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.

Back in October, when there were still gorgeous looking homegrown apples around us, we could leave the kitchen windows open and walk outside bare legged, I met Margaret and Max for the first time. Together, we shot the video trailer for my cookbook.

Margaret and Max are the talented photographer duo behind Unusually Fine. Working with them was simply delightful.

I will keep wonderful memories of us all, working in my kitchen.

Of them making me feel so comfortable because of course!, I felt nervous–especially about the speaking part of the shoot.

Of us sitting around the table for an impromptu lunch between two video sessions.

Then, spending an afternoon apple picking close to where we live.

Of the generosity the members of my publishing house –Julie, Megan, Sara–expressed when they came to work with us.

Of Lulu making and enjoying chocolate crêpes with me. And us eating apple verrines and tartlets, beet millefeuilles, and pistachio with poppyseeds financiers–a few recipes from my cookbook.

Of seeing M. & M. drive in their old and cute red Volkswagen pickup. There was a sense of joy and such simplicity about it.

Of the uplifted and sparkling energy we felt throughout the house during the time of the shoot.

I discovered the video only a few days ago. And I truly hope that you’ll enjoy it, imagining the fun time we had when we made it.

Today, a few days after the release, my cookbook was mentioned in the radio show The Callie Crossley Show on WGBH and then, in the New York Times Diner’s Journal, in an article written by Emily Weinstein called Coming to a Bookstore By You!

Wow. I am really honored. And touched.

Needless to say that between these 3 press events, the current visit of my parents, Lulu’s big birthday party last weekend–I am so thankful for the paella my mother cooked for over twenty five guests–it’s been a pretty fulfilling (and full), and happy week in our household.

Filled with scrumptious foods, and generous moments around the table.

Merci à tous ! And happy holidays to all! I will be back with more stories and recipes very soon, when the regular routine of our life resumes.

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.

The memories I keep from Camargue are faint, I kept thinking as P., Lulu and I were silently driving on the highway that connects Marseilles to Arles. I found the air blowing through the window hot when it eventually landed on my skin. After getting up before the crack of dawn that morning for our cross-Channel flight from London, we were feeling tired too.

“Et en plus, c’est dimanche!” (furthermore, it’s Sunday!) I suddenly exclaimed, thinking about food. “Et demain c’est aussi férié !” (And tomorrow is a holiday too!) Which meant that every supermarket would be closed and we wouldn’t find much to buy for groceries.

I felt silly for having forgotten that part when I booked our trip across France.

But an hour later, when we finally arrived at our rental house nested between overripe peach orchards, it didn’t matter anymore. The area where the house was located was perhaps not the most beautiful or quietest we’d visited, but the house had an inviting pool and garden–and we were keen to have a swim.

So we had one. And another one. And when we’d had enough, we realized that we were starving and decided to take a short ten-minute drive to Arles for lunch.

Arles, of course, is an amazing city. Its beautiful medieval monuments and strong Roman heritage enchanted me as it brought back scenes seen before in my middle-school history book. We could not help but notice the slower pace people followed as we walked the city’s numerous narrow cobblestone streets. “It must be the heat,” I thought. “Anyone would slow down.”

Once Lulu got a taste of what it felt like to be on a merry-go round arlésien, she would not stop.

We arrived around 2:30PM, which seemed early enough. Yet, it took us a while before we eventually found a bistro still serving food. We lunched on salades composées, carpaccio and fries, with ice cream and berry panna cotta to finish. The food was helping us to relax into our vacation even more.

“Where am I going to buy groceries now?” I asked P.

“Wasn’t there a deli by the car park?”

He was right. I remembered now.

Held by a short and slim North-African man with a generous smile, the store was stacked up with spices, dry foods, a small selection of vegetables and fruit, cheese and a few cuts of meat. Enough for us to get by until Tuesday. I bought a bag of rice with zucchini and carrots, which I intended to cook à la pilaf in an improvised Moroccan style, with olive oil and spices. We’d have salad, eggs, cheese, bread and fruit too.

I visited Camargue for the first time when I was nineteen. My parents had decided that we’d take a short vacation during les vacances de la Toussaint in November. I was not sure I wanted to go then but in the end I went, and loved all of it.

I remember us taking long walks to visit local markets where we invariably bought fresh soft cheese, saucissons de taureau–for which my parents have a weakness–and summer fruit and vegetables. We sampled Muscat du pays and ate bouillabaisse sur le port (by the harbour). I’ve always loved that about French cities by the sea: the fact that they offer cozy cafés, bistros and restaurants to stop at for tasty local food. We also looked for wild horses and flamingos.

This vacation, I knew, would be somewhat similar. Yet different too. We’d be quieter and less ambitious. To fit Lulu’s schedule. To fit our desire to rest too. But with my parents again as they drove from Lorraine to meet us there.

One day, we visited the immense Espiguette beach, stopping at Aigues-Mortes on the way. Despite the fact that it was summer, we didn’t feel the crowd.

Between mornings spent by the pool and naps, my mum and I cooked lunch. And dinner. We ate risotto, mixed salads and stuffed vegetables. We barbecued fresh rougets bought at the market and I even baked a berry gratin and a cake. Fresh, summery and simple.

Another day, we invited my parents for lunch at L’Atelier de Jean-Luc Rabanel in Arles.

“C’est bon mais un peu trop compliqué pour moi,” (It’s good but a bit too complicated for me) my dad said. I laughed. I could see what he meant.

Rabanel received two stars in the 2009 Michelin guide, and was awarded Best 2008 Chef in the Gault et Millau guide. We chose an eight-course tasting menu with paired wines. Around the Vegetal theme.

From seeing each plate brought to our table, I could understand that Rabanel’s goal was to combine cooking techniques and surprise with the flavors offered by each dish. I could also see why my father found our meal complicated.

I don’t remember every detail from the numerous dishes we ate–maybe it’s because of the wine. But I yet remember we started with paper-thin dark red beetroot chips, which Lulu decided were all hers. A tartine with its crunchy vegetables followed. Then we ate crunchy Camargue red rice with its garlic-flavored ice cream; a tuna and bean ceviche; a cut of veal served with rosemary-flavored jus and cooked-to-perfection rosemary-flavored fingerling potatoes; a surprising oyster-scented leaf (the leaf is real and literally tasted like an oyster). And we finished with a red berry soup with its almond milk emulsion (absolutely divine); a brioche cooked as pain perdu and served as a raspberry tartlet; and a panna cotta with fruit and preserved oignons perles. With tarragon-flavored ice cream in the middle.

I found our lunch exquisite and light. Delicate and floral. Rabanel’s food had undeniably inspired my cooking chord.

One day, when we hit the market in town, I found cocos rouges beans. I could not get over their popping light fushia color. They were staring at me.

“Ils sont magnifiques vos légumes,” (Your vegetables are beautiful,) I told the young good-looking man standing behind a beautifully arranged display of provençal vegetables.

He smiled.

I took a bag and started to fill it with cocos rouges. I was so engrossed with the task that I almost didn’t notice an older man with a cane and light summer hat standing by my side. His upper lip was hidden behind a silver-looking mustache that shone under the sun. He was talking to me.

“Ah, les cocos,” he said. “Ils sont beaux, n’est-ce pas? Moi, j’aime les cuire avec des pommes de terre.” (They are beautiful, aren’t they? I like to cook them with potatoes)

“Ils mettent combien de temps à cuire ?” (How long do you cook them for?) I asked, gulping down every word he was saying.

“Ils sont très frais, alors pas trop longtemps. Vingt minutes peut-être. Pas besoin de les faire tremper.” (They are super fresh, so not for too long. Maybe twenty minutes. No need to soak them.)

The man behind the counter was looking at us. Amused.

I was about to pay when I heard the old man again whispering something to my ear. “Pardon ?” I said as I stretched my ear to hear better.

“J’aime aussi y ajouter une saucisse,” (I like to add a sausage in it) he added with a gentle smile. His eyes grew hungry for the food he was describing to me. I closed my eyes and imagined how the flavors could mingle. It also made me suddenly hungry.

Lulu, P. and my parents were waiting for me at a café with a drink when I met them.

“Where were you?” P. asked.

“I was talking to an old man about cocos rouges,” I said. He looked at me puzzled. I didn’t bother explaining then.

“I know what what we are having for dinner tonight,” I went on.

I was still thinking about the friendly face of the old man with his cane and mustache. And while walking to meet my family, I had improvised in my head the recipe for a potato and coco rouge salad with fennel, cherry tomatoes, mesclun greens and radishes bought at the market too. Except that instead of sausage as suggested by my old friend, we’d cook sardines on the grill. And have pêches des vignes with mascarpone cheese and honey for dessert.

And I knew that everything would taste like summer. The south of France and Provence.

A lovely time away.

And that it would leave me with the memory of my new old friend met at the market that morning.

The recipe will follow…

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.

“Betty ?” I heard a deep male voice over the phone. It sounded like my father. Who else, outside my family and people from my home village in France, would call me Betty? I remained quiet for a few seconds until realizing that in fact, it was indeed my father.

“Vous êtes déjà arrivés ?” (Did you already arrive?) I asked, surprised.

I looked at my watch, and then at Lulu who was staring at my hand holding the phone. Then she looked at me, waiting for a push to get the swing moving. We had walked to the park, thinking we’d have time before my parents arrived. “P. est en route pour l’aéroport,” (P. is on his way to the airport) I went on. “Désolée, on ne savait pas que votre avion était en avance.” (Sorry, we didn’t know your plane was early.)

Perhaps my parents’ plane landed early because they felt impatient. It showed right away as they walked into the house to hug and kiss Lulu. Once. Twice. I quickly stopped counting. And instead I watched, and smiled, feeling so happy and thankful for that sweet moment between Lulu and her grandparents. The last time they had seen her was when we visited during the summer. Five months ago. I knew she would look like a different baby. And that she’d be a lucky one to have two fully dedicated playmates with her for two weeks. My parents are so good at it that it has me wonder whether they’ve taken a special class…just teasing. It’s a delight.

So this is what’s been happening in our home. The visit of my parents, as a start, which I’d very much been looking forward to. And me? Working long hours to revise the manuscript of my cookbook. Yes, it’s still going on and I have a new deadline! So add this to that, and this explains why there have not been many recipes and stories in this favorite space of mine. I cannot keep up at the moment.

I’m cooking a ton, mind you. So many foods, in fact. Having my mother in the kitchen by my side is precious. She likes to joke that she is my prep chef. I wish she were here all the time. She’s helping a ton, cooking homey foods for us–dishes I know so well. And miss.

On the night when they arrived, because they were tired from a long journey, I had prepared a light dinner. I made a soup. One that will be for the cookbook.

“Vous n’allez manger que des plats qui seront dans mon livre,” (You”ll only eat dishes that will be in my cookbook) I added, laughing, as I ladled steaming red lentil soup in our plates.
“Tant mieux!” (Good!) my mother answered.

I could see she was enjoying these simple foods. We had baguette, a wide selection of cheese–cannot have my father over without them–roasted beets and a green salad on the table too.

“Et ça aussi ca ira dans le livre ?” (Will this go in the cookbook too?) my father asked when, after we were finished, I brought dessert. I was holding a dish filled with warm pears baked with ginger, lemongrass and vanilla in one hand, and a bowl with plain yogurt in the other.

“Ah non, pas ça. Ça, c’est juste pour nous. C’est tout simple!” (Not this. This is just for us. Very simple.)

Within minutes, we cleaned the dish to the last bite.

I had forgotten how nice it actually is to have them over. We really love food in my family.

And it shows.

Thank you for your patience!

Quinoa is, by far, one of my favorite grains*. I remember when we traveled to Peru a few years ago and we ate quinoa at almost every meal, in soups, salads, warm savory dishes and desserts. Quinoa was to Peruvians what rice is to Asians and pasta to Italians. I was already familiar with the grain before we arrived but our Peruvian trip inspired me to use the grain even more frequently than I did. I simply never grow tired of it. Quite on the contrary.

* Quinoa is, in fact, the seed of the Chenopodium (or Goosefoot) plant. It’s technically not really a grain, but considered like one as it’s cooked like many grains.

So we eat quinoa quite regularly, perhaps twice a week, and I also love to use the flour made from the grain in many of my baked goods and tarts (simply check the cake section).

I was excited, in fact, the first day I also decided to prepare quinoa for Lulu. *So* happy because I knew I was sharing with her one of my favorite foods, giving her a food full of nutrients and flavor. And delighted to watch her eat and enjoy it, as much as her maman — and papa.

To start, quinoa is extremely nutritious. It is full of protein, offers niacin, iron, phosphorus and potassium. Since it contains all eight essential amino acids, it is also considered a complete protein, very easy to digest. Quinoa is high in unsaturated fats and lower in carbohydrates than most grains.

Most of you know that white quinoa is the most common variety. But red and black are also available despite that they are somewhat more challenging to find. But, if you are like me, you’ll easily go out of your way to put your hand on a box.

Until recently, I had only cooked with the white and red varieties. Black quinoa was something new but really exciting. I loved its deep rich color, especially after the grain was cooked, and I was curious to find out whether I would notice any difference in taste.

I truly loved it. It was full of flavor, nutty and light. It paired wonderfully with seasonal ingredients I had purchased, lovely colorful baby beets and cherry and green zebra tomatoes. In fact, I liked it so much that I was inspired to try different types of salads.

I wanted salads boosted with vitamins. I wanted contrast of flavors, with sweet ingredients balancing savory ones. I wanted to taste the smoothness of an avocado next to something zesty and juicy like grapefruit and grapes. In one salad, I used pieces of crumbled French feta cheese and in the other, ricotta salata. I added fragrant herbs and made a vinaigrette with body, using honey-flavored French mustard, garlic and flavorful oils and vinegars. It was really fun to try different variants on the same idea. One salad had thin blanched haricots verts and sweet juicy cherry and zebra tomatoes, and in the other, I preferred to add baby beets and smoked salmon.

I learned that combinations are endless and experimenting with the grain always inspiring.

So you’ll see why it’s not difficult to make quinoa a favorite, especially when you’ll hear that it cooks extremely quickly (between 12 to 15 minutes, covered in boiling water, depending on the variety + allow 5 minutes to rest).

Use it in its most natural state to accompany roasted vegetables, fish or meat, or serve it with a simmered sauce. Saute it as you would rice, and add fresh herbs and spices (my next thing in line!) Or, just like here, prepare fun colorful salads to keep you happy and healthy, whether you eat in, at work or out on a picnic (lucky you!) at the beach. You’ll understand that quinoa is a great grain to keep handy for any type of dinner or lunch occasions.

Are you as hungry as I am?

“Vous avez dû attendre pendant longtemps ?” (Did you have to wait for long?) my parents asked. We were standing at one end of terminal E in Roissy Charles de Gaulle airport, hugging and kissing. My parents were as eager to see us as we were to see them. But I knew that, in fact, they were even happier to greet and hold their little grand daughter. Lulu was snuggled cozily against my stomach in her ergo. We could only see the top of her head and hair and eyes which she had wide open. She was smiling and flapping her bare legs against mine, turning her head to the right, then to the left, not to miss anything that was happening around us. We were all tired but so happy to be home in France.

The thought of traveling back home had filled me with feelings of excitement even if I had worried about our journey to Europe. It was Lulu’s first transatlantic flight. How would she handle it? Would she be fine with the many plane rides, between Boston, Paris, Dublin and Paris again? How would she do with the jet lag? But our little Lulu didn’t mind at all any of it. In fact, she adjusted extremely quickly, much faster than P. and I did.

Summer in rural eastern France, where my parents and brother live, has left me wonderful memories. I realized that it had been years since I had traveled there during summer.

It’s the soft morning light cast on the countryside early in the morning, the colorful wild flowers illuminating the fields, the rich smell of freshly cut grass, the butterflies dancing from flower to flower and the clacking sound of the crickets late at night that I love. It’s the time of year when, I remember, as a young girl, we used to harvest hay at my grandparents’. Sometimes, I was allowed to drive the tractor back from the fields, and proudly did so. Later in the afternoon, my brother and cousins would sneak in the barn to play, jumping on bales of hay neatly stacked high.

Days in the countryside are spent at a slower pace even if summer means it’s a busy time for many who live there. In my family, we like to pick all sorts of fruit to make jams and preserves and bake tarts; we preserve French beans and beets, and make ratatouille. We walk in the grass bare foot and nap under the cherry trees, if we feel like it. We did that very well, I must say, the day after we arrived, then the next, and the day after the next too — and we never seemed to find the activity boring. Would you?

Lulu, too, made the place her own. She and I loved the daily routine we established. There were the usual morning and afternoon naps, the walks to the village to buy baguettes for lunch, and the many hours spent playing on a large blanket spread under the trees, in my parents’ garden. It was delightful to see her enjoy herself so much. She was fascinated by trees and loved to watch the wind move their leaves. She played with the flickering shadows created by the rays of sun filtering through the branches.

I told her about where our food comes from. When I took her to the village, I showed her the cows and sheep and chicken and rooster and rabbits. I pointed at eggs nested at one corner of the hen house. I made her smell red currants and apples and strawberries and plums that my parents grow.

She ate the vegetables — carrots, beans, zucchini, beets and tomatoes — we prepared from my mother’s and brother’s gardens. Every day, it seemed that she was learning something new — her new discovery is to clap her hands (she does that so joyfully, really, it’s cute!) while blowing raspberries at the same time. It’s amazing, actually, how quickly she has changed over the course of these last three weeks away.

Our life is so much richer with her at the center of it.

“Tu veux que je la prenne ? “(Do you want me to take her?) my mum asked me one morning after I had just finished to nurse Lulu. She was wide awake, laughing, talking and kicking her legs above her head. It was also 6 am, the time of day when my mother gets up — it’s brave! I didn’t need to answer. She knew. I felt relieved. Si tu veux! (Sure!)

While falling asleep, I could hear them *converse* with each other in the kitchen at the breakfast table — Lulu sitting in her high chair while my mother was eating her bowl of muesli and yogurt.

It didn’t matter that we did not travel long distances or do much. We did what we had been craving for weeks: we rested.

The food was gorgeous, and I ate a ton. I even wonder where I put it all! Between the fresh vegetables and fruit from the garden, I also indulged in dairy products hungrily, eating yogurts, petits-suisses and fromage blanc as if I was discovering them for the first time again. I devoured cheese greedily, at all times of the day. Oh yes! Everything felt more tasteful and flavorful. My mother cooked — isn’t this the nicest? — and I helped, baking and making fruit tarts.

Every day, Lulu came with me to the garden where I picked more berries and seasonal fruit, carrots, salad and tomatoes for lunch. The mirabelles, prunes de cochon and quetsches were so ripe that we stewed them and made tarts.

One day, my mum and I took Lulu to the local market.

In my brother’s garden, I collected fresh herbs, different types of basil, sage, thyme, chervil, livèche (lovage) — my sister-in-law’s favorite — and mint to make a herb risotto. I’ll have to tell you about it. We enjoyed it so much that I cooked it twice.

We had family lunches and dinners at home that we ate outside and a few times, we drove the scenic winding road, just a few kilometers away, to l’Ecluse 16 — a lovely restaurant nested in the Bonne Fontaine forest, by the canal de la Sarre — where we ate scrumptious modern food.

I thought I wouldn’t find red currants, as suggested by my dad, but I was excited to discover that the bush in my parents’ back garden was still heavy with bright red berries, fully ripe. Every day, my mum used them in fruit salads while I baked them in muffins.

I also made a red currant and almond tart.

Red currants are a delicacy in the US, which always surprises me when they are so abundant and easily found where I am from in France. In the city of Bar-le-Duc near by, locals use the fruit to make a special jam. The tradition consists in removing the seeds with a goose feather and dates back to 1344. The jam is extremely delicate.

If you’ve eaten the berries before, you know that the fruit is rather acidic, and has small seeds inside. The berries are delicious in tarts when they are prepared with a sugary almond batter, which balances the tartness of the fruit.

“I told you it would be worth it,” I told my dad, with a victorious look on my face, when we all sat down at the table again to have dessert. He had jokingly asked that I stopped stealing the last red currants on the tree. It was hard to! One of his favorite thing is to pick and snack on the fruit while working outside.

“Oui, elle est très bonne ta tarte,” (Your tart is really good) he said, helping himself to a second slice.

What I didn’t tell him is that, a few days later, I grabbed another handful of the red berries to bake muffins. I just couldn’t resist.

Everyone commented on how delicious the muffins were.

And the missing red currants went unnoticed.

It’s wonderful how that works.

Carrots.

It’s funny, really, to get excited about carrots. I have friends who think that I am crazy to find carrots sexy, but I secretly know that they’ve probably not been as lucky as me, to have grown up near the best carrots one can imagine. I swear it’s true.

I was that lucky young French girl who, each summer, was waiting for the premières carottes de la saison (the first carrots of the season). They were always planted in rows of three in my mum’s garden, between the French beans and beets, with the young ones as the best in taste, those not yet fully grown that I liked to “steal” and eat as a midday snack. Of course, they were never straight in shape, and were always full of dirt. I know well that they would never have won aesthetics awards, but as to their goût (taste), it was simply incomparable.

The best.

The other day, I had a craving for carrot mash. Again.

It happens quite often.

It’s not even because spring is finally here — or I should say summer, in view of the thermometer today! The air outside reached 90 degrees Fahrenheit. 32 degrés celsius ! Crazy, non ? I keep thinking that no later than last Sunday, when we went for a walk to the park, we were still wearing hats and gloves. I am actually already missing my hat and gloves. And it’s not even because my sister-in-law gave me the best hat that I’ve ever owned.

But the trees exploding into colorful blooming flower buds everywhere I looked made me feel quite cheery. Despite the heat I dislike.

Oh yes, the carrots.

So, I had this craving for carrots. A dish of carrot mash, more precisely. Now that Lulu is four months old — last Saturday, in fact — I think more and more about simple dishes like mashed vegetables. I am excited at the prospect that she will soon experience the taste of food for the first time, beside le lait de sa maman (ie my milk). How fascinating to witness her going through this wonderful phase of life! It’s all magical, really.

She already likes to hang out with us at the dining table, and sits proudly — she really has this look on her face — in her green high chair. She likes to be part of the family table, smiling as she looks at us to her right and left, before she starts it all over again. I love that she is happy there.

“Avec toi, j’ai commencé avec des purées de légumes, comme les carottes, (I started with mashed vegetables like carrots)” my mum tells me when I curiously ask about the foods she introduced to us first — I have to learn too. She has pride in adding that my brother B. and I never ate a petit pot de bébé acheté (store-bought baby food); she always cooked what we ate.

Maybe this is the reason why I love carrots so much.

It must be it.

This carrot mash version is, of course, for times when Lulu will be a little older. I made it thinking about the new season, and the flavors P. and I were in the mood for. It’s very simple and surprising.

It uses fresh coriander, the smell of which diffusing in the kitchen inspires me about spring produce; coconut milk for an exotic touch, and cracked red peppercorns for enhanced flavor and color. It’s always prepared with a food mill, because I am convinced that the best mashed vegetables are made this way. No exception.

It’s a wonderful side dish that you can prepare to accompany grilled fish or meat, or eat just as it is in the bowl. And, if you have leftovers, you can also feel creative with other recipes.

But I will have to tell you about that next, when I have a moment again for myself.

In the meantime, let’s enjoy this simple food.

And the feeling of the new season.

Spring.

Note: the textiles used in the top picture and above come from Harmony Art, a talented designer I was lucky to come across. Oh the surprises of the web and the wonderful things we can find while browsing here and there. A big thank you to Harmony. I cannot wait to get more of her organic patterns to cheer up my pictures. They work so naturally.

You must have noticed my attachment to beets, non ? And, anything sliced paper-thin: any reason to take out my mandoline is always a good one.

For my latest contribution to the Boston Globe’s Food Section, I created a beet carpaccio recipe, a nice change, I thought, from the traditional beef carpaccio more commonly known. This recipe makes for a wonderful vegetarian variant, pleasing to the eyes, and refreshing to the taste.

Well, I loved it.

Guess what we are having for dinner tonight, amongst other things.