Melons. Les melons. Aren’t they glorious too?

I don’t know about you but I simply cannot buy a melon when it’s out of the season. I remember when I was a child and my parents, my brother and I drove for our summer vacation across France, to another corner of the country. Sometimes it was to the west coast we’d travel–just as we will in a few weeks–and sometimes it was south that my parents had decided we’d spend les grandes vacances (summer vacation). To my brother and me, it didn’t matter where we were traveling, as long as that involved the seaside. On allait à la mer !

One year, we vacationed in the presqu’île de Giens. My parents had rented a cute cottage by the sea, which was very convenient since my mother was able to cook and we had easy access to the beach. Every morning, we liked to walk to the local market to buy local fresh produce. And on the last day, my mother purchased a large cagette de melons (a box filled with melons), and one of apricots–something she invariably did each year, no matter where we vacationed.

In fact, there was never a vacation that didn’t involve bringing local food home.

I keep a vivid memory of our family vacation by the seaside. And of the drive back each year as the car smelled sweet and delicious from the fruit we had put in the trunk.

The melons were always remarkable.

So naturally, in summer, most likely like a lot of you, I enjoy eating heaps of scrumptious melons. I tell P. that they don’t taste as sweet as the ones from our summer vacation, to which his response is that I feel this way because I was young and carefree, and that everything by the seaside seemed to taste better. He’s probably right. Although…

Nevertheless. The other day, it was this salad that glorified a summer cantaloupe. I had made a point to leave the fruit out on the counter top for a few days until it was ripe and à point. I made the salad with mixed greens and leftovers of a roasted chicken. The marriage between the tenderness of the meat, slices of melon, raspberries and mixed greens tossed in a pistachio & lime vinaigrette was incredible.

In fact, the salad was so tasty that I ate it within minutes–not always a good thing, is it? Lunch left Lulu and I feeling light when we finally set off for the park. I was happy with the salad. Lulu was with the sandbox at the playground. And cookies.

On the way back home, I decided to make a quick stop at the store for milk. What I didn’t expect to find there was what follows. Boxes of delicious looking white currants and gooseberries, local it read on the box, were neatly arranged in the fruit section. It so rarely happens that it frankly took me by surprise. “What am I going to do with those?” I kept thinking as I handed a $10 bill to the cash registrar. Blank. Hence the berries sat in the fridge for one day. Until the word tart, in all of its glory, popped into my head.

It was a spontaneous simple tart, in fact, that I ended up choosing. I didn’t have much to prepare since I already had handy leftovers of a rustic crust . Which left me with the preparation of the fruit only.

Minutes after I started to work, Lulu caught sight of the box of berries. “They are mine and I am going to give them to maman“, the look on her face seemed to be saying as she proudly carried to my small working table the box she was holding tight between her hands.

I cannot help but smile whenever I picture the scene again.

You can really use any fruit and spices you like. At each time I bake a tart like this one, it always evolves into something new.

So the result was a delicious dessert with character.

One that invariably makes me think about the beach. Our time away with the family. And of a day in August building a memory around food.

I am not ready to forget my princess’s tiny hands holding the fruit either.

“Un pour Lulu, un pour maman, one for Lulu, one for mummy, ” I was humming with one hand fumbling through a colander filled with fresh peas while the other was cracking the pods open to toss one pea in a bowl, one inside my mouth and Lulu’s. Rhythmically. Lulu was making faint giggling noises, obviously enjoying our silly eating game–especially when she was trying to eat the pods too.

Peas. When comes the season, I am fretting with excitement. Peas are loaded with summery memories. Our vegetable garden. Les grandes vacances. Afternoons in late June, early July, when it was so hot that we’d have the shutters close to keep the house cool and I’d sit on the back terrace with my mother and a friend, for fun–and we’d be cleaning peas.

My friend and I loved to clean peas because it meant that we’d eat them. Raw.

Peas sing on my plate like nightingales early in the morning.

Yesterday was my first time at the market since we’ve been back. And oh the joy of finding so many fruit and vegetables and pleasing colors! Feeling the buzz of summer–-the very things that make me rejoice in the season.

I couldn’t help but fill my market basket with more than I needed: strawberries, raspberries, currants, peas, radish, watercress, arugula, tomatoes, sprouts and fresh herbs. So that after we were back home, I could prepare foods that speak S.U.M.M.E.R. In capital letters.

I started with dessert and made a simple strawberry salad that revealed the best aromas of the fruit.

I continued with a lemon and mint flavored pea spread–which I decided would be lunch– eaten on slices of toasted brioche (mine was gluten free) with a watercress and radish salad.

It’s funny, you know, these foods. They worked like magic. They lifted my spirit. And so after eating our tartines, salad and strawberries, and Lulu had had her nap, we left for an afternoon walk, maman avec sa fille, ….with banana and chocolate muffins awaiting upon our return.

Summer. It’s all about these pleasures. And it needs to last.

As to the pea recipe…

Most of the time, I prefer to cook peas lightly–although a slow simmering veal tajine with peas is quite something…

I blanched the peas in salted boiling water for two minutes and rinsed them under cold water. When they are prepared in this manner, peas keep a beautiful bright green color that cheers your plate. I added goat cheese, lemon juice, tahini nut butter, a chopped scallion, mint and finished with a drizzle of hazelnut oil. Make your own variant (like me today when I ate more of it with slices of coppa and fresh tomatoes).

The sweetness of fresh peas is simply exquisite.

Some dishes inspire me simply by their name. Potato salad. Salade de pommes de terre. I’ve always had a strong relationship with potato salads. Particularly my mother’s. She prepared hers at least once a week when I was growing up, using potatoes from her garden or my grandmother’s, which turned the salad into a dish that, my brother and I believed, couldn’t be equalled by any other. To this date, I still think that her salade de pommes de terre is the best I’ve ever eaten.

Perhaps then being married to an Irish man is no accident, after all. Potato salad is a dish, amongst many, that brings P. and I together. When that’s what we eat, nothing is ever left in our plates.

This scene, as a matter of fact, happened a few Mondays ago. Spontaneously. I had a bag of organic fingerling potatoes, des rattes, and a bunch of fresh watercress. I was craving food that would speak like spring. So I thought of making a potato salad with the first potatoes of the season, les pommes de terre nouvelles.

In this recipe, I added radish and cucumber that I decided to marinate beforehand, filling the vegetables with juice but leaving them with crunch. I then added tasty goat cheese and lightly sauteed asparagus to make a more complete meal. Simple but always inspiring and nourishing.

Lulu looked at the food but didn’t venture to try. That didn’t matter, though. One day, we told ourselves, we are convinced that she will understand her papa and maman‘s strong attachment to potatoes. And she’ll surely join in. It must be in our genes.

Both sides.

Right now, she is simply more interested in exploring other parts of the world than potatoes.

“Oh, that’s so nice!” my friend E. exclaimed when I placed the small plates on the table. She had stopped by on her way back from the market and I had asked her to stay for lunch. I wanted to share my tomatoes with her, or else I was worried they would spoil too quickly. So it didn’t matter that I didn’t have real lunch plans. I remembered the tomatoes lined on the kitchen window sill, perfectly happy it seemed to receive more of the warm afternoon sun, and the idea of tomato millefeuilles popped into my head.

So this is one of the ways we started to eat our delicious Heirloom tomatoes, dressed up in a millefeuille. The flavor of tomatoes stands as the queen in this summery dish. It’s a classic: fine slices of fresh mozzarella with juicy sun-filled tomatoes, olive oil with body, the best you have handy, fragrant basil, a tasteful aged balsamic vinegar and salt with character. The association works at each time.

And for the days that followed, I prepared the same appetizer for P. and I, with this time, the tomatoes more casually layered on a plate.

It’s a dish simple to prepare, one that makes you rejoice about summer.

And homegrown seasonal tomatoes.

Quinoa is, by far, one of my favorite grains*. I remember when we traveled to Peru a few years ago and we ate quinoa at almost every meal, in soups, salads, warm savory dishes and desserts. Quinoa was to Peruvians what rice is to Asians and pasta to Italians. I was already familiar with the grain before we arrived but our Peruvian trip inspired me to use the grain even more frequently than I did. I simply never grow tired of it. Quite on the contrary.

* Quinoa is, in fact, the seed of the Chenopodium (or Goosefoot) plant. It’s technically not really a grain, but considered like one as it’s cooked like many grains.

So we eat quinoa quite regularly, perhaps twice a week, and I also love to use the flour made from the grain in many of my baked goods and tarts (simply check the cake section).

I was excited, in fact, the first day I also decided to prepare quinoa for Lulu. *So* happy because I knew I was sharing with her one of my favorite foods, giving her a food full of nutrients and flavor. And delighted to watch her eat and enjoy it, as much as her maman — and papa.

To start, quinoa is extremely nutritious. It is full of protein, offers niacin, iron, phosphorus and potassium. Since it contains all eight essential amino acids, it is also considered a complete protein, very easy to digest. Quinoa is high in unsaturated fats and lower in carbohydrates than most grains.

Most of you know that white quinoa is the most common variety. But red and black are also available despite that they are somewhat more challenging to find. But, if you are like me, you’ll easily go out of your way to put your hand on a box.

Until recently, I had only cooked with the white and red varieties. Black quinoa was something new but really exciting. I loved its deep rich color, especially after the grain was cooked, and I was curious to find out whether I would notice any difference in taste.

I truly loved it. It was full of flavor, nutty and light. It paired wonderfully with seasonal ingredients I had purchased, lovely colorful baby beets and cherry and green zebra tomatoes. In fact, I liked it so much that I was inspired to try different types of salads.

I wanted salads boosted with vitamins. I wanted contrast of flavors, with sweet ingredients balancing savory ones. I wanted to taste the smoothness of an avocado next to something zesty and juicy like grapefruit and grapes. In one salad, I used pieces of crumbled French feta cheese and in the other, ricotta salata. I added fragrant herbs and made a vinaigrette with body, using honey-flavored French mustard, garlic and flavorful oils and vinegars. It was really fun to try different variants on the same idea. One salad had thin blanched haricots verts and sweet juicy cherry and zebra tomatoes, and in the other, I preferred to add baby beets and smoked salmon.

I learned that combinations are endless and experimenting with the grain always inspiring.

So you’ll see why it’s not difficult to make quinoa a favorite, especially when you’ll hear that it cooks extremely quickly (between 12 to 15 minutes, covered in boiling water, depending on the variety + allow 5 minutes to rest).

Use it in its most natural state to accompany roasted vegetables, fish or meat, or serve it with a simmered sauce. Saute it as you would rice, and add fresh herbs and spices (my next thing in line!) Or, just like here, prepare fun colorful salads to keep you happy and healthy, whether you eat in, at work or out on a picnic (lucky you!) at the beach. You’ll understand that quinoa is a great grain to keep handy for any type of dinner or lunch occasions.

Are you as hungry as I am?

It’s been so hot since I’ve returned from France that the oven has remained unusually quiet. Almost untouched — beside the berry sabayon au gratin and coconut macaroons I made (and that’s because I was too bored, upset to feel stuck inside all day.) So I am patiently (and that’s saying a lot!) waiting for the cooler days to come. Counting them, one by one. Un, deux, trois, quatre….reloading the weather forecast page on my laptop every time I walk by, with the hope that it’s a mistake, that they‘ve made a mistake, that tomorrow, the temperatures will be bearable, and life will resume its course. Quietly.

Because this heat is severe and aggressive, and when I think about it, this is what I dislike about summer. When it’s too much of everything: too much noise, too much heat, too much AC — and an obvious lack of fresh clean air. I am trying not to miss the cherry trees in my parents’ garden too much, but frankly, it’s hard not to. They were so relaxing and soft, ces arbres. So quiet and tranquil.

It’s no surprise then that after I put Lulu to bed tonight, I felt exhausted. She was exhausted too. At first, I thought it was the jet lag still playing on us. But in fact, I know that it’s the heat that sucked the last bit of my energy.

I am not trying to complain. There are many worse things than reading 95 F on the thermometer. Sometimes I hate being so affected by this sacrée chaleur (damned heat). But I am looking forward to the early fall when I can use my oven again. When I feel like it.

No wonder that I felt like preparing a cold verrine for dinner. To start. Something simple to make, no fuss, a dish refreshing to eat on the porch with my feet dipped in Lulu’s pool, trying to feel better.

I started with grated cucumber sprinkled with salt to release some water. Then, I added local radishes, sticks of apple and plain yogurt. With a drizzle of lime juice and one of olive oil, more yogurt and slices of smoked salmon, I had food perfectly right to cool off. My dinner.

Still hoping for the cooler days to finally arrive, and for summer to go away with its luggage of unwelcomed heat.

I’ll just have, once again, to reload the weather page before going to bed. Hoping!

Note that this verrine also makes a lovely and pretty appetizer for a casual dinner with friends.

“Let’s go there later in the day,” P. told me when I mentioned I wanted to have a picnic at the beach on Sunday. “It’s going to be hot before then, I can tell.”

“Yeah, I guess you are right,” I responded, feeling somewhat a tad disappointed since my plan had been to leave early in the morning. “It will be better, we will avoid the crowd and the heat. But eh, what about having dinner at the beach then?”

“Deal!”

This idea was already making me feel better. And completely excited. We never think often enough to have dinner at the beach. Yet, how nice to look at the sun set on the ocean while eating with our feet dug into the sand. Franchement pas mal !

We checked the weather forecast to make sure that there weren’t any thunderstorms in the making that we were not aware of. On ne sait jamais (you never know) with New England weather. Chance was on our side. Thus our plan was made and the rest followed naturally.

The last few days had been really hot and humid. We’d had weather to make you sweat at even a lift of an eyebrow, or each breath of air inhaled. Even my almost daily visits to the nearby pool — quite conveniently located, I must say — were not enough to ease it up.

The thought of the beach and a dinner picnic?

Frankly, it was the perspective of a great time.

I love picnics. I love to pack picnic baskets too.

Perhaps because I like picnics so much — I am honestly as fond of picnic utensils, baskets and dinnerware as of picnic foods — ideas kept coming to my head, with too many choices and options from which to choose from. Would I bake something? Make sandwiches? Or rather prepare a few salads?

“Tu préfères des sandwichs ou des tartetettes aux légumes ?” (do you prefer sandwiches or vegetable tartlets?) I said quite busy writing down a short shopping list to prepare for the picnic.

I don’t know why I even bothered to ask.

“Des tartelettes !” P. exclaimed. No hesitation involved.

I spent Sunday morning preparing all sorts of easy-to-pack foods. I did not choose one option, I wanted them all. Leftovers of the lunch we’d enjoyed the day before came in handy: cooked red quinoa and chickpeas were combined into a salad, with fresh herbs, diced scallions and pink radishes, and I also decided to complete this piece of our meal with our salade de carottes rituelle – française oblige ! Then I started working on the tartlets.

It is really my mum’s delicious tarte au thon, the very one she used to prepare every now and then when she was looking for a quick dinner idea, that inspired my recipe. When she prepared hers, my mum would brush la pâte (the pie crust) with moutarde forte de Dijon (strong Dijon mustard) and top it with chunks of tuna marinated in olive oil, fresh slices of tomatoes and grated cheese. For dinner, we always enjoyed the tart eaten warm, accompanied by a large green salad seasoned with a vinaigrette she was the only one to have the secret of, and if there was any leftovers, we would snack on them at odd times of the day.

My recipe used her basis but I also customized it. Starting with the crust, I knew I wanted to use olive oil instead of butter and like my mum, I used tuna for the topping. My mum is the one in our family who taught me how to recycle leftovers. I remember that we used to tease her about it, even finding her a nickname when we jokingly called her Madame Tupperware. Years later, I was far from imagining that, while I was still living with parents, my dad would also find me a nickname: la Miss des petits pots au frigo.

It surely comes handy today.

For the crust, I used three types of flours: brown rice, quinoa and millet — all wonderful in flavor. I also added poppyseeds for a nice color touch and crunchiness. As to the topping, in addition to tuna and tomatoes, I also marinated zucchini slices in olive oil and thyme, and added slices of red onions and crumbled fresh goat cheese.

“What time are we leaving again?” I asked P. as I was busy taking the tartlets out of the oven. They only needed twenty-five minutes to bake.

“Three,” he said. “Mmm, ca a l’air super bon ça,”

“Don’t touch! It is our dinner!” P. always likes to steal bits and pieces of food when I cook.

“I am going to make something sweet too,” I added.

I knew well that this would please him.

Refreshing slices of melon, watermelon, or ripe peaches are always a nice touch to a picnic basket but this time, I preferred to bring a bowl of deliciously crunchy Rainier cherries picked at the market. My spontaneous purchase of red rhubarb and local strawberries, for which I had had no baking plan beside making sure to enjoy them while they are in season, inspired me to improvise a few light fruit cakes baked in small ramekins. They also used quinoa flour, and my favorite Sicilian green pistachios.

The cakes turned out so delicious that despite trying not to, we ate the first two before leaving. But since my recipe called for four, I packed the other two for our dinner picnic. I sensed that eaten by the spoon, they would really finish our meal nicely.

When we arrived at the beach, the heat had almost completely vanished. Most people had already left too, to our delight. We walked for a while to reach a completely secluded place and then, we sat down. The blanket I spread on the sand was large enough for four people to lie on it. Quite comfortable for the two of us, and our picnic.

It was quite windy. After a short dip in the water, still cold at this time of year despite the outside temperature, we took a long nap. Then, when we started to feel hungry, we arranged the food on our improvised outdoors table: we had plastic plates, forks, napkins, homemade limeade and glasses. We passed the food between the two of us without feeling any need to talk. Instead, we simply enjoying the quietness. The scenery.

A couple walked by us as they were leaving the beach. They looked beaten by the wind and hot afternoon sun.

“Mmmm, this looks good,” the tall skinny tanned man said with a large friendly smile.

“Thanks!” I said, returning his smile.

We dug our feet into the sand which felt cold and cooling as it covered our skin.

The sun was starting to set too, casting a warm light all around us. We smiled, feeling content as we listened to the noise made by the waves breaking on the sand.

“Shall we do it again next week?” P. said.

I smiled.

He didn’t need to ask me twice.

Oh mince! I had forgotten about those beets!

I had to find something to do with them, n’est-ce pas ? Nothing hurts me more than tossing food because I forget about it. I could have done something I knew well how to, but I did not feel like making neither a soup nor a salad, although these sounded both good too. I was in fact looking forward to something new to use my bunch of soon-to-fade beets.

So when P. walked into the kitchen on Saturday morning to tell me I take that we stay here this weekend, don’t we?, he gave me a brilliant idea. Inspiring!

Of course, we were staying in! There was really little chance that anything more exciting and adventurous could happen with my turned-black foot still bothering me — and that’s a mild way to put it as I have never had such a pitch black bruise. Within a few days, I’ve mastered the hopping technique like a pro and I can even cover distances in the house — from stove to couch — quite fast. I think I even like it.

“Gnocchi?” I said after I caught sight of lost potatoes in the vegetable basket. They too looked like they needed to find a happy destiny on my stove soon.

“Oh yes!”

P. and I love gnocchi. There was a time when I would make gnocchi quite often, but as with many foods, my cooking inspiration goes in phases: when I tire of one dish or ingredient, I move to the next to find new stimulation, only to come back to it later. Like many of us, I like to play with a recipe for weeks, to understand it better, and improve it. And then, by some sort of unexplained reason, I seem to forget about it for months, as if it never existed. Enfin presque !

Things would be slow during the weekend, I knew that far. So perhaps it was natural that the thought of being comfortably home made me crave for comfy food, you know, the kind of food that you imagine enjoying with a good bottle of red wine, and a good movie afterwards. I knew that gnocchi would be a winner for our mood: not difficult to make, and comforting.

I had not made beet gnocchi before, so I was quite pleased to take advantage of the situation to be inspired. With potatoes and lovely flours, I could not possibly go wrong. So I imagined my gnocchi served warm at lunch, arranged in a salad dressed in a hazelnut vinaigrette, with toasted hazelnuts and fresh spinach — I bet pieces of gorgonzola in it too would be a nice addition. Then on the same day, I served the leftovers for dinner – yes I do this type of things — with an oven-roasted tenderloin pork prepared with sage, pesto, prosciutto and cherry tomatoes. A different way to accommodate the same food for different moods, making for an entire gnocchi day.

And the next day, I served the only ten left as a tiny appetizer dressed in the pistachio, arugula and basil pesto I had prepared for my meat the previous night.

And because a meal would not be complete chez nous without dessert, I also used the lovely strawberries P. had brought home — oh yes, did I tell you that he did the grocery shopping for me this week, I could get used to it – to make Lemongrass strawberry floating islands.

To feel a taste of Spring. After all, we managed to have our first lunch outside in the garden.

We loved the gnocchi the three ways, didn’t leave a drop of the dessert. All this red turned our plates into an explosion of cheerful colors and heathful food.

But listen, do you actually know what my first thought was when I fell on my foot?

Oh no!!!! Our trip to Italy!

Really!

Needless to say that the gnocchi and our strawberry dessert really helped, making me feel as if we were there already.

And making me forget about my painful foot.

I think that you might have a story just like mine. And perhaps you might also have the same love for fingerling potatoes. And oh, by the way, this is not un poisson d’avril – April’s Fool. Really.

I actually did not plan to make us lunch at home on Sunday because in reality, we were supposed to go out for the entire day. We had a lovely plan: a walk by the beach in Rhode Island, and tea with friends on the way back. The weather forecast was more than promising: sunny with clear blue sky, and not freezing temperatures either. The perfect day, we shall call it, non ? But things did not turn out the way we expected. When I woke up early on Sunday morning, I noticed something odd. As I was still lying in the dark bedroom, with the sheets pulled up to my neck, I noticed how cold my nose was. Really unusually cold. I reluctantly dragged myself out of our toasty bed and walked quietly downstairs to turn the heat up. 53 F? That’s not right! And then I remembered the work done on the heating system just a few days before. And then an unpleasant idea crossed my mind. Could this &%$#^#! heating system be broken again after having been just tuned up?

It was. Kaput ! Our plans for the day would obviously need to change. It was cold inside, enough to make my fingers feel numb and my nose stay pitch red all morning!

Do these scenarios happen to you on Sundays as well? Nous ? Always, alors vraiment toujours. I have really noticed that whenever we have a problem with the plumbing or the heating system, it always happens on weekends. Comme par hasard. Once, we found ourselves with an inch of water in the kitchen when the dishwasher broke, just a day before leaving for France; another time, it was one pipe that burst leaving me without water for the Saturday dinner I was preparing for friends. I know well, there are worse things that can happen. But when these happen, no matter how I try to reason myself, for a second, or two, it is a real pain. La poisse ! (French slang for bad luck)

“Le gars de chez Thermoil vient aujourd’hui ?” (The guy from Thermoil is coming today?) I asked P. in a bit of a panic at the thought of hanging out all day in a feels-like-a-freezer house . Even the sun outside would have no chance to warm us up. Perhaps a soup would? But we were somewhat souped-out, and I had decided to pause on soups, at least for a day! It never lasts longer.

“Yes, they are coming in an hour.”

Luck had switched gear, heading towards a more promising direction. Only in America!

By the time the service man was done with his fixing work, it was well past a reasonable time for us to still leave for the day, and drive for well over an hour before reaching our planned destination. We needed plan B.

Lunch was a must; later in the day, we would take a walk at Walden Pond, closer to home.

“Tu es vraiment incroyable,” I told P. when I saw him gulp down the potato salad before touching anything else on his plate. I had prepared one with green peas, the first I had been thrilled to find at Whole Foods, a large bouquet of beautiful mint which scent had caught my attention while I was shopping for other things, and thin slices of lean Bresaola purchased with Bayonne ham at my favorite deli in town.

“What is in the dressing?” P. mumbled with his mouth still full. I looked up at him and burst into one of my heavy — and unfortunately loud — laughters ( I will not tell you what my dad says it sounds like when I laugh.)

“Something secret!”

I was kidding, of course. But I knew that, as much as P. knows me well, he was not going to guess this one easily.

I don’t use tahini sauce — and almond butter — the way I used to when I was still a vegetarian. Back then, they were probably much more part of my regular diet. I am quite fond of the wide range of nut butter and spreads we can find. I enjoy them simply spread on a piece of toast — have you tried to combine tahini and honey on a piece of bread? — or mixed in a soup to round it, or in a salad dressing. I find tahini to give a sauce body, a fuller and deliciously nutty taste, perfect for a potato salad. I often add lemon juice and a touch of mustard for a more pronounced flavor, and finish with a flavorful extra virgin olive oil.

The recipe for this potato salad is simple: small Yukon or fingerling potatoes — my real favorites for their concentration of flavor and firmness — and spring green peas are gently blended with a minted tahini-based dressing, with musty and sweet slices of Bresaola, hard-boiled quail eggs and sprinkled gomasio. This dish makes excellent comfort food, ideal eaten as part of a casual lunch, for a summer meal taken outside under your favorite cherry tree, or even packed for a picnic. Really! I have tried this salad in all occasions.

On our lunch table, there were also vegetable tartlets made with three different vegetables and an olive oil, brown rice and poppyseed crust, served with a side arugula salad tossed in balsamic vinegar and olive oil. But all P. seemed to care about was actually the potato salad — watching his enthusiasm for it was actually nice.

So?

Perhaps we did not manage to follow our initial Sunday plan, but in the end everything fell into place: we recovered a heated house, had a tasty lunch and enjoyed a fun walk in the woods and around the pond. And, when coconut milk chocolate pots de crème came as a way to finish our Sunday afternoon, I knew well that, well really, our day had been pretty good.

I hope that yours was just as good.