taking the time to do nothing and follow a slow pace.

So when we eventually leave Crete, we have a load of fantastic memories in our luggage, with the desire to come back to see much more, including hike the gorges of Samaria.

A last visit to a local produce store allows me to buy two kilos of olive oil flavored Graviera cheese (made of a blend of sheep and goat milk, like all cheeses made on the island) that I bring to my parents and my brother B.; a decorative deep blue plate from a local potter; and a few bottles of organic extra virgin olive oil.

And in my head, I have plenty of recipes enjoyed during our vacation, that I am keen to reproduce at home, as soon as I find my kitchen back.

“Qu’est-ce tu fais à manger ce soir ? (What are you cooking tonight?) ” I ask my mum when she and I are at the supermarket. I’ve been in France for almost a week, but still have a strong taste for summer vegetables. I am craving sun-filled tomatoes, zucchinis and eggplants.

“Je n’sais pas encore. T’as des idées ? (Not sure yet. Any suggestions?) ”

“Et si je faisais de la moussaka, comme celle que P. et moi on a mangée en Crète ? (Shall I make a moussaka like the one P. and I had in Crete?)”

“Bonne idée !” she exclaims. We will use the tomatoes, onions, oregano and eggplants from her garden, the best.

I am thrilled.

To cook it, and share a taste of our sunny vacation with my family.

The smell of small Italian eggplants simmering with ripe vine tomatoes, garlic and onions, gave a wonderful summery feeling to the entire house.The back door was open and let a nice breathe in. It was still cool at that time of the day; I knew that the heat would hit later on, something I was not looking forward to.

I thought of my mum as I dreamily stirred the vegetables, back and forth: she taught me about the provençal dish I was preparing for my next contribution to the Boston Globe’s Seasons column.

I looked at the clock. I actually stared at it then. Was it already 10:20 am? How could I have not noticed the time? I only had two minutes to get ready before hopping in the car and drive to my acupuncture appointment across town. Hopefully, I would still be on time, traffic allowing. I switched off the stove, closed the back door and turned off the fan. I would tidy the mess when I returned.

I did not yet know that I was going to bump into my friend L. either.

“Oh I just left you a voicemail,” she told me when she saw me come out of the room where I had had my treatment. “What are you doing now?”

“I am going home. But why don’t you come at home when you are done, and have lunch with me?”

It was quite lovely and spontaneous to imagine that we were going to have a girl’s lunch.

I made a quick stop at the store to pick a few things for my afternoon photo shoot, and then I started to plan lunch. Easy, we would eat pasta with the pistachio pesto I had prepared in the morning, the eggplant dish I was planning to finish, and an arugula salad.

“Oh that’s funny,” L. said when she walked to the stove and saw the eggplant dish . “It very much looks like something we eat in Russia too.”

How interesting indeed to see that some dishes are prepared in many different countries, with tiny variations, but often bearing a different name.

We sat down and enjoyed the food, while chatting away. The heat outside made us feel lazy.

“It’s yummy.” L. said when she was done with her serving. “But what about your noodle soup? When are you going to post it?”

“What noodle soup?”

“The rice noodle soup with coconut milk you showed me the other day.”

Oh yes, I remembered then. She was inquiring about the soup I had prepared a few weeks before, with fresh large rice noodles I had been so happy to find.

“I promise, I will post it soon.”

Have you eaten Drunken Noodles before? I am personally a big fan of the fried noodle Thai dish. So much so that, well determined to prepare the dish at home, I once again set myself to go on a food quest to my nearby Asian store — I feel blessed to have it — but this time to buy large rice noodles used in the recipe. There, I’ve learned that you buy this type of noodles fresh and not dry, like the thinner ones used for Pad Thai. I even asked K., my Vietnamese friend, for a recipe on how to make them. So perhaps one day if I feel ambitious and courageous, I will start on that project.

It is really P. who is the one who made drunken noodles for us the first time. He insisted and I was more than happy to let him do it. His first attempt made a delightful meal for us. The second time, I made the dish: we ate it with friends on the back patio on a hot Friday night. We are both still trying to perfect the recipe — anyone with a recipe you love, send it along! — and while this happens, I’ve kept returning to the Asian store to buy many more bags of rice noodles. In fact, I’ve pretty much become addicted to them.

I am a real amatrice of Asian food. One day, I know I will visit Vietnam, Japan, Cambodia, Malaysia, Laos and Thailand, to discover its many mysteries, meet its people and wander its markets in search of inspiration for all the senses. I am keen to discover new scents and flavors, and to understand how to cook the food better. One day, I know it will happen. But in the meantime, while not an expert of Asian food by any means, I am just curious to try and experiment their cuisine in my own kitchen — oh yes, spring rolls are high on the list too!

One dish that I particularly love to make is Rice Noodle Soup. Simple, tasty, refreshing and easy to accommodate with what you like: I never tire of this type of soup.

Since I’ve been left with many rice noodle leftovers from my frequent visits to the Asian store, I’ve recently made many batches of this delicious soup: ideal for lunch, enjoyed alone or with a friend, always eaten with chopsticks, and a side salad.

If you make the soup like I did, use thinly sliced pork, soft tofu, sugar snap peas and Thai basil. However, for easy substitutions, and just as delicious, I would suggest to replace the meat with shrimps, add a few bunches of baby bok choy and bean sprouts too, and even some fresh corn kernels — why not? In all cases, this soup is a winner for its simplicity to toss together, and the wonderful aromas it leaves dans la bouche (in your mouth).

And to make a completely lovely lunch, think about using the beautiful summer fruit we have plenty of these days, like fresh apricots and red currants, and make a seasonal open tart, like I did — I used a crust made with almond butter and olive oil, really lovely. Not Asian, alors pas du tout, but eh, I am French or what?

I am really thankful that my friend L. reminded me of the soup. I think I really had to share its complete goodness with you.

I also know what to prepare next time she comes over for lunch.

When I arrived at my local farmer’s market last week, I was on a really important mission: finding round zucchini, my favorites by far. They are simply too lovely to resist, always looking pretty on your dinner table.

Delight! I was successful. One farmer tucked in a corner had some.

Upon my return home, I set myself to work immediately and prepared des petits farcis, a favorite summer dish in my kitchen.

I wrote this summer Squash recipe for this week’s Seasons column of the Boston Globe’s Food section, and prepared the dish a few times. The first time I tested the recipe, I used regular long yellow summer squashes and green zucchini, the second time I used my newly purchased round zucchini beauties from the market.

So perhaps if you are as hooked as I am, you will go back to the market every week to buy a batch of round zucchini — making sure to arrive there first to put all chances on your side — and you will indulge in these delicious vegetables as long as their season lasts! Frankly, I am always sad to see the end of it.

But until this happens, I will make a point of preparing petits farcis (small stuffed vegetables) as often as I can, sometimes as a vegetarian dish with all types of rice or quinoa, and at other times prepared with ground meat.

And in all cases, simply too cute and too good to resist.