I should have known that when visiting Jamaica, I would love the island. I knew it when, for the first time, I saw Jamaicans’ faces. When I caught sight of their welcoming smiles. When I heard the way they spoke. I loved the melody of their accent, and the way the intonation marking their words made their voice go up at the end of each sentence. It sounded like a happy melody.

“I like how you pronounce the word “questions”“, I said one day to our local guide at Prospect Plantation in Ocho Rios. Thin and not looking his age, he liked to share deadpan jokes which were irresistibly funny.

Before October, I had never visited Jamaica, but I had always wanted to.

It started when, at the age of seventeen, I traveled to Canada with a teenager group, and we met Nikki.

Nikki’s mother was French, his father Jamaican, but Nikki lived in Toronto, which made him Canadian too. Nikki was tall and skinny, with long dark curly hair and glasses too wide for his face. He was funny too. He was also always hungry and eating, and at night, after we’d slip inside our sleeping bags under the tent, he loved to tell us stories about Jamaica. Which, despite the fact that I was still young, piqued my curiosity and made me promise that, one day, I’d visit the island.

I finally did when, two months ago, I was invited with a small group of food writers to participate to a culinary tour of Jamaica.

It was exotic. Colorful and inspiring.

I took me a fair amount of time to gather my thoughts and decide what stories I’d share with you. So much was packed within five days. There were so many picture opportunities.

Perhaps, I thought, I should start with the story that happened the day we traveled to the Blue Mountains and our bus got stuck in one of the many sharp curves on the road leading to a coffee farm. It was irresistibly funny! And scary too.

Or maybe instead, I should write about the magnificent house and gardens that Robin keeps at Belcour Preserves, and how I adored sitting on the porch of her house to taste delicate foods and drinks she had kindly prepared for us–all of this while watching with delight a heavy downpour surrounding us. No wonder, I thought, that the trees and flowers look so happy here!

I learned that Jamaica has a strong food culture that deserves to be seen and tasted. I learned that, unlike other Caribbean islands I’ve visited before, locals grow various types of fruit and vegetables.

Thankfully, two months later, I am now finally ready to share the highlights from my culinary trip.

It starts with:

–Traveling the winding road which revealed magnificent views of the Yallahs Valley and led to Clifton Mount Estate, located at an elevation of 4300 feet above sea level. From it, we embraced the majestic view of the Grand Ridge and Blue Mountain Peak at 7402 feet which, as is often the case, hid behind a layer of dense mountain mist. I could not help but love the different local scenes we witnessed on the way: school children wearing dark blue school uniforms; colorful tin-roofed grocery shacks; local bars; clouds hanging around the pointy steeple of a white church perched on the flank of the mountains; lush dark green vegetation which witnessed of the heavy downpours the area receives regularly.

Lawrence and Richard Sharp, the friendly owners of the coffee farm who welcomed us to morning coffee with homemade baked sweets–hello banana bread!–taught us that, because of its location, Clifton Mount Estate is a premium coffee growing territory. With its carefully maintained garden, a paradise to playful hummingbirds, the old house–one of the few remaining Jamaican Great Houses–looks beautiful, somehow reminiscent of another era.

I learned that Lawrence’s farm is 75 percent organic, which means that only a few crops are sprayed with pesticides. Because Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee is heavily regulated by the Coffee Industry Board of Jamaica –assuring the trademarked “Jamaica Blue Mountain” designation, much like the French Appellation d’origine contrôlée (AOC)–Blue Mountain coffee is fairly expensive in comparison to other coffees grown elsewhere in the world.

–Sampling a humble and delicious lunch at EITS Café. EITS (short for Europe in the summer) is a charming open-air café located on the hillside town of Newcastle in the Blue Mountains. The eatery is run by the petite and lovely Robyn Fox and her father. Together, they operate the café, run Mount Edge guesthouse, and Food Basket, an enterprise selling to select supermarkets around Kingston (and by special order) herbs and vegetables they proudly grow on the farm.

There, I learned about French thyme (a variety I had never seen before), which Robin’s father was proud to have me taste. We also sampled Scotch bonnet pepper, an extremely spicy pepper that is traditionally used to season jerk chicken, giving the traditional Jamaican dish its unique flavor.

–Walking through the lush green gardens at Belcour Preserves where owners Robin Lumsden and her husband Michael treated us to homemade local foods and refreshments. Dating back to the 1700s, the lodge was originally a coffee farm. Today, Robin and Michael use it to grow tropical fruit and keep bees. The Lumsden’s 75 bee colonies produce Belcour’s Tropical Honey, a delicate, multiflora amber honey. They also make jams, relishes, condiments, and hot pepper sauce–all using the local produce available.

–Sampling street food–like pumpkin and crawfish soup, corn on the cob and freshly cut open exotic fruit–bought at street stalls found everywhere along the way. Hello avocado pear, guavas, guinep, June plum, jackfruit, papaya (Paw Paw), sorrel, sweetsop, soursop, and Jamaican mangoes, I loved you all. I am so thankful that you educated me to many varieties of fruit unknown to me before.

–Eating a lot of soups. Spicy soups. Pumpkin soups. I was surprised to learn that in Jamaica, pumpkin is common and eaten all year round. I was also delighted to find out that for Jamaicans, Saturday means Soup day. What’s not to love about a gathering of friends and family around a large pot of homemade soup?

–Visiting Irish Rover near Ochos Rios, the first authentic Irish Pub on the island. After working as a musician in Ireland for over 40 years, owner Winston Samuels decides to retire to his homeland where he eventually opens this surprising pub. Unique and well worth the visit.

–Watching how, at Scotchies (a rustic thatched-roof outdoors joint located in Coral Gardens near Montego Bay), the best jerk you can find on the island is made. In fact, I had never seen anything like this before: dozens of pimiento-seasoned chickens and slabs of pork grilling on open flames. I learned that it’s the smoke which gives the flavor to the meat. With jerk, we enjoyed sides like sliced, roasted breadfruit and yam; rice and peas (incidentally I learned that this translates as rice and beans) and festival (deep-fried cornmeal dumplings).

–Eating a piece of freshly cut-open coconut sprinkled with brown sugar. So simple. So good.

–Traveling to Ochos Rios to discover exquisite beaches and swim in crystal clear turquoise waters by late afternoon before heading out for dinner.

–Watching a beautiful rainbow from my room at Sandals resort in Ochos Rios.

–Enjoying a traditional Jamaican breakfast. Who knew I would enjoy eating ackee and salted fish (from ackee fruit and salt cod), with rice and Callaloo, and boiled green bananas so early in the morning? I really did!

–Meeting lots of goats along the way.

–Sampling rum. Bananas. Banana bread.

And, with the head filled with delicious memories (and the suitcase with local treats), return home inspired to prepare seasonal pumpkin soup. And bake my own banana bread.

To celebrate the foods I sampled, and prolong the many special moments I was lucky to spent amongst Jamaicans.

Invariably, that’s always what traveling to new places does to me.

To you too?

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?

It’s the story of a soup that connected us to a place and a moment. Between earth and sea.

About a month ago, Lulu, P. and his parents and I traveled to Block Island. We’d decided of the trip quickly, choosing the small island off the coast of Rhode Island as the place to meet. Together, we wanted to spend a short week to celebrate the end of summer.

We rented a lovely house on the west side of the island. On top of a hill. Overlooking the ocean. Which, as it may read, sounds like we’d found the perfect getaway.

We had. It was perfect in every meaning of the word. It was délicieusement doux et sucré.

Our days were slow in the manner time passes on a small island. Refreshing in just the right amount.

When we spent time inside, we cooked and played with Lulu. Once outside, we wandered the winding roads, admiring meadows and ponds, before eventually finding one of the many gorgeous beaches of the island where we built stone piles and drew our names in the sand with wooden sticks. Lulu liked to imagine she was Ladybug Girl at the Beach.

I really love Block Island.

We had a terrific family time and ate lovely homey dishes.

Somehow, soup was at the center of this. Somehow, these trips always inspire me to prepare soup.

This carrot soup happened there. Or at least I started thinking about it after my mother-in-law and I bought clams one night for dinner.

I remembered the curried squash and red lentil soup I had prepared with clams when our friends Pierre and Akiko visited. I wanted something just like that. But something new too. I wanted that the soup celebrated the connection I felt on the island. Between earth and sea. With the transition into the new season.

“Carrots!”

“What?”

“Carrots. It’s a carrot soup,” I told P. on the first night when I brought the soup to the table.

“It’s amazing!” he said after he tasted it. “So elegant and surprising. Yet so down-to-earth too.” I liked that he had found the words to describe what I couldn’t.

I had prepared the soup with carrots, orange and sweet potato, with aromas of ginger and coriander.

“What’s this?” Lulu asked when she saw me drizzle truffle-flavored oil on top of the steaming soup.

“Do you want some?”

“Oui s’il te plait.”

I smiled. I liked that she asked for it.

“Do you like truffle oil? I said as I watched her dip a piece of toasted baguette in the soup.

“Oui,” she said as she dipped more bread in.

Who wouldn’t like it? I am a fan of finishing my soups (like this sunchoke soup), with a drizzle of truffle oil.

Right then, I understood that this soup was becoming a favorite.

A few weeks ago, Esther who works for Martha Stewart magazines sent me an email, asking whether I’d like to receive a complementary copy of the special Everyday Food summer issue.

I’d be happy to, I said.

I love summer.

It almost went without asking. Especially since, I later found out, recipes from fellow bloggers Heidi, Aran, and Ree, were featured inside the magazine. With more goodies from New York food writer Mindy Fox.

I promised to give my feedback.

Don’t be surprised when I tell you that I wasn’t actually familiar with the magazine at all. I know.

In a way, it was probably good. I didn’t have any expectations.

The magazine arrived and I found myself enjoying what I read and saw.

The cover was pretty. The magazine was filled with beautiful pictures of mouthwatering dishes. With a strong enchanting summer feel. There was even a delightful feature of Aran and dishes she made to celebrate a summer pool party with friends.

All charming.

Obviously, many dishes caught my attention–like a zucchini frittata and Mindy‘s roast chicken. But because of the way my life goes at the moment, I knew I wouldn’t have the time to cook my way through the magazine right away.

I have the rest of summer to do just that.

Yet, I started with a few selected dishes.

Like the gorgeous corn soup that Aran made and styled. It was a dish we loved.

I adapted the recipe, experimenting each time I cooked it.

The soup is served chilled with chopped pepper and scallions, and coriander flowers. I was glad to find coriander flowers in my garden that I gladly used for the garnish as well. We found the soup superb to start a meal on a hot day.

In one of my interpretations of the dish, the recipe I am including here, I liked to add leek and fresh herbs, because I have lots of them in the garden that speak summer flavors. I also garnished the soup with fresh pieces of crab that offered a welcoming contrast of texture and flavors, a bit like a cross between Earth and Water. Try these if you happen to have the ingredients handy. And I served the soup lukewarm. In the end, I really enjoyed the original recipe and the variants I tried. It was fun to make the soup again and again and see what happens each time we ate it.

Then came the popsicles. Beautiful refreshing bâtonnets de glace à eau, as we call them in French, with colors that popped out of the pages. So inspiring, I thought. Perfect for the season.

I knew I had to try a few.

I had mangoes at home, juicy peaches and raspberries bought at the market, and my favorite apple juice. Inspiration with a new recipe idea in my head.

That was just the way the mango and peach popsicle recipe that follows was born.

I kept it simple. Without any sugar added. I wanted to taste the aromas of the fruit. I wanted that Lulu enjoyed them just like that too. I wanted color. So I decided to sneak a few raspberries inside each popsicle. And nothing else.

We ate them when my father-in-law and P.’s sister, who both live in Chicago, paid us a surprise visit for lunch. It was a perfect summer day, I remember. Not too warm. So comfortable. I had prepared a carrot soup flavored with lemon thyme that we enjoyed with crusty millet bread, slices of prosciutto, and cucumber from the garden that I sliced finely and dressed in a yogurt, mint, lemon juice and olive oil sauce.

The popsicles sealed our meal beautifully. They were gone within seconds.

So I made more. With red currants and raspberries that time.

“Red ones!” Lulu exclaimed when she opened the freezer and found them, ready to be eaten.

She ate one. And then she was off running again.

Ah the flavors of summer…

Did I like the magazine?

I did.

I also told Esther that I wished that the future issues would stay in a large format, like the summer issue (the current Everyday food issues are printed in pocket size).

Photographs need to be big, I added.

They really do.

N’est-ce pas ?

Un…deux…trois…Whenever I start eating cherries, I cannot stop.

You?

I am really fond of the fruit.

I love to keep a few cherry pits in my mouth while I go on with my daily activities, and I even forget about them until I decide I need to eat or drink more.

For my entire French family, cherries are really special too.

My grandparents and parents have always owned cherry trees at the back of their houses. Each spring, we enjoyed conversations to guess how good the season would turn, awaiting when the fruit would become ripe.

“Ton père est dans l’arbre entrain de cueillir des cerises,” (Your father is picking cherries in the tree) my mum said a few days ago when I called to ask how they were.

“Je ne sais plus quoi en faire tellement il y en a cette année,” (There are so many this year that I don’t know what to do with them anymore) my father later added.

This year, everyone back home says it happened very early.

With us, cherries would go in jams and tarts; clafoutis and cakes; ice creams and preserves.

My grandmother always liked to poach cherries in syrup. She’d add the fruit to tall glass containers that she’d sterilize attentively. They were what she’d decide to take out of the pantry and serve for dessert with crème fouettée (whipped cream), should unexpected guests stay for dinner. Then, she always gave my mother a few of the preserved fruit, and I remember that we loved to have them when cherry season was over. When we were lucky, they’d last until the next season started.

Thankfully.

Even if to me, the best way to enjoy cherries is to gulp them down one after the other while continuing with my day, I also enjoy to use them in sweet or savory dishes.

Do you remember? In the past years, I’ve used them in clafoutis, with or without chocolate; in amandines and crumbles; salads with shaved fennel and radish; and summery soups.

This recipe is another summery soup, refreshing and light, that highlights the beauty of the fruit.

With accents of vanilla, ginger and lime, I know it’s certainly not the kind my grand-mother would have made since ginger would have been a foreign ingredient to her.

I kept thinking about how recipes evolve. With time, and generations.

I keep thinking how special it is to initiate Lulu to the taste of the soup (there’s some work ahead…) And about how much I wished I could have prepared it for my grandmother if she were still alive.

Maybe she would have liked the taste of Rainier cherries too.

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.

≈

It was a Saturday when it all happened. The crumble and the soup.

We got up early to take Lulu swimming, following our Saturday morning routine. The day was glorious. Mild. Sunny. It was a day without the need for warm jackets. Clearly unusual for November. But maybe not. I don’t know what to think anymore.

One thing I knew, though. That very Saturday was a day we had to spend outside. To feel the season.

A beautiful day in November in New England, once again.

Lucky, that was how I felt.

I had gone shopping the day before with many cooking plans in my head. Clearly, I must have been feeling hungry. I cannot recall now. I wanted to make so many things: Poach salmon with coconut milk and lemongrass; bake a vegetable quiche; prepare a fennel salad; make risotto; bake muffins and prepare crêpes which we would eat with sautéed apples. Just writing it down makes me realize that obviously, I had been carried away, determined to bring each one of these dishes on our kitchen table.

But the weather. That deep yellow sun and delicate but invigorating morning air. Those happy autumn colors and the warmth of our wintry sun in early afternoon. I had not thought about the possibility that they might stand in the way. Between me and my kitchen. Inviting us three out. Calling our names assertively. Insistently. Until we gave in.

Frankly, that was easy. No one needed to twist our arms too hard.

“Une soupe et un crumble, ça te va ?“(Are you fine with soup and crumble?) I asked P. when we talked about what our weekend eating plans. I always like to share my cooking ideas with him.

In fact, I just had to say the word crumble.

I have not yet met a single Irish person that can turn away from the sweet aroma of a warm crumble. Have you? Crumble! It’s a magic word inside his family: Uncles, aunts, mother and father, sister, cousins–every member of the Irish clan, as I like to call it. Who could not fall in love with a country and its people for their dedication to crumbles?

So there we were. This was how I ended up changing our weekend cooking plans.

Left with my large stock of groceries, I improvised.

I baked the salmon with thyme and olive oil , and decided to serve it with black quinoa and mâche salad on the side. I used the lemongrass and bay scallops bought for another more elaborate recipe and prepared instead a celeriac and sweet potato soup with an exotic flair. I made a coconut milk and root vegetable riz pilaf; I baked parsnip fries and stewed apples to make a crumble in which I added kasha–an ingredient I’ve been enjoying eating lately. Making P. and me delighted. And Lulu *really* delighted because anything crunchy makes much more sense to her. Just like the word cookies.

Simpler foods, all in all, that allowed us to play at the park, run through stacks of leaves–because we still have plenty of them in the back garden. Long hours outside until it became dark and we had to go in. Reluctantly.

And the next day, when I woke up early at sunrise, before everyone else, and the house sounded peaceful and quiet, I ended up baking cookies. P. and Lulu had given me the hint during the week. Cookies. Cookies. C. o.o.k.i.e.s pleaaaaasssseeee!

I got it.

How could I say no?

We tried the cookies at breakfast. Had one each as a mid-morning snack when we drove to our house to clean up before we can move back in (soon, I hope! I am craving for my kitchen and living space now….) And we finished lunch with another cookie. Happy smiles around.

On Lulu and P.’s faces.

And mine.

And the day was not even over.

“Ça, ce sont des potimarrons !” I told Lulu with my finger pointing at bright orange red kuri squashes. Lines of them were neatly arranged on top of an old wooden table located in the middle of the farmer’s market where she and I had walked to. The place was filled with the buzz of a lazy Wednesday afternoon at five o’ clock–and late market customers like us. It was sunny yet it felt brisk. The leaves on the trees around the square were standing out cheerfully with their bright colors. It was one of those amazing days in New England during the fall.

Lulu looked at the squashes, holding her owl doudou tightly in one hand. Then she looked at me and exclaimed “Ball!“. Her face suddenly lit with excitement.

I smiled. Oh yes! She was right. The squashes looked like plump balls. Playful. Beautiful.

Tasty, I knew.

I filled our basket with different varieties of Heirloom apples and I bought three potimarrons, medium in size, a few butternut squashes and acorn squashes. Most likely too many. Because I tend to stock up on apples and winter squashes in the same manner squirrels stock up on nuts for the cold days of winter.

Somehow, despite the large number I buy each week, we invariably end up eating them all.

Quickly.

This week, I knew that we’d be eating red kuri squash risotto with mushrooms; nutritious root vegetable soups; savory crumbles; and muffins.

I started to prepare a squash soup . And I baked muffins. With my favorite pistachios.

As usual, I set myself to work early in the morning shortly after breakfast, so that lunch would be ready right after Lulu and I returned from the playground.

“Miam miam, regarde cette belle couleur orange!” (Yum! Look at this beautiful orange color!) I remember telling her when I brought the pot of steaming squash soup to the table. “C’est une de tes soupes préférées, celle-là !” I went on, stirring the pot to cool the soup down. Lulu was staring at the steam coming out of the spoon. Then she exclaimed: “Hot!”

I served each of us a bowl, enjoying the earthy scent of truffle oil I drizzled on top, and then we started to eat. Lulu was making a mess with her soup but I could not really mind. She was eating it looking busy and happy.

That’s what mattered.

Soft boiled eggs accompanied our soup and I toasted thin stick-like slices of brioche that I buttered to make mouillettes to dip inside our eggs. I continued with a green salad while Lulu munched on edamame beans.

“Tu as encore faim?” I asked (Are you still hungry?)

She looked up at me. And then she said: “Cookies!”

I laughed. My daughter is a gourmande for anything crunchy.

“Ah non, pas des cookies. Mais encore mieux. (better)” I went on. “Aujourd’hui, j’ai fait des muffins.” (Today, I made muffins).

We finished lunch with one muffin each. One regular in size for me. A mini muffin for Lulu.

“On va se promener maintenant? ” (Shall we go out for a walk now?) I asked her as I was clearing the table. That had the same effect on her as the magical word cookies.

Within seconds, she was standing by the front door, holding her handbag slung over the shoulder. Really cute!

We were ready to take off to enjoy more of the beautiful weather outside. And feel the peaceful energy of an autumnal day in New England.

With warm soup and muffin in our tummies.

Not bad.

Lulu looked at me, then she opened her mouth, keen to take the spoonful of gazpacho I was holding in front of her. I was watching her carefully, curious to find out what would happen next. Her face stretched into a grin and a funny-sounding laughter escaped through her lips, one that seemed to tell me “Tu plaisantes maman?” (Are you joking mummy?)

“Oh oh, de la gaspacho, ma Lulu!” I exclaimed. “Essaie !” (Try)! “Tu n’aimes pas?” (Don’t you like it?)

She was eating the soup for the first time, so I didn’t worry if she didn’t seem to like it. I knew that one day, when feeling ready, she’d come back to it. And enjoy the flavors of the soup that rhyme so magically well with summer. Suffice to look at all this eye-catching red!

She pointed at the bowl of radishes on the table instead.

“Tu préfères un radis ?” (Do you prefer a radish?) I asked, holding a pink radish to her. She took it from my hand without hesitation, murmuring a Thank you in her own words, and then she bit into the radish. Happy now, it was obvious.

I grabbed one too and we both sat at the dining room table by the back garden, busy eating our radishes with contentment, appreciating the crunchiness and peppery taste that the food released on our tongues.

Lightly seared salmon and a pot of warm brown rice cooked with marjoram, cumin, cream, peas and watercress were following–foods she never says no to either.

Just like the fresh raspberry and custard tart I had baked in the morning.

As to P. and I, we were thankful for the pot of gazpacho I had prepared. A large pot with colorful toppings to give more body to the soup.

“Miam, c’est super bon,” P. said after a taste. (Yum, it’s delicious!) I had found beautiful organic tomatoes that had the name gazpacho written all over them. So gazpacho there was. Plenty of it, in fact, in the week that followed.

The first time I prepared the soup, I used leftovers of brioche previously soaked in water. The next time–this recipe–I decided to skip the brioche, and served the soup with toppings that included fresh corn and diced avocado. We had enough for two days, which is always a bonus with a food like gazpacho as flavors will have had the time to develop.

I am still not sure which recipe I preferred. They were different but similar at the same time–I am sure you have your own variant too, non? Both were a refreshing way to start our meal. Ideal for the warm temperatures of the day. Summer.

Of course, the best tomatoes make the best gazpacho. Which means that gazpacho is really at ist best when prepared during summer. En été.

I remember that when I was still living with my parents, my mother never bought out of season produce. I remember that she always made a point about it even more at times when I’d beg for strawberries during winter. In the French countryside where I grew up, it was hard to find them anyway. So we ate seasonal food. In summer, vegetables that grew in the garden, like peas, salad, haricots verts, carrots, beets, zucchini, radish.

And tomatoes. Des tomates.

Oh homegrown tomatoes!

They simply stand out, don’t they?

Make a large pot and serve it as an appetizer or a main course for a light meal. Or serve the soup in shot glasses, as an amuse-bouche to start a meal. I’ve done this many times, and it’s always something our friends enjoy.

We all do.

I woke up craving a bowl of lentil soup.

”White lentils! How unusual!” I thought after grabbing a bag from the shelf, so that I could look more closely. The label on the package read Ivory white lentils, and that name piqued my curiosity right away. With their pale fair color, the lentils looked delicate. Will they cook like green lentils? I wondered. Or like red? I didn’t think twice. I knew that I had to try them and dropped one bag into my cart. And as I walked through the aisles of the store to finish my grocery shopping, I started to brainstorm ideas on how I would use the légumes. Perhaps a salad, or add them to a vegetable stew.

Until I thought about a hearty soup.

For the entire week that followed, however, the bag sat at the corner of the counter top. Untouched. I’d catch a glimpse of it every morning when I walked into the kitchen. It seemed that it was looking back at me, saying “c’mon, do something with me!” So I thought about my soup idea again. The hearty soup I had imagined at the store with slices of spicy Spanish chorizo and winter vegetables. The soup I eventually imagined to serve topped with a poached egg, a generous dollop of crème fraiche and a dash of paprika, so that the dish would become substantial and more nourishing.

Soups like this one are dishes I enjoy preparing during the winter a lot. Perhaps once a week. They are everything-in-a-pot kind of dishes that are really easy and quick to prepare, something that I must say, I find quite convenient while I am trying to work and look after Lulu at the same time. Once started, I can leave the soup to simmer on its own, almost unattended, and come back to it half an hour later to find a pot of delicious nutritious food.

If you decide to make the soup, you’ll find that white lentils cook quickly — just as red lentils do. They do not require any soaking, which is rather practical too, should you decide to prepare the soup spontaneously. Once the lentils are cooked, they develop a mild flavor and soft texture that blend perfectly into a thick broth when combined with small pieces of butternut squash, carrots and tomatoes. The overall flavor is spiced up with Spanish chorizo and the soup becomes truly irresistible with a generous dollop of crème fraiche dusted with paprika, and a poached egg. Who, really, could resist the thought of a soup finished with a poached egg in it? In our household, we surely can’t.

The first time I made the soup, Lulu and I ate it with pieces of whole grain bread for lunch. At first, I was unsure whether she was going to like it but was still decided to give it a try. When I saw that after the first spoonful, she was asking for more, I felt my heart leap with excitement.

“C’est bon, non?” (It’s good, isn’t it?) I told her while putting the food inside her mouth. She was banging two teaspoons on the table with her mouth wide open. Asking for more.

We left the table filled with great energy from our food, which Lulu was quite pleased to use later on the swing. And I just went along.