This weekend, I wanted to prepare something fun for Lulu. She’s been sick with a cold. She’s rarely sick. But she’s been a real trooper. And so despite her fever and runny nose, she wanted to spend time in the kitchen with me.

“Je veux cuisiner avec toi maman,” (I want to cook with you mummy) she said when she watched me peel the small beets I had kept from one of our late farmer’s markets. I had meant to keep them as long as I could. I had fallen in love with the colors.

Amongst others, Lulu likes crunchy foods. I am not blaming her. I do too. I knew that a bowl of finely sliced beet chips would make her happy.

All of us, as a matter of fact.

So we cooked together. And we prepared beet chips. I can still see her eyes lighting with excitement when she noticed tiny bubbles form around the slices of beets inside the boiling oil.

“Regarde toutes ces couleurs maman !” (Look at all of these colors mummy) she added. She was right to notice. They looked really pretty!

“Tu veux ajouter le sel,” (Do you want to add the salt?) I asked.

I knew she would.

Simple things to cheer my Lulu up.

And help her feel better.

I forgot to tell you on thing.

Back in early December, I wrote a cauliflower recipe for the Boston Globe. I had found beautifully colored varieties of cauliflower at the market and I fell in love. I bought more than I needed, but I yet knew I would find home to these jewels. They are irresistible, even when you don’t care much for cauliflower.

Because I am French, the idea of a gratin came naturally to me. So I prepared a cauliflower gratin. A light one. One where the vegetables are topped with a mixture of fresh herbs, ground nuts, crème fraiche (of course!), grated cheese and garlic. One that lets the vegetable breathe and lead the dance.

I simply love this recipe. I hope you do too. The recipe was published on December 28, and I simply missed to let you know….

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?

Hello everyone,

I wish I could be here more often these days but it’s just not happening right now. We have renovation going on upstairs in our house, side projects, my parents arriving next week, and simply the business of every day life–we are all on the same boat, aren’t we? I cannot wait to be back with stories and pictures, though, so much thanks for your patience. For those of you I will meet this coming Saturday for the book signing, I am really super happy. It will be such a special moment for me.

In any case, today, I am still saying hello, with a recipe I wrote a while ago for the Boston Globe. You know how much I love celeriac. The French often do. Do you remember this soup, this salad, and this tart?

I even have another new soup recipe in my cookbook: hello celeriac, sweet potato and apple soup with parsley oil and marjoram!

I hope you will enjoy them all. The recipe for Mashed Celeriac and Potato can be found here.

A few months ago, I met Mika, a Japanese cookbook author who had flown from Paris to work with me. Together, we were going to create the photographs for her upcoming cookbook.

I quickly understood why I had liked Mika even before meeting her. She was an energetic young woman with creative ideas and style, and for an entire week, she and I had a lot of fun in my kitchen.

And I learned.

I learned about Japanese food. I learned about new ingredients. Amongst them, Mika introduced me to Chia seeds.

“They are so good for you, and so easy to use in pretty anything you are already used to cooking,” Mika said one day while adding some to a noddle dish I styled and photographed. My curiosity was piqued instantly, and the next time I was at the store, I bought a bag of Chia seeds, imagining ways to use them creatively.

Chia seeds look like minuscule dark grey and ivory sesame seeds. They are delicate and subtle in taste, and are rich in omega-3 and omega-6 essential fatty acids, fiber and B vitamins. Ancient Mayan and Aztec cultures treasured them. I knew I would adopt them right away.

I started to add them to a chocolate muffin batter. I ate them in granola and porridge in the morning. I added them to garnish a plate of spaghetti with sauteed vegetables.

And I baked a fruit galette, hiding them inside the pie crust I prepared.

“Will you bake this galette again?” P. asked when he saw how excited I was with my apple dessert and newly discovered ingredient.

He didn’t need to ask. He knew the answer.

So I did, and shortly afterwards, I baked an apple tart tatin.

“What about Thanksgiving?” I inquired a few days later.

“Don’t you have other dessert plans already?” he asked, confused.

He was right. I had talked about many things, between my pear and chocolate clafoutis and a lemon mousse. But I could not help thinking that I’d want to honor the last seasonal apples purchased at the last farmer’s market of the 2011 season. With Chia seeds hidden inside.

I knew I would pique my guests’ curiosity too. And that they’d not mind.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

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?

I took these pictures right before it snowed.

Yes.

Not only a little touch of snow.

But enough to cover hills and gardens and roofs and roads and make us imagine we were in the depth of winter. Enough to damage trees and deprive a lot of households from power. It came quickly. Unexpected.

When we woke up on Sunday night and opened the curtains of our bedroom, Lulu took a peek outside and exclaimed:

“Wow, maman, regarde la neige !”

Everything outside was painted white: trees, garden, roof of neighboring houses, Lulu’s bike and sandbox. It felt quiet and peaceful. Without a sound. Without a soul outside beside the adventurous squirrel hopping on to a fallen branch.

As if nothing had happened.

It was beautiful.

But I felt for the farmers, thinking that this was obviously going to affect them in a bad way.

On Friday, I went to the farmer’s market downtown. I am thankful now that I did. I wish I had bought even more to support the farmers. To tell them how precious what they do is. I will miss them during the winter.

I was so pleased to still find a wide selection of scrumptious-looking root vegetables. They were more colorful and beautiful the ones than the others. I knew that I would rub them simply with garlic and thyme, adding perhaps coriander or cumin. Then, I’d roast them, so that my vegetable dish would reveal the taste of each vegetable while offering a patchwork of cheerful colors.

I left the market with my basket filled with radishes of different types, turnips and carrots of various colors, red and yellow and pink baby beets, celeriac and apples, fresh ginger and garlic.

They looked so pretty together in my basket that they made me feel giddy.

I used half of them in a roasted vegetable dish I cooked and served to accompany our lunch with friends on Sunday. And with the apples, I prepared Apple verrines–a recipe from my cookbook–which was the dessert that sealed our meal.

We laughed a lot. Lulu dressed up like a butterfly. She was beaming. She kept talking about the ladybug girl outfit she was going to wear to school.

We almost forgot about the snow.

But when everyone had left and the kitchen was cleaned, Lulu and I walked to the park and ran in the snow. Despite the sun, the park was almost empty. She was disappointed that she could not use the slide. But instead, we enjoyed looking at the footprints our boots left in the snow.

“Aujourd’hui, c’est un jour particulier,” (Today is an exceptional day) I told her as we walked back, holding hands. “La neige est arrivée tôt,” (The snow came early) I went on.

“Aujourd’hui, c’est un jour particulier,” she repeated while, once again, looking down at the footprints her boots were making in the snow.

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

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

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

It happened quickly and spontaneously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes.

Chocolate always makes us happy.

Chocolate always makes Lulu happy.

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

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

Perhaps you can become one of us too.

And join in.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

But it did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not sure,” I said. “Dessert.”

“Of course! ” he went on, smiling.

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

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

“How do you call it?”

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

“Glad you came?” I went on.

He smiled again.

We were all so glad to have come.

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

I was impressed.