“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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To clear our heads…

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

It might sound like it was the perfect day.

It really was.

Quiet.

Calm.

Reflective and full of lightness.

We were lucky.

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

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

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

I’m holding this moment close to my heart. On Christmas day, we celebrated Lulu’s birthday.

She turned three. I am amazed we are already there.

It’s an amazing age of innocence and curiosity for every detail of life. The time when her world is filled with teddy bears, butterfly stickers, coloring pencils and markers, hot chocolate sipped with a straw, Charlie and Lola, kitties, puzzles, doudous, T’Choupi books and legos. Lots of openness and love. And what’s this, qu’est-ce que c’est, and what’s that questions about the world in which she is growing.

I’m in love with this age. I’m in love with her exponentially.

For the first time since Lulu’s birth, my parents were with us for this special time.

The perfect occasion to build together a lovely French Christmas celebration–I was really excited.

My mother and I spent a lot of time together in my kitchen. That was where she felt comfortable. It made me happy to watch her make it her creative space.

Most days, we cooked simple meals. Every day foods that I’ve learned to cook by my mother’s side. One day, it was an organic chicken flavored with garlic and a bouquet garni that she prepared with mashed sunchoke and potatoes. Another day, she treated us with braised fennel served with wild Alaskan salmon and short brown rice, and we also begged, Lulu included, that she cooked her petit salé, an old favorite.

Foods we were so glad to eat after taking walks to the farm and at the park.

On the day of Lulu’s birthday party held a week before the day, she even pulled together a large dish of paella to feed a crowd.

Next to her, I prepared custards and chocolate cakes and muffins and puddings.

“C’est toi qui t’occuperas de faire les desserts, (You’ll be in charge of making desserts) she told me on the first night after they’d arrived.

Because between the two of us, I’ve always been the one known to make desserts.

To have them taste some of our daily favorite dishes, I prepared lentil soups and spaghetti with vegetables and langoustines.

We ate lunch and dinner in the French manner with baguette, cheese and salade verte to seal our meals–my dad is so French about it.

I liked to watch my mother create our meals. They came effortless to her. In a beautiful sort of way.

And so quite naturally, we ended up giving our Christmas an obvious French flair.

I don’t know whether you know this, but for the French, le réveillon de Noël–the dinner eaten the day preceding Christmas–is as important as Christmas day. It’s when the festivities start late in the night with family members gathering around a table filled with out-of-the-ordinary delicacies.

I keep lovely memories of our réveillons: smoked salmon and snails and an array of colorful amuse-bouches were treats that we’d enjoy after going to midnight mass. On Christmas day, when my dad was busy opening oysters and a bottle of champagne, my mother would prepare scallops or foie gras with onion jam, chapon (capon), duck, pintade (guineafowl) or game meat which she’d serve with seasonal petits légumes and airelle relish. Invariably, my brother and I kept our eyes and interest largely riveted on the chocolate bûche de Noël that always finished our meal.

I wanted that our Christmas spent together had a little bit of it all.

Together, my mother and I imagined tradition in our menu. But as the words fresh, colorful, and earthy kept popping inside my head, I knew that our foods would have a bit of each. And, since neither my mother nor father had seen my book before, the idea to cook from it made sense as well.

It really felt right to make it happen in that way.

So we did it.

On the night of the réveillon, we ate delicious, plump and sweet oysters from Island Creek Oyster Farm. We enjoyed a mâche and scallop salad dish, from the same recipe I had imagined for the Christmas the year before. I loved that it was so easy to make, but so eye-catching too with its pretty finely sliced potato galettes arranged on top. And then I prepared a veal tajine with preserved lemons, Turkish dried apricots and millet, and a homemade raspberry sorbet for dessert.

“Avec les cookies du père Noël !” Lulu had exclaimed excitedly as she was pulling a plate filled with the cookies that she and I had prepared in the afternoon for Santa Claus.

Then, on Christmas day, we used recipes from my book: Endives leaves with roquefort, grapes, radishes dressed in a pistachio vinaigrette served as an amuse-bouche; dressed-up crab and avocado appetizer (I used a fresh leg of cooked crab to replace fresh salmon in the recipe). Then, my mother cooked cailles aux raisins (quails with grapes) and a potato gratin dauphinois, two French classics. And I made a raspberry charlotte which brought oh and ah to the table when Lulu caught sight of the three small candles lit on top of it.

“Souffle fort !” (Blow !) we encouraged her while singing “Joyeeeuuuux aannniversaaaiiire, joyeux anniiivvveerrsaaiire Lulu” (Happy Birthday) in French.

She was beaming. She looked touchingly shy. But so happy with all of us gathered around her.

She is a Christmas baby.

She had just turned three.

And she looked beautiful.

I hope you all had a lovely Christmas celebration. And will have a wonderful night to enter into the new year. Can you believe that we are so close to 2012 already? My last post of 2011.

Bonne année ! I will talk to you next in 2012!

I know that I am lucky to live in New England. I am lucky because we have gorgeous distinct seasons, and most particularly, we have pretty colors during the fall.

“Regarde maman, cet arbre est tout rouge ! ” (Look maman, this tree is all red!) Lulu exclaimed one day as she and I were driving back from school. It was impossible not to notice. She noticed. I noticed. We were feeling excited and warm inside from just looking at the display of the cheerful colors lining up the road. It looked so happy! Secretly, I wanted for this everyday scene to last for weeks. Until Thanksgiving at least, I thought.

We are actually not far from it happening for real. Beside our unexpected snow storm, the weather in Boston has been mild and beautiful. The farmer’s markets have offered amazingly pretty and tasty fall produce: from winter squashes, radishes, apples, fresh ginger, cranberries, sprouts to colorful root vegetables.

It’s colorful.

It’s inspiring.

I’ve not grown up with the Thanksgiving tradition but I’ve learned to love it. For years, we’ve been invited to friends’ houses who cooked amazing meals. It’s during one of these dinners that I most likely ate my first pecan pie ever, wondering why I had never eaten one before.

This year, however, I am hosting the holiday with P.’s parents in the comfort of our own home. And I am really excited about what we will be cooking together.

Sharing and blending different food cultures.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot.

A month ago, an editor from Cooking Channel asked that, amongst a group of food writers, I shared my Thanksgiving ideas with a photo collage and a story. I liked the thought. So I said yes.

My Thanksgiving menu is not set in stone yet–still thinking and rethinking, something I’m rather skilled at–but I already know that there will be turkey. Perhaps traditional. And I will prepare a kabocha squash and apple soup, using a favorite recipe of mine that I’ve made over and over during the years.

This year, our soup will have aromas of ginger, lemongrass, mace and coriander, and I will round the taste with a dash of cream, freshly sliced apples and toasted hazelnuts. We tested it. We loved it.

I will bake a potato, celeriac, apple and butternut squash gratin. Because a root vegetable gratin celebrates the fall like no other dish does.

We will eat chocolate, with individual ramekins filled with cardamom-flavored pear and chocolate clafoutis.

And we’ll eat salad. A fun colorful salad full of crunch. The first time I made it, I loved it even before trying it.

The thought for this salad came last week after I visited one of my local farmer’s markets where I found delicious-looking young heads of celeriac. I knew they had to go in a salad.

What about if I added red cabbage, radishes and apples? I thought while adding a few pieces of each to my basket.

I looked for a name to qualify my newly imagined salad, and because of its finely chopped texture, somehow the word taboulé (tabbouleh) came to my mind. So I dressed the salad with exactly what I would have for a taboulé: loads of aromatic fresh herbs, lemon juice, hazelnut oil and a rich fragrant extra virgin olive oil (I actually used one recently offered to me by California Olive Ranch which I’m enjoying a lot.)

“Yum!” P. said when we sat down at the table to eat lunch. “I love it!”

“Really? Enough to include it to our Thanksgiving dinner?” I asked.

“Sure. It’s really surprising and different.”

I looked at him and realized it was. And at the same time it wasn’t since the French often eat raw celeriac in a salad.

But what I understood was that my unusual tabbouleh would be a wonderful addition to our menu to celebrate gorgeous local fall produce, the Thanksgiving holiday, and my French roots.

Next week, we will feel American. French. Irish. Together.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! What will you be cooking, I wonder?

Often, things in life seem to happen in a series. Don’t you agree? Good or bad. It’s part of the cycle of life, and it’s funny to observe how it works.

For me these days, it’s all about books. Great ones.

Like this beautiful crafts book, called Handmade Zakka and Craft by Tuesday. All in Japanese. In its looks. In its language.

It happened quickly and spontaneously.

In the same way Jo approached and asked me to contribute to her book, Tomo Togawa in Japan asked whether I’d be willing to contribute to the book that he and his wife Chiyo, a graphic designer, were going to write. They are known as Tuesday.

I said Yes. Because I loved their style and approach to design. Because I love Japan. And names like Lotta Jansdotter, Yumiko Sekine, Marisa Shimamoto, and Tetsushi Inoue & Kristina Detwiller. All inspiring me.

Tomo’s idea was to incorporate snapshots of eight artists, with each one of us showcasing our craft, inside the book. In the same style Yumiko’s Around Fog Linen book–Tomo designed it–looked.

Tuesday‘s book is just lovely: Light, fresh and clean. Somehow looking to me like a blend of Japanese and Scandinavian styles.

Inside the book, you’ll find inspiring sources for all sorts of crafty design ideas: whether it’s using paper and fabrics to create cards, tree ornaments, clothes, pillow. Their book is really for anyone who likes to create beautiful things for the home. For adults and children alike.

My contribution to Tuesday’s book was my Millet with steamed spring greens and its lemon vinaigrette recipe, along with the following recipe for these Chocolate and Hazelnut Financiers.

I cannot help it. I love financiers. Of all flavors. Shaped like a muffin or a rectangular. Baked with chocolate; vanilla; almonds or hazelnuts.

Or even pistachios and aromas of cardamom, a recipe you’ll find inside my cookbook. I baked two batches of these over the course of the past two days. Every single one of them is gone–granted we had crowds at home.

But ahhhhh these chocolate financiers…with fragrant hazelnut and the earthy aroma of amaranth.

Yes.

Chocolate always makes us happy.

Chocolate always makes Lulu happy.

It’s a family matter. One that keeps us snug and cozy together. In chocolate haven.

“We are chocolate and financiers addicts!” we like to sing in chorus.

Perhaps you can become one of us too.

And join in.

Thank you Tomo for thinking about including snapshots of what I do inside your book. I am honored to be amongst such a great crowd of people.

Below is the list of the eight artists featured in Handmade Zakka and Craft:

Lotta Jansdotter : Surface Designer (Brooklyn, U.S.A.)
Jenny Hallengren : Photographer (Stockholm, Sweden)
Meiko Takechi Arquillos : Photographer (Los Angeles, U.S.A.)
Tetsushi Inoue & Kristina Detwiller : Furniture & Textile Designer (Oita, Japan)
Béatrice Peltre : Food Writer, Stylist and Photographer (Boston, U.S.A.)
Hello Sandwich : Designer, Artist, Crafter (Tokyo, Japan / Sydney, Australia)
Marisa Shimamoto : Photographer (Tokyo, Japan)
Yumiko Sekine : Shop Owner (Tokyo, Japan)

Why can I have neglected to visit Cape Cod more often? I wondered.

I didn’t expect that Cape Cod, the Cape as we Bostonians call it, would look so beautiful with its near-to empty beaches and warm September sunlight.

But it did.

I found out this last week when P., his father, Lulu and I drove to Truro near Cape Cod National Seashore where we spent five days to celebrate the end of summer. P.’s mother was supposed to come too, but an event kept her in Ireland, so eventually she could not come. For a while, we were hesitant as to whether we’d go. But in the end, we decided that the four of us would make the trip anyhow.

We didn’t regret once. As to Lulu, she was simply happy to have her grandpa all for herself.

Of course, in the thirteen years I’ve lived in Boston, I’ve visited the Cape on many occasions. But the truth is that I somehow always avoided to come, finding excuses like “It’s too hot“, “It’s too busy” or “I just cannot deal with US 93 and Route 6 traffic to get there“. Each time, I dreaded Cape Cod’s summer crowd and its touristy side, despite the fact that it was right there, at my doorstep.

But this time…how could I have guessed that it’d be different? And that the five days we spent in our rental house would charm me in such an unexpected way.

Between Wednesday and Sunday, we flew many kites on beaches near Wellfleet and Truro, trying a new one every time. Finding each one always almost empty.

We built sand castles, drew faces on the sun-warmed blond sand and wore hoodies, excited to feel cooler temperatures announcing fall. We watched small crabs in the marsh near Uncle Tim’s bridge and chatted with a friendly fisherwoman who told us interesting fishing stories about bluefish and seabass. We saw seals and watched the ocean surf. We ran on the beach and then when we were too tired to continue, we skipped stones. We made 60-piece puzzles with Lulu and told her about crickets singing loudly every night. We visited Provincetown Saturday farmer’s market and Truro vineyards.

And between every single one of our activities, we ate very well.

“It’s weird,” I told Eddie, my father-in-law, one day as we were waiting for our fish tacos at The Juice. “It almost feels as if we could be somewhere in Europe, doesn’t it?”

“So true!” he exclaimed, perhaps thinking about Ireland where he grew up. We couldn’t explain exactly what it was but the feeling was perceptible. We could all feel it.

We were hungry for seafood, and felt lucky to find it so fresh and tasty everywhere we stopped for lunch.

One day, I chose mussels and the following day, an order of fish tacos and lobster rolls were the foods that pleased our bellies. At the fish market in Wellfleet, I bought lobster and little necks clams that I cooked in a coconut milk and white wine sauce to serve with spaghetti and zucchini for dinner one evening.

“What are you making?” Eddie asked on our last night when he saw that I was busy peeling a few peaches before slicing them finely.

“Not sure,” I said. “Dessert.”

“Of course! ” he went on, smiling.

We always have dessert, no matter where we are. And how simple it is.

“Just something nice and simple to use up ingredients before we leave.”

“How do you call it?”

“Not sure either. A gratin clafoutis maybe?” I responded hesitantly, not certain which word was the right one to use.

“Glad you came?” I went on.

He smiled again.

We were all so glad to have come.

I’d fallen in love with the beauty Cape Cod offers during the low season.

I was impressed.

The memories I keep from Camargue are faint, I kept thinking as P., Lulu and I were silently driving on the highway that connects Marseilles to Arles. I found the air blowing through the window hot when it eventually landed on my skin. After getting up before the crack of dawn that morning for our cross-Channel flight from London, we were feeling tired too.

“Et en plus, c’est dimanche!” (furthermore, it’s Sunday!) I suddenly exclaimed, thinking about food. “Et demain c’est aussi férié !” (And tomorrow is a holiday too!) Which meant that every supermarket would be closed and we wouldn’t find much to buy for groceries.

I felt silly for having forgotten that part when I booked our trip across France.

But an hour later, when we finally arrived at our rental house nested between overripe peach orchards, it didn’t matter anymore. The area where the house was located was perhaps not the most beautiful or quietest we’d visited, but the house had an inviting pool and garden–and we were keen to have a swim.

So we had one. And another one. And when we’d had enough, we realized that we were starving and decided to take a short ten-minute drive to Arles for lunch.

Arles, of course, is an amazing city. Its beautiful medieval monuments and strong Roman heritage enchanted me as it brought back scenes seen before in my middle-school history book. We could not help but notice the slower pace people followed as we walked the city’s numerous narrow cobblestone streets. “It must be the heat,” I thought. “Anyone would slow down.”

Once Lulu got a taste of what it felt like to be on a merry-go round arlésien, she would not stop.

We arrived around 2:30PM, which seemed early enough. Yet, it took us a while before we eventually found a bistro still serving food. We lunched on salades composées, carpaccio and fries, with ice cream and berry panna cotta to finish. The food was helping us to relax into our vacation even more.

“Where am I going to buy groceries now?” I asked P.

“Wasn’t there a deli by the car park?”

He was right. I remembered now.

Held by a short and slim North-African man with a generous smile, the store was stacked up with spices, dry foods, a small selection of vegetables and fruit, cheese and a few cuts of meat. Enough for us to get by until Tuesday. I bought a bag of rice with zucchini and carrots, which I intended to cook à la pilaf in an improvised Moroccan style, with olive oil and spices. We’d have salad, eggs, cheese, bread and fruit too.

I visited Camargue for the first time when I was nineteen. My parents had decided that we’d take a short vacation during les vacances de la Toussaint in November. I was not sure I wanted to go then but in the end I went, and loved all of it.

I remember us taking long walks to visit local markets where we invariably bought fresh soft cheese, saucissons de taureau–for which my parents have a weakness–and summer fruit and vegetables. We sampled Muscat du pays and ate bouillabaisse sur le port (by the harbour). I’ve always loved that about French cities by the sea: the fact that they offer cozy cafés, bistros and restaurants to stop at for tasty local food. We also looked for wild horses and flamingos.

This vacation, I knew, would be somewhat similar. Yet different too. We’d be quieter and less ambitious. To fit Lulu’s schedule. To fit our desire to rest too. But with my parents again as they drove from Lorraine to meet us there.

One day, we visited the immense Espiguette beach, stopping at Aigues-Mortes on the way. Despite the fact that it was summer, we didn’t feel the crowd.

Between mornings spent by the pool and naps, my mum and I cooked lunch. And dinner. We ate risotto, mixed salads and stuffed vegetables. We barbecued fresh rougets bought at the market and I even baked a berry gratin and a cake. Fresh, summery and simple.

Another day, we invited my parents for lunch at L’Atelier de Jean-Luc Rabanel in Arles.

“C’est bon mais un peu trop compliqué pour moi,” (It’s good but a bit too complicated for me) my dad said. I laughed. I could see what he meant.

Rabanel received two stars in the 2009 Michelin guide, and was awarded Best 2008 Chef in the Gault et Millau guide. We chose an eight-course tasting menu with paired wines. Around the Vegetal theme.

From seeing each plate brought to our table, I could understand that Rabanel’s goal was to combine cooking techniques and surprise with the flavors offered by each dish. I could also see why my father found our meal complicated.

I don’t remember every detail from the numerous dishes we ate–maybe it’s because of the wine. But I yet remember we started with paper-thin dark red beetroot chips, which Lulu decided were all hers. A tartine with its crunchy vegetables followed. Then we ate crunchy Camargue red rice with its garlic-flavored ice cream; a tuna and bean ceviche; a cut of veal served with rosemary-flavored jus and cooked-to-perfection rosemary-flavored fingerling potatoes; a surprising oyster-scented leaf (the leaf is real and literally tasted like an oyster). And we finished with a red berry soup with its almond milk emulsion (absolutely divine); a brioche cooked as pain perdu and served as a raspberry tartlet; and a panna cotta with fruit and preserved oignons perles. With tarragon-flavored ice cream in the middle.

I found our lunch exquisite and light. Delicate and floral. Rabanel’s food had undeniably inspired my cooking chord.

One day, when we hit the market in town, I found cocos rouges beans. I could not get over their popping light fushia color. They were staring at me.

“Ils sont magnifiques vos légumes,” (Your vegetables are beautiful,) I told the young good-looking man standing behind a beautifully arranged display of provençal vegetables.

He smiled.

I took a bag and started to fill it with cocos rouges. I was so engrossed with the task that I almost didn’t notice an older man with a cane and light summer hat standing by my side. His upper lip was hidden behind a silver-looking mustache that shone under the sun. He was talking to me.

“Ah, les cocos,” he said. “Ils sont beaux, n’est-ce pas? Moi, j’aime les cuire avec des pommes de terre.” (They are beautiful, aren’t they? I like to cook them with potatoes)

“Ils mettent combien de temps à cuire ?” (How long do you cook them for?) I asked, gulping down every word he was saying.

“Ils sont très frais, alors pas trop longtemps. Vingt minutes peut-être. Pas besoin de les faire tremper.” (They are super fresh, so not for too long. Maybe twenty minutes. No need to soak them.)

The man behind the counter was looking at us. Amused.

I was about to pay when I heard the old man again whispering something to my ear. “Pardon ?” I said as I stretched my ear to hear better.

“J’aime aussi y ajouter une saucisse,” (I like to add a sausage in it) he added with a gentle smile. His eyes grew hungry for the food he was describing to me. I closed my eyes and imagined how the flavors could mingle. It also made me suddenly hungry.

Lulu, P. and my parents were waiting for me at a café with a drink when I met them.

“Where were you?” P. asked.

“I was talking to an old man about cocos rouges,” I said. He looked at me puzzled. I didn’t bother explaining then.

“I know what what we are having for dinner tonight,” I went on.

I was still thinking about the friendly face of the old man with his cane and mustache. And while walking to meet my family, I had improvised in my head the recipe for a potato and coco rouge salad with fennel, cherry tomatoes, mesclun greens and radishes bought at the market too. Except that instead of sausage as suggested by my old friend, we’d cook sardines on the grill. And have pêches des vignes with mascarpone cheese and honey for dessert.

And I knew that everything would taste like summer. The south of France and Provence.

A lovely time away.

And that it would leave me with the memory of my new old friend met at the market that morning.

The recipe will follow…

When we woke up early on Friday with Lulu cuddled between us, the sun was already filtering through the bedroom blinds. A few robins were chirruping in the trees near our window and instantly, we knew that the day would be gorgeous. P. had the day off so we decided to go to the beach. And have a picnic.

Since our plan was rather spontaneous, I was thankful for my visit to the first farmer’s market the afternoon before.

I had come home with pretty colorful radishes, strawberries, purple spring onions and beautiful mesclun salad in my market basket. Enough to imagine a radish salad that would accompany a dish of warm black quinoa with asparagus sauce that takes only minutes to prepare.

“On va à la plage,” we told Lulu while we were having a plate of vanilla-flavored millet waffles at the breakfast table. Her face immediately lit with a large smile.

“Vacances !” she shouted out loud.

We laughed. Of course. Our small excursion sounded like a vacation indeed.

And so with the help from my Lulu, I prepared our picnic lunch.

It was a beautiful and easy day.

The bushes lining the sand dunes displayed pretty flowers that looked like colorful pieces of candy. I could smell the vibes of summer without the crowds and the August heat.

As expected, Lulu had a lot of fun. Seeing her run and skip on the beach, laughing heartily, was the best gift we could have hoped for that day.

“Tu as faim ?” (Are you hungry?) I asked her shortly after her first dip in the water.

“Oui,” she replied instantly.

The three of us sat on the edge of the blanket with our feet dug into the sand. And we started to eat. Quietly. Undisturbed by the seagulls curious about our food.

The way Lulu was letting me feed her quinoa showed that indeed, she must have been hungry.

P. and I enjoyed the balance of texture and spicy taste the radish salad brought to our meal. I had also packed a strawberry salad and apricots, and was glad to find rhubarb muffins in the freezer that I wrapped and tossed in our picnic bag too.

By three o’clock, we decided to leave because, on the way back, we wanted to make a stop at a farm nearby to pick strawberries.

“We start tomorrow,” the tall solidly-built young girl standing at the cashier said when I asked her whether we could pick the fruit.

“But you can buy strawberries we’ve already picked, if you want. And you can go and see the animals at the back of the farm.”

So I bought two large containers of strawberries. One for us to enjoy. The other to go inside a dessert I was planning to make and bring to a friends’ garden party the next day.

And then we walked outside to see chicken and geese; ducks and goats; sheep and ponys.

“On reviendra la semaine prochaine,” (We will come back next week) I told Lulu as we were walking back to the car. She was holding her papa by one hand, with a warm doughnut I bought for her at the farm stand in the other.

“These are good!” P. exclaimed after biting into one too. “So nice that I think I want a second one!”

I looked at them and smiled. Munching each on a doughnut, they really made a happy-looking pair.

“I am sure she is going to sleep in the car after all of this, ” I laughed.

It didn’t fail. Back inside the car, within minutes on the road, Lulu was fast asleep, assuring us that she liked the beach, when we asked her if she had had fun.

I had a lot of ideas I wanted to share. In fact, thinking about it now as I write, I should have known that I was feeling ambitious.

That something would come in the way of my plan.

I wanted to tell you about Spring, and how excited I am that it is here, and that on the very first day of Spring, we visited the farm again. Not only because Lulu has been insistently asking to see les moutons et les poules first thing in the morning every day, but also because it was 70 F outside–oh yes it was!–and while Lulu loves the farm because it’s like a enormous playground with funny-aha creatures inside it, I find it healing to see the animals, smell the ground and touch the grass, and have my boots covered with mud.

Then, I wanted to show you the parsley root parsley fritters I cooked.

The pear and chocolate tart I prepared last Thursday when Lulu was in daycare.

And even the strawberry cake I baked–and before you tell me that it’s not yet the season, I know. But the reality is that I’ve been using and eating a lot of strawberries lately and yes, they even tasted good. And even better, they made me feel cheerful.

Well. I cooked a ton within the last week. That’s also therapeutic.

And I think we were just ready and prepared to see winter go and welcome budding flowers and trees dressing up in green again instead.

Really.

It’s cyclical. Seasons are beautiful this way.

Friday was gorgeous, and Lulu and her friend R. played like best friends, running after each other, giggling together and hugging–it was so cute to watch.

Saturday was almost as nice but perhaps a tad cooler.

Then Sunday….is when things started to turn sour. It was cold again.

We went out for a walk in the morning but came the afternoon and Lulu and I started to feel sick. With a cough first. Then a light fever. And while I felt better on Monday, my poor little one was actually sick. And it was snowing again.

So in the place of all these nice things I had planned to write about, I made a green lentil salad, and thought that at least I could tell you and write about that. I had just received a package with beautifully knitted dresses for Lulu from my mother–Have I told you already what a wonderful knitter she is? Merci maman !–and with it came the last issue of Elle a table magazine. A treat.

That’s where I found inspiration to make the salad. I am writing about my version of the recipe.

It felt good to eat warm green lentils with refreshing ingredients like finely shaved fennel, delicate quail eggs and crunchy pieces of apple and green asparagus. It was like having a slice of Spring in my plate.

I ate two servings. Yes. Just by myself while Lulu was napping upstairs. And then I finished with strawberries coated with sugar and yogurt on the side.

I was quite happy.

Even happier an hour later when I found a smile back on Lulu’s face who was finally hungry for lunch again.

I felt appreciative of what I had.

“Je ne savais pas ça !” (I didn’t know that!) I told my sister-in-law.

We were eating lunch. It happened on a Tuesday in January when my family visited us.

I had cooked wild Alaskan salmon in a light broth flavored with aromas of coconut milk, lemongrass and lime, and I served it with steamed brown rice and green asparagus on the side.

Geneviève and I were talking about the salad. La salade. Food that my brother Benoit and I would fight over at every meal, when we still lived together with my parents. The usual for us.

Benoit obviously loved salad. He was known as the one always finishing the last bit of salad in the bowl. I was too. Only not as determined as he was.

Years later, whenever he and I sit around a table to eat, the same salad debate occurs.

Yes.

That Tuesday, it was watercress salad that I had decided to serve with our meal and that prompted Geneviève to exclaim that it was in fact my brother’s favorite. I could see that the sight of the salad was making her happy.

“Vraiment?” (Really?) I asked, looking then at my brother who was eating and smiling between each mouthful.

“Oui,” she continued. “Au Maroc, on mangeait de la salade de cresson à tous les repas.” (When we were in Morocco, we’d eat watercress salad at every meal.) She was referring to the recent trip they had taken to Morocco with her sister and husband, both food people. Like Benoit, which is a thing Lulu took quick notice of. Gladly.

I, too, would have loved to eat watercress salad at every meal if traveling to Morocco.

Or anywhere else.

I imagined the different varieties of watercress, the different shapes, colors and flavors I would be able to find…and eat.

Why not? I thought. Lundi, mardi, mercredi, jeudi….every day of the week.

Naturally, I embraced the idea.

And started eating watercress at every lunch, sometimes dinner too, to accompany dishes of rice, pasta, roasted vegetables, tarts–any foods I prepared.

We loved it.

It’s the peppery taste of watercress that makes it, I find, irresistible and distinctive. I am happy when the salad is served on its own, or when it is combined to more ingredients; when it is sometimes dressed with just a drizzle of balsamic vinegar and olive oil, or at other times with a mustardy dressing.

This recipe is an example amongst many of how I like to dress watercress: paper-thin slices of radish and apple, crumbles of feta and black sesame seeds–truly a favorite.

Yet another dish, I know well, my brother would fight over for the last piece.

But this time, I kept it to myself.