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.

On Sundays, we like to find a nice spot for a walk. A special one that allows us to appreciate the beauty of the season that is passing. Yesterday, this is where it took us. We saw cows and sheep and goats and chicken and pigs, and when we returned home, I baked and made a salmon poached in olive oil dinner while Lulu took a long nap.

And while Perry Blake was playing on the stereo, I peeled and diced a butternut squash to yet make another large pot of steaming wintry soup.

For lunch today. And probably the next.

That’s one of the many reasons why I love the fall. You too?

And by the way, a few days ago, exactly on November 26th, this blog turned 4. Isn’t it also ironical that my very first post talked about food photography? I had no idea….It’s been four amazing and fulfilling years, with so many joys–the best thing I’ve ever *baked*–and foods cooked, styled and photographed. Needless to say that I am very thankful for you, my dear readers, to be coming back to say hello. This place would obviously be very different without you.

Encore merci!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this is where the story started.

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

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

And ooh how glad I am we made the trip!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, how could I have done otherwise?

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

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

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

With dessert to finish our meals.

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

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

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

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

“Me neither,” he said. ”

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

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

It was all I needed and wanted to hear.

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

“Your lobster guy?”

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

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

“I’ll make dessert!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know. It’s been quite a while now since I’ve written and shared some photos and a recipe with you. I miss coming to this space to write. But I know you will forgive me. Imagine this: my parents are here to spend a few weeks with our new small family. They are discovering their first grand-child, and enjoying every minute of their time. As to us, we enjoy watching them love Lulu as grand-parents do.

These special days fly by, regrettably. Most days — actually every day — my dad is busy renovating, tidying and building shelves for my kitchen (lucky me!); my mum cooks with me, and when I am busy with Lulu, she prepares more food. It’s truly lovely to have her in the kitchen prepare the foods I always enjoy when I visit them in France.

We also take daily walks at the park after long lunches eaten the French way. Well, simply, we have happy times I am glad to have and want to remember. It is an important time in our life.

There’s been some writing and testing nevertheless, even if at a much slower pace. I have a soup that you might enjoy, a recipe I wrote for the Boston Globe Seasons Column. It’s extremely easy to make, and still something lovely to be enjoyed during the rest of winter.

Then, I am still in the process of organizing the recipe testing of my book. Bear with me. It will take some time before I am finished, but I promise to give some news soon on that front.

So yes, crazy busy with life these days.

But I love being a mother.

Even if I am sleep deprived, and wished for more time to manage it all.

At least, we always eat well and healthily — and that keeps us going.

So enjoy the soup! It’s a recipe for busy people who still want to eat a healthy and scrumptious meal.

Us these days.

My mother taught me that homemade food is the norm — I don’t even question it. At home, we never ate take-outs, simply because they did not exist — and how could they, in a small village in rural France, nearly thirty years ago? For us, the rule was simple: our meals were always prepared by mum, and it still continues to this day in my parents household. She feeds her love to us through her homemade food.

With the years going by though, like many of you, I’ve developed a true love and interest in dining out. To be inspired, surprised, to learn about new ingredients and cooking methods, to share special times with the people I love, and of course, to get a break from the kitchen.

But I must say, it will never replace the taste of a homemade meal.

My mum also taught me that modest dishes can make the best meals, as long as care is given to choose the right ingredients, those that are the most seasonal and local, and homegrown if possible.

I find such differences really noticeable in the quality of vegetables, potatoes (les pommes de terre) in particular.

I still remember the joy I had the first time I went out to dig for potatoes with my grand-mother. An entire side of her large garden was in fact dedicated to potatoes only.

“C’est de la bonne terre à patates,” she used to tell me as we worked along (the soil is good for spuds).

The whole process fascinated me. I thought it magical to find so many potatoes under only one plant. Each time, actually, was a surprise, as we never knew how many potatoes there would be once we started to dig. I liked to pick them up, rub off the dirt carefully, and pile them into my small woven basket; it gave me a sense I had found a precious treasure.

Le trésor de la Nature.

Later in the day, mémé L. and I would arrange the freshly picked potatoes in cagettes that we stored in the cellar, the darkest and coolest place in the house, to ensure they would keep longer during the winter.

And I clearly remember their amazing taste, especially the rattes variety that we made sure to plant every year. These potatoes revealed a unique nutty flavor, remaining firm in the mouth, yet smooth at the same time.

So between P. the Irish, and me the French, it is no surprise if I tell you that we both love potatoes. All of them; they inspire my cooking tremendously. Like in the recipes for this potato soup and stuffed potatoes. I remember how excited I was to visit Peru because I knew I would discover an amazingly large range of potato varieties.

So when I purchase these pearls of the soil, I am fussy about their quality. Like everything else, you can buy amazingly good potatoes, and terrible ones — think a piece of fruit rushed to grow without sun, not a good sight, is it?

During the summer when I can cycle to the farmer’s market, I buy them from local producers. I like the fact that most of them have an irregular shape. And when the markets close for the season, I always buy organic potatoes as they’ve always proven better in texture — and taste.

And of all, the best thing for me is actually to observe P.’s face when I tell him that I’ve prepared potatoes for dinner. His face lights up like a flower opening at the crack of dawn. Simple things like a homemade dish of potatoes make him truly happy.

“Did I ever tell you what I used to tell Agathe when she would bring potatoes on the table?” I asked P. as we were sitting at the dining table, eating les pommes de terre farcies (the stuffed potatoes) I had prepared.

Agathe is my grand-mother’s oldest sister, a strong woman in love with gardening, cats, and good life.

“Non. Quoi ?”

“Well, Agathe used to baby sit me when I was just two and my mother went back to work. Apparently, every time she brought potatoes on the table, I would exclaim “Oh les bonnes poterres**!” She still mentions it today!”

P. would well be capable of such a thing today too. I wish you could just see his face when I bring a dish of potatoes on the dining table.

It’s magical too.

And while we wait (the last month, already!), we’ve already decided that bébé will like pommes de terre.

Just like papa et maman.

PS: It surely looks like I have my own big potato in the oven, doesn’t it?

** For those of you interested, poterres is actually not the correct way to refer to potatoes in French. I do not want to teach you incorrect French, or have you walk around referring to potatoes as poterre. At the age of two, I was simply incapable of pronouncing pommes de terre correctly.

So once again, a big thank you to all of you. You are the best.

I woke up because the tip of my nose was cold. P.’s back was turned to me; his heavy breathing made me realized that he was still deep asleep. I sat up in bed and scanned around the room still filled with complete darkness. Could we have forgotten to close a window in the bedroom?

We had, indeed.

But in fact, it did not make a difference. It was only reinforcing the fact that colder temperatures had hit us overnight. I smiled. That meant that the leaves on the trees would change color even faster, something I had secretly been waiting for — fall is definitely a wonderful season around here.

The day was perfect to go out for a walk, especially since our friends Akiko and Pierre were visiting from Paris. (Akiko Ida and Pierre Javelle are amazingly talented food photographers. Do you remember seeing fun food pictures with little characters on them, the very ones that tell wonderful stories, such as firemen on a crème brûlée? These are all their creations.)

“On vous emmène au cimetière Mount Auburn,” I told Akiko after she and I returned from our morning yoga class. “Tu verras, les arbres là-bas sont vraiment très beaux.” (We are taking you to Mount Auburn Cemetery. You will see, trees there are amazingly beautiful.)

Especially at this time of year, when they create a patchwork of vibrant colors so pleasing to the eye.

Mount Auburn Cemetery was founded in 1831 as America’s first landscaped or garden cemetery. The place comprises 175 acres of hills, dells, ponds, woodlands and clearings, with an impressive collection of over 5,000 trees. It feels extremely quiet to walk there, and from the top of Washington tower, you get a panoramic view of the vastness stretching in the distance, with the city as a backdrop.

Despite the chilly air, the sun felt warm as it brushed softly the tip of the trees with its generous light. When we arrived at the top of the tower, it was fairly windy; we knew we would not stay long. But we could not help but admire the explosion of colors spreading in front of our eyes. In a few weeks, I knew it would be even better.

“It’s like following the blossoms during Spring in Japan,” I told A. “Many people come in New England to follow the leaves as they turn color.”

We enjoyed a relaxed walk. We chatted away. We laughed, doing all the nice things friends do together. I was already imagining the hot chocolate we would have once we returned home.

A. and P. could not stay too long in Boston, not leaving much time for me to cook for them, especially since we went out for dinner. Yet I still managed to bake a hazelnut marbled cake which we tasted at breakfast.

“I want the recipe,” A. said after she swallowed the last piece on her plate. “What gives it this color?” she went on.

“C’est la farine de noisettes,” (it’s the hazelnut flour) I said with a smile. I was thrilled she liked it.

The cake felt moist and light, even after we ate a few slices each.

“Il est bien moelleux à cause de la compote de pommes que j’ai ajoutée,” I added. (It’s moist because of the apple stew I put in). Heirloom apples also give it a distinctive taste — the best.”

The weekend was conducive to hearty foods.

I was glad to have prepared a warm dish of mushroom and eggplant lasagna that we enjoyed at lunch, and a nourishing soup which we ate for dinner — both dishes matched the mood of the weekend perfectly.

“Clams in the soup?” P. said once he saw the steaming pot of rich vegetable broth brought to the table. “That’s pretty unusual.”

“Yes. Right. Well, I just felt like eating a hearty soup like this one. I also used curry and added cooked red lentils.”

Toasted tartines of baguette, flavored with olive oil, thyme and melted Manchego cheese accompanied our dish.

“You really like winter squash, don’t you?” P. said after he had his first spoonful.

“Did you notice too?” I answered, laughing heartily.

During the last two weeks, we had been eating all sorts of dishes made with potimarron (red kuri squash), my favorite, and acorn and butternut squashes too. When the season is at its peak, I cannot resist the vivid orange color of these vegetables, and feel inspired to no end.

Don’t you?

They really know how to make food look happier.

Never a bad thing.