Lulu and I in the kitchen, it’s a scene.

She likes to sit on the floor at one corner of the room with pots and pans and muffin molds to play with while I’m busy at the sink and stove. Cooking. We both make a mess in our own way. Occasionally, she looks up at me to make sure that I am still there, within reach, before she concentrates again on her imaginary cooking game. Then, when she is done, she walks to me, pulling on my dress so that I carry her. She wants to see what I’m doing. What I’m cooking. It’s funny because right now, my kitchen is not the most inviting room in the house with boxes piled everywhere, yet Lulu and I don’t seem to take notice of the untidy space. Every day, we end up liking to spend time in the kitchen. Playing and cooking together.

It’s been natural.

When I became a mother, I didn’t know anything about introducing food to a baby. I didn’t know what Lulu would love and what she’d refuse to eat, and how I would end up dealing with it. I was unaware, too, of the challenges this natural process would keep along the way.

But Lulu likes to eat. I like to think that she must remember when I used to tell her stories about the good foods we were having when she was still in my belly. Watching her eat joyfully makes me feel warm inside. Every single time.

Just as my mother did, I want to educate Lulu to the art of homemade foods.

We walk to farmer markets together where I name to her all of the foods we like to eat; I have her smell fresh herbs and notice the beautiful colors of vegetables and fruit; I teach her how to use my Peugeot pepper mill to season rice and vegetable stews–one of her favorite foods by far.

And I show her how to hold the spoon. And stir.

She loves to stir. And help.

The other day, it’s stewed berries that we prepared together. She kept going for the spoon I had put inside the pot. So I let her do it. And I helped, discreetly, whenever I was needed.

It made me feel proud. I was proud of her.

When the berry sauce was ready, I looked at the jar, imagining how tasty it would be with a bowl of plain yogurt. Then, I imagined berry parfaits. I wanted something delicious and healthy; I wanted to show her about a beautiful food we’d be able to eat for breakfast, or as a midday snack.

And I told her a story about it.

To build a strong memory of our time in the kitchen. Mother and daughter cooking together.

Tomorrow, I am taking Lulu to France again. I wonder what new foods she will be discovering this time.

A bientôt…I will have pictures, stories and foods to share.

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.

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.

That’s what I like: enjoy the aromas of a pot of ratatouille simmering slowly on the stove, leaving me excited for the dinner, or lunch, we’ll enjoy later. That’s so French. That’s so much what we used to eat during summer in my parents’ house.

It has not changed. I am continuing the tradition. With my Lulu. And my hubby. Bringing a slice of my French countryside in my American home.

And since the three of us also have a weakness for clafoutis, I’ve decided to make a savory variant of the traditional French dessert. It uses vegetables instead of fruit. It’s made with a savory flan. So here you are with a clafoutis de ratatouille for dinner, or a picnic, using leftovers of ratatouille when you prepare a large pot.

I’ve written about it for the Boston Globe today, in the Sunday Supper section. I hope you’ll enjoy the recipes. The ratatouille recipe is here. The clafoutis de ratatouille here.

Happy Bastille Day! Tonight, we’ll reflect on everything that’s been happening in our lives recently.

We’ll be sad. We’ll be happy. We’ll be looking forward to life. Family. Home.

And to more beautiful foods.

One of the things that I clearly inherited from my father is his love and attachment à la terre, the soil.

And Nature.

It does not come as an accident. He was raised on a farm, and his summers were filled with afternoons spent to work in the fields during hay season.

With them came potatoes which were frequently the main piece of dinner eaten at my grandparents’.

Like des pommes de terre en robe des champs–which literally translates as “potatoes wearing a dress from the fields“–a rustic dish made of potatoes simply boiled with their skin that his family ate with fromage blanc seasoned with chives, shallot, salt and pepper.

I think that he must have eaten too much of this type of food because today, he does not care so much for it.

On the other hand, I do. In fact, I am completely crazy for it and will prepare it whenever I feel like having earthy foods.

Here in the United States, it’s unfortunately almost impossible to find fromage blanc. On occasions, I manage to find some by Vermont Butter and Cheese, but I don’t like it since it is 0% fat–which is not my cup of tea.

Instead, I like my fromage blanc to be made with full fat milk so that the texture is silky and flavorful. Hence I only eat fromage blanc — and indulge as much as I can — when I travel back to France.

Making the sauce is easy. Instead of fromage blanc (which I also like to combine sometimes with petits suisses), I use Greek yogurt made with whole milk. I add lemon juice, a generous amount of chopped chives, a few spices and shallot and the result is a thick flavorful sauce that accompanies beautifully the potatoes–Lulu more particularly enjoys dipping her potatoes into the sauce. Choose your favorites: potatoes that are dense in texture, like fingerlings, or others like Russet that will crumble more easily. Peel them before serving or leave them on the table with the skin on, for your guests to decide. I personally prefer to peel the potatoes before serving them.

In all cases, it’s humble food at its best. Something delicious that makes a light dinner if you eat a green salad on the side; or something more substantial if you accompany the food with cured meats, grilled meats and other fresh summer salads.

Even my dad tends to agree…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As to the pea recipe…

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

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

The sweetness of fresh peas is simply exquisite.

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

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

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

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

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

Both sides.

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

There are dishes, you know, that are all about comfort. Dishes that need to be nourishing, but have to happen quickly. They’ll always be fresh and colorful because that’s the kind of food I crave. I don’t know about you but I find endless the possibilities of this to happen with pasta. Especially in a dish of spaghetti with flavors of spring and summer.

Since our small family is about to take off on a vacation–I am literally counting the days until we leave, even if I have packed nada yet–I am in a clean-up-the-fridge-quickly kind of mood, improvising meals with what I have. The whole process, I find, is pretty creative.

Tonight, I cooked a large pot of carrot, fennel and lentil soup that simmered in coconut milk, one that I can reheat tomorrow. I made a pilaf rice flavored with saffron and sweet peas for dinner and I also baked financiers with leftovers of egg whites and a small container filled with raspberries that needed to find a home before it’s too late. Lulu–and us–unanimously loved them, which made me a very proud maman.

And yesterday, for lunch, I cooked spaghetti.

Sara, my editor, had brought gorgeous looking cherry tomatoes for a photo shoot but I ended up not using the tomatoes. So there came the idea of this dish.

I started by roasting the tomatoes with garlic, lemon thyme, honey and olive oil, and I later tossed them with the spaghetti (mine is made of corn), julienned carrots that I blanched, fresh watercress (upland cress, more precisely) and other goodies I found. The result was an everything-in-a-plate filled with goodness that I devoured before going out to the park with Lulu, for our daily walk.

She is now cruising independently. Exploring. It’s the start of many adventures, I know, and I am really looking forward to it.

Following closely. Never too far. Today, our princess Lulu is also fifteen months old…already.

Risotto. With green peas, basil and lemon.

It’s what Lulu and I will be having for lunch today. I am waiting for her to wake up from her nap to sit down at the table and eat.

“Lulu, réveille-toi, maman a vraiment faim !” (Lulu, wake up, mummy is really hungry!)

One day, she’ll understand that risotto cannot wait–although P. argues that he *loves* when I reheat risotto.

So she’d better hurry and wake up soon!

Bon weekend à tous !