When I get up on Friday morning, I know the day will be busy. I am excited because that morning, we are meant to go foraging, have lunch at Timberline lodge near Mt Hood National Forest, after which a visit of a distillery with its fruit orchard is planned. I feel impatient about every piece because it means that we’ll spend our time discovering the natural scenery and outdoors near Portland.

I always wanted to come to Oregon just for that.

I don’t think for too long about what to wear, and eventually decide to go for a light summer dress layered over a t-shirt that goes with my pair of gray sneakers. But minutes later, when a dark-skinned man with a shovel and a spray bottle attached to his backpack walks in the room where we all sit for breakfast, suddenly a doubt about my choice for clothes fills my mind.

Wearing his outfit, he stands out amongst us. At first, I don’t know neither his name nor who he is. But between the noise of the voices and giggles coming from the small groups gathered joyfully at each table, I hear someone exclaim: “He must be one leading an activity this morning!”

Oh oh…that’s looking really serious! I hear myself utter louder than I’d like.

We quickly understand that he is going to be our edible plant guide. And immediately, I know I am not alone to suddenly feel completely ill dressed for our outing.

John is wearing serious-looking hiking boots, a vest and a pair of jeans. His entire head is buried behind dark sunglasses and a large beige hat, the type explorers like to have, that makes it hard to discern the expression on his face.

But we can see that he is happy to be there. He is smiling.

When we walk outside of the hotel, a small bus is waiting for our small group. Everyone is in a happy mood. It’s sunny. The air feels healthy. It’s going to be a nice day.

“It’s like going to camp,” someone exclaims once we are settled inside the bus. In a charming sort of ordered way.

Our first destination that morning is Trillium Lake.

With Mt Hood reflecting onto the lake in the distance, the place feels serene and magnificent, and I am sorry we don’t have hours to spend exploring the area.

John is friendly and knowledgeable. As he walks ahead of our group, he shows and explains which plants are edible and which aren’t. And while we understand that this time of year is not the prime for foraging edibles (Spring is the best time), we still manage to taste leaves and berries that surprise by their unique flavor. That’s the first time I eat wild ginger.

“You will have some of these in some of your dishes for lunch,” one of the chefs from Timberline lodge tells us as he and another chef accompany us on our walk. Right away, my curiosity is piqued. And I wonder what they will do with what we find along the way.

And rightly so, lunch at Timberline Lodge is outstandingly delicious.

Used as an Alpine ski lodge in winter, Timberline Lodge is an integral part of American heritage. Built at the bottom of Mt Hood, the building gives a feeling reminiscent of the past.

“The road leading to the lodge was the one filmed in the opening of The Shining,” our driver tells us a few minutes before we arrive. Who would have thought? I cannot help but think, looking at the winding road ahead outside my window.

Each dish we are served is so appetizing that, while our five-course menu looks like a lot of food, I keep eating, hungry for more. By looking at everyone’s face while eating, I guess I am not alone to really enjoy the food and wine that keeps being poured with each dish.

Robert Morus from Phelps Creek Vineyards is sitting at the table with us. He is also wearing a hat, I notice, amused. His upper cheeks are red and round and, with every smile, his eyes become minuscule in the middle of his friendly face. He, too, looks like he is pleased to spend time with us. I know why. He is telling us his passion for wine.

As we leave the table, I feel ready for a nap.

“Look behind,” I tell Sean sitting next to me on the bus. We are amused. Almost everyone is actually asleep, including John who is sitting next to our driver.

I am convinced that not a single piece of food or drink will be able to fit inside my body. But as our visit takes us to Clear Creek distillery where I catch sight of the orchard behind the small apple stand, I know that our drive through the countryside is worth every minute we spend in the bus. It’s as if I am hungry again. For fruit.

Steve McCarthy started Clear Creek Distillery twenty-six years ago because he wanted to find the best way to use the fruit from his family’s orchard. During his travels throughout Europe, he became exposed to a number of traditional European spirits– among them, an eau de vie made from Williams Pear. An inspiration and an idea were born. Clear Creek Distillery followed naturally.

I am not typically someone known to drink spirits but I know I will go with the flow.

We taste grappa and pear brandy and cranberry liquor–and probably more than I can remember. When I hear the word mirabelle, I am curious and ask the dark-haired girl working at the distillery where they grow them. “In an another orchard nearby,” she says. The thought of lines of mirabelliers and quetschiers trees brings a smile to my face as I think of my father and his parents on their farm making their own mirabelle and quetsche liqueurs.

While everyone is still gathered around the picnic table, busy drinking and chatting away, I decide to take a short walk through the orchard. As I wander through the apple and pear trees, and I notice the aroma of sugar and fruit that I am so familiar with, I think about my grandparents’ and brother’s orchards. I know this taste so well. I’ve always loved everything about it.

Later that night, a reception on top of the sixth floor of a building downtown welcomes us to a wide open view of Portland. Chefs from Metrovino and the Gilt Club have come to serve us tasty hamburgers prepared with unusual elk and lamb flavors. We drink beer. The evening feels like the kind sealing a perfect day outside.

Casual as we like it. Full of the good energy of being in the outdoors.

Back to my room, my mind wanders back to the thought of the apples though. It’s what feels familiar and right. I think about the orchard and the time we’ve just spent outdoors. In a lovely part of Oregon I want to visit more in depth. I think about fall and how much I am impatient to go apple picking once I am back home.

It just happens like that.

And I know that I will be baking an apple tart.

Une tarte rustique au bon goût de pommes.

Because a fruit tart is always the first dessert I am inspired to bake after I visit an apple orchard.

Disclosure: My trip to Oregon was sponsored and fully paid by Travel Oregon. I was neither asked nor received any compensation to write about my experience. I am doing it because I want to share and I enjoyed what I did and saw.

“We’ll go early,” I told my mother-in-law Patricia while she and I were tidying the kitchen after dinner.

It was a nice moment of our day, I thought, as the cool evening breathe was gently filtering in through the open window above the sink. It was perhaps eight and Lulu was fast asleep upstairs.

We’d enjoyed a dinner of curried shrimp served with spring greens and coconut rice, and a shaved fennel salad on the side.

Patricia and I were chit chatting about this and that, happy to reflect on the day.

“On va cueillir des fraises, d’accord ?” I said, laughing. I was referring to my craving to drive to a strawberry field the next day where I wanted to take Lulu.

I knew that the three of us would have a lot of fun there.

I could not help but remember that my mother would have planned the day in that manner too:

Get up really early and drive for an hour to a pick-your-strawberry farm in Alsace nearby;

Fill large cardboard cartons with fragrant fruit and drive home before the hottest hours of the day hit;

And then spend the afternoon in my mother’s small kitchen with the blinds drawn down, which would keep the house cool and allow us to work the fruit.

We liked to make jams and tarts and preserves.

I remember that we’d make sure to keep a basket for us to eat. And another one filled with the prettiest strawberries that we’d eventually use in a charlotte aux fraises for the Sunday lunch that followed.

I was always looking forward to that moment in the season. The car drive through the Lorraine countryside to Alsace. My hands colored red from touching the fruit. The smell of jam cooking in the kitchen. The charlotte aux fraises that my mother liked to prepare in her white Tupperware Charlotte mold.

“We are blessed with the weather,” I told Patricia at the breakfast table. “I think we can go.” The rain from the previous day had cleared to leave room to a perfectly blue sky and a radiant sun.

Verrill farm was only a fifteen-minute drive from the house and when we arrived, I noticed small clusters of people already busy picking strawberries.

“I hope we’ll find something good here,” I told Patricia as we approached the stand to collect our baskets. “It’s my first time to this farm.”

Luck worked in our favor.

The deep green leaves of the numerous well-aligned strawberry plants proved they were healthy. Each plant was so abundant with fruit that we didn’t need to walk far to fill our baskets quickly. Lulu kept running back and forth between her grand-ma and me, excited at each time she’d spot a strawberry under the leaves.

They were shining like precious rubies in the light of the morning sun.

“Une fraise dans le panier, et une fraise dans ma bouche!” (One strawberry in my basket, and one in my mouth!) ” I exclaimed as I bit into one.

The strawberries were small and sweet, and had every one of the qualities that makes me fall in love with freshly picked fruit every season.

After only a short hour, our baskets were filled.

I knew I had little time to think about what to do with the strawberries. They looked like strawberries that needed to be eaten and prepared right then. They had that color. That shape. That looks.

We ate them nature, and sprinkled with a tad of sugar and lemon juice.

Then, I played with a few dessert ideas that we included in the meals that my parents-in-law and us shared together before they left.

I made strawberry verrines with vanilla-flavored custard the first day for lunch. Because anything with the word custard attached is bound to make my Irish family happy.

Then I prepared strawberry tartares for dinner. With ladyfingers and more custard.

I baked strawberry clafoutis.

And I froze a few strawberry batches because I knew we’d love to have fresh strawberry sorbets.

And then there were these strawberry tartlets.

Glorious.

Bursting with summery flavors.

I prepared them using a gluten free teff-based rustic pastry crust first, topping the prebaked crusts with a light vanilla-flavored mascarpone cream and freshly sliced strawberries.

Nothing else.

We loved them as is.

So I decided to bake them again, but with a millet-based pastry crust the second time.

And without noticing, all of the strawberries we had picked disappeared.

A few days later, I was putting Lulu to bed when unexpectedly she exclaimed “More strawberries!”

I looked at her, surprised.

“La ferme, maman ?”

And then I smiled. She was thinking what I was craving too.

“Ok, demain, on ira chercher des fraises,” I replied while tucking her under her favorite flowered blanket. “I’ll ask Ely if she wants to come with us.”

I knew she was looking forward to having her hands and lips stained red once again. Stop at the farm stand right after for a popsicle, or something else. And spend time with our friend Ely.

I was just happy that she liked all of it as much as I did.

We woke up early the next day. It was sunny. Hot. And after an hour, we drove home with four kilos of strawberries.

Ready to be taken care in all sorts of tasty ways.

Oh summer!

“I am so inspired by my visits to the farm,” I told my father on the phone.

Without seeing his face, I could feel he was finding my words amusing.

My father grew up on a farm with tractors, cows and horses. And I grew up following my grandmother in the large garden she kept at the back of the house, to see the chicken and rabbits, and fetch salad, saucissons and pâtés whenever we stayed over for dinner. The best I’ve ever eaten to this day.

“Comment cela ?” (How so?) he asked. “Tu n’as qu’à venir nous voir!” (Come and visit us!)

“Bientôt,” (soon) I responded. I’d just uttered the words that already I felt impatient to as images of France in the spring, cherry trees and poppyseed fields crossed my mind.

“Bientôt,” I said once more. “Mais pas maintenant.” (Not now).

“We have a lot to look forward to here at the moment,” I added.

I really meant it.

I was thinking about all of these things: The transition to Spring (so happy to see all of the snow melted!) that I don’t want to miss; settle more in our house (a.k.a. empty boxes and tidy the mess that is still around); plant a garden; and introduce Lulu, step by step, to glimpses of the beautiful farm life that surrounds us. I know she can appreciate it already. If she finds moutons and poules irresistible, she is getting it. I would so much have loved that her great grandfather could watch her pet the goat and inquire about cows and chicken. He, too, would have found that amusing.

And then there is my book. And the final piece of work I have to do with it.

So you know, I am currently revising the proofs. And oh let me tell you how good that feels!

So much so.

As I flip through the pages and recall the many hours I’ve worked behind the stove, in front of my laptop or behind the camera, I am simply moved.

So, to help, I visited farms. And do you know what? It really helped.

I had forgotten how adorable baby goats look when they play. I had forgotten how amazing witnessing the birth of a few baby lamb is.

“It’s incredible,” I told Mia who kindly walked me through the farm when I came.

“Lulu begs that we come every day,” I went on, laughing. “It feels like we belong here too.”

I loved that idea, in fact. And knew we’d come again and again.

The day of my visit, I cooked a tart. A savory tart.

I had leftovers of crust used for a savory tart recipe I’d written for food author Ashley English, who had kindly invited me to collaborate to her upcoming new cookbook.

“Do you mind if it is gluten free?” I asked her when she emailed me.

“I love it!”

Hence this was how this gluten free tart crust was born.

And then this savory tart, which I threw together quickly with what I had handy when I returned from the farm feeling hungry.

Don’t ask but that type of food somehow connected me to my day on the farm even more.

It was exactly what I wanted to eat.

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.

≈

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.

“It’s too late in the year,” Pamela said. “The cows will already be back in the barn.”

“Really?” I replied, trying to hide my disappointment.

“Yes, sorry. You’ll have to wait until the spring if you want to see them outside.”

Pamela, one of the owners of Robinson’s Farm, was just as friendly as I had imagined her after we spoke in November. At the time, I wanted to visit the farm with Delphine, for the Envoyé Spécial la suite TV program she was working on with me.

I felt sad that Delphine, Cyril and I never made it to visit the farm in November–although our lobster trip was *really* good and made up for it–so I made a mental note of what Pamela had said. J’irai au printemps (I’ll go in the spring), I told myself, determined not to give up. Je veux vraiment voir cette ferme (I really want to see this farm).

Because at Robinson’s farm, they make raw milk. And are starting to make cheese too. Both of which really piqued my curiosity.

But spring came and I was away. Then summer followed naturally and I wasn’t sure it would still be a good idea to go to the farm. Maybe it was going to be too hot then and the cows would have traveled to an exotic place where they’d be cooling off…who knows what cows have on their mind?

“No, no,” Pamela said, when I emailed her back in early July to ask whether I could come. “It’s a great time. Come over to visit!”

“Can I bring Lulu?” I went on.

“Sure! we’d love to meet Lulu.”

That was how it started. And that was how, two weeks ago, I finally made it to visit Robinson’s farm.

I didn’t go alone–and I was glad. I wanted that my Lulu could run around on the farm, and that she saw cows and calves, trees and vegetables, chicken and eggs. So not only did my beautiful princess come along (did I already tell you that we’ve not yet spent one day away from each other?), but a dear friend of mine decided to accompany us with her son. We packed a tasty picnic made of quinoa salad, sandwiches, watermelon and financiers I’d baked the night before, and after a two hour drive, we arrived at Pamela and Ray’s doorstep.

We had an amazing lunch. And a memorable day.

The Robinsons live in rural Hardwick, a small town west of Boston, and they have been farming since 1892. “Four generations,” Ray had said proudly when I’d asked how old the farm was.

I had not yet visited this part of the state and wasn’t really sure what to expect. As soon as I arrived, though, and caught sight of the large red barn with balls of hay and cows grazing in the fields nearby, I felt relaxed. Taking a deep breath in and closing my eyes for a minute, I could almost imagine that I’d been transported back home.

Presque.

This rural setting is suggestive of a slow pace of life. Yet, people on the farm work hard. Long hours. Whether it’s dry, humid or raining, hot or cold–no matter what the weather decides to be.

Pamela and Ray own a forty-cow pasture based herd comprised of primarily registered and grade Holsteins, with cross breeding practices which include New Zealand Holsteins, Jersey & Normande breeds. They’ve been making raw milk for five years now and like it this way. They believe that clean, fresh milk from grass fed cows provides all of the nourishment nature intended without destroying the enzymes and probiotics that assist with digestion. They are fully certified organic, which means that the pastures, hay, chickens, eggs, perennials, and herd found on the farm are organic. Every summer, they grow vegetables and flowers they sell at local farmer’s markets or at their farm stand, along with grass fed beef, “rose” veal and yogurt from Sidehill Farm (which is made with their milk). And this coming fall, they hope to sell their cheese too.

They told me that they’ve been making cheese for a while now and are keen to continue. If you visit the farm, you’ll be able to taste their practice cheese. We did. We had just settled for our picnic lunch at the back of the farm when Pamela brought a large platter of cheese for us to enjoy. I quickly noticed that every time she’d walk by the wooden table where we sat to eat, she’d nonchalantly grab a slice of cheese.

“I saw you!” I exclaimed jokingly, seeing she was putting cheese in her mouth. “You’re snacking on cheese all day long, aren’t you?” I added. She laughed.

Why wouldn’t she?

We sampled a few types of hard cheese: Robinson Family Swiss, Tekenink Tomme, Hardwick Stone (brick) and a Barndance (abondance). We could not stop eating. Lulu, ma petite gourmande, neither. The cheese was tasty. It was the perfect food to accompany our lunch.

After lunch, we also had a tour of the farm. We walked through Pamela’s large vegetable garden that gave me real vegetable envy; we saw where they make raw milk and cheese; we met the calves and cows who were smartly gathered in the shade of tall trees; and we visited the chicken.

“Lulu isn’t scared at all! Pamela exclaimed when we stepped inside the hen house to collect a basket of fresh eggs. “That’s right!” my friend E., who was holding Lulu by the hand, went on.

“Can we have some milk?” I asked.

“Of course,” Pamela replied. “I also have some cheese for you.”

Before leaving, we packed a gallon of raw milk, a large container of yogurt and three pieces of cheese each. We were happy. We’d spent a simple fulfilling day.

I was keen to taste the milk to find out whether it would taste like the one I’d grown up with. At my grandparents’ or my parents’ house, le lait cru (raw milk) was what we’d drink.

“Qu’est-ce que tu vas faire avec tout cela?” (What are you going to make with all of this?) E. asked when we were back in the car.

“Je ne sais pas encore,” (Don’t know yet) I said.

But it didn’t last for long. Back home, ideas started to come.

I was going to bake a herb-scented vegetable tart, a variant of this one that followed my inspiration. And small cute ones for Lulu too.

Prepare a melon and cucumber soup with yogurt and fresh herbs from the garden.

In the morning, drink milk with a batch of homemade granola.

And make a vanilla-flavored custard, and serve it in verrines with strawberries sauce and fresh strawberries–a dessert I frankly have a strong weakness for and could eat every day!

All of these foods tasted like summer, no exception.

Just like home.

The tart.

Maybe you’ll wonder what happened to it.

I had one second. Two, if I was lucky. Until the tart was gone. And I didn’t have time to photograph much of it.

That was Lulu. Stealing the miniature apricot tart I had especially baked for her–while I baked larger ones for us.

It was sweet, really, to see her hands covered in juice and sugar. To watch her delicate lips and tiny teeth nibble on the crust with care. My Lulu really likes tarts. The tiny ones, more particularly, because they are fun. And the crusts. Oh the crusts!

“Elle a l’air gourmande,” (she looks like a gourmande) a French friend told me last Thursday when we met at the park and I told her my apricot tart story. I had to. I found it so funny. I wished I could have caught on film Lulu’s small hand grabbing the tart. Swiftly. Unnoticed, she thought.

“Elle a de qui tenir,” (she’s just like me then) I responded, smiling.

“I’ll have to make more, right?” I later told P.

It will be easy. Apricots are amongst my favorite summery fruit. Lovely at this time of year.

“Next week,” I went on. “When K. and D. come for dinner.”

That’s because we’ll celebrate one of the first nights inside our new house. Before the kitchen work begins and we have to move out again.

“Regarde ce que fait maman,” (Look at what mummy does) I told Lulu. She was staring at me. I could hear her giggle as her feet kicked the yellow frame hung above her head of the play mat where she was lying.

Time flies. Lulu is already a twelve week old baby, playful and smiling as often as she breathes. She’s recently discovered that she can grab toys and use her legs and feet to move things around — she loves it. I like to keep her by my side when I prepare my photo shoots, and I know she likes to observe. Her blue eyes become round, a sign that she is trying hard to understand what I am doing. It’s really precious.

After I gave her a bath Sunday morning, I told her about our day. We would take a walk in the park; P. and I would read her a few stories; we would play and talk, and we would have a nutritious lunch to brighten the day even more.

“Maman va faire des tartelettes aux légumes pour le déjeuner. Tu aimes cela ?” (Mummy is going to make vegetable tartlets for lunch. Do you like those?)

She smiled again. Of course, about something else. But I liked to imagine that she was excited about lunch.

“Tu verras comme elles sont bonnes,” (you’ll see how nice they are) I whispered in her ear while kissing it too.

The truth is that we’ve eaten many tartlets over the last week because I am simply knee deep into the testing of new recipes for the book. In fact, it’s a great excuse for me to prepare our meals while working along.

“Mmm, I am trying to figure out the taste,” P. said after the first bite. I had really let my imagination go with what I had handy in the fridge, even if I had made a point of making healthy nutritious tartlets.

“Des poireaux ? Du fromage ?” he added after taking a second taste.

“Right. What else?” I went on, curious to know if he could make a better guess.

He paused.

“They really taste better than they look“, he said. His face nevertheless showed a look of contentment.

But I had to agree there.

“I know. But can you guess the type of cheese?”

“Du comté ?”

Well, perhaps it was an easy one to find out. We’ve eaten a lot of Comté cheese lately.

First of all, breastfeeding seems to have me crave cheese to no end. Really, I seem to be eating cheese all day long. Secondly, I’ve been lucky to receive two large pieces of Comté directly from the beautiful Franche-Comté region in France, where the cheese is made. I am quite a lucky girl since as long as I can remember, Comté has always been a favorite at home.

You know the cheese, don’t you? It’s fruity, nutty, dense, rich, wonderful as a nutritious snack, perfect in cooked dishes like gratin or tarts. It’s aged for months to develop its full flavor.

To start, I cooked finely sliced red onion with leeks, thyme and a bay leaf in olive oil before adding a dash of Vermouth to enhance the flavor. Then, I whisked together eggs with crème fraiche and milk, added grated Comté, and finished with a dash of nutmeg and finely chopped walnuts (almost the consistency of coarse flour).

“Are there any more?” P. asked once he finished his plate.

“I thought they did not look good enough,” I answered with a cheeky smile.

A simple recipe, wonderful on the day the tartlets are made, and just as good the next day. Served with a tossed green salad on the side. it was simply another perfect lunch.

Even Lulu seemed to say yes to more tartlets.

Like her papa.

And by the way, thanks so much for your patience! Lulu is almost doing her nights now, hurray, so soon enough, I will (hopefully) catch on more sleep, to become more present again in this space. On verra !

“You’re like a squirrel,” P. told me when he saw that I was putting a plump orange winter squash into the large vegetable basket I keep in the kitchen, which already contained at least three or four nice looking ones.

“I know!” I replied, feeling a bit silly to have bought yet another red kuri squash. “I am just too scared that I won’t be able to find any like this one again.”

Especially as I always make sure to buy organic ones, so that I can leave the skin on while cooking, if I decide to.

On Saturday, I made a soufflé au potimarron (Hokkaido squash soufflé). It was beautifully puffed and golden, and we almost ate the whole dish between the two of us, although my recipe actually accommodates four people. “It feels like we are eating flavored snow,” I said, laughing and helping me to some more. “I cannot believe that we managed to finish the whole dish up.”

“It’s bébé who took his or her share!” P. said in a joking tone.

I know already that I have to make another one again soon, and take pictures this time, if I am quick, to show you.

“Perhaps I could make one for your parents, when they come for Thanksgiving, non?”I asked P. “Do you think that they would like a soufflé?”

“Who doesn’t like soufflé?”

Then there was this Hokkaido Squash tart that I baked one evening last week when I knew that P. and I would not be back home until late in the evening.

“It will reheat quite well,” I said in the car as we we were driving to our birth class. Preparing for the arrival of bébé is of course conducive to making sure that we are all well fed — not that we actually need an excuse, really.

And the season for winter squashes is far from being over, Thank God. Especially with the holiday season approaching à grands pas. Are you already preparing foods? I have a dish of red kuri lasagna to make for dinner tomorrow, a cake and an appetizer to prepare for our festive dinner on Thursday. Frankly, I cannot wait to get started. In the meantime, though, we still need to feed us on nourishing foods, to keep us going. N’est-ce pas ?

This vegetable tart is a good example of how to enjoy comfortable, light autumnal meals. Easy to prepare; bursting with flavor. Quite ideal before the numerous foods awaiting us in a few days, for those of us who live on this side of the Atlantic, and celebrate Thanksgiving.

My family in France always wonders what this holiday is like. “Vous mangerez quoi ?” (What will you eat?) I can hear my mum and sister-in-law ask with evident curiosity. Our phone conversations are always filled with food matters. It runs in the family.

“A lot of winter squash, for sure.”

I am not complaining. I love it, in fact!

Next time, I really have to bake a pumpkin pie for them. They *must* try it!

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone, if we do not speak before then!

“I don’t think you know what an apple tastes like, until you have picked one from a tree, or tasted an organic or a Heirloom one,” I recently told P.

I really believe this.

And I know that I am lucky. I grew up with the best apple trees around — eating apples after dinner while watching TV was a highlight for my brother B. and I.

So I don’t know about you but today, there will be a few apple tarts around in our house. After going to a Foliage Festival last weekend where I bought delicious Reine des Reinettes, I now have too many delicious apples that need to find a home. And what better thing but treat yourself with an apple tart?

These tarts are really simple to make, *really simple* to eat, so simple that you are allowed to taste every single ingredient, leaving you as light as a feather.

Vraiment ! So if you feel short of dessert ideas, think A. P. P. L. E.

Ideas never fail to pop out, when it is all about gorgeous authentic apples.

I really love the fall!