This coming week is an important one for me. February 7th. The day when my cookbook is officially released.

Finally!

I couldn’t be happier.

My cookbook, entitled La Tartine Gourmande: Recipes for an Inspired Life, will be sold in numerous bookstores all across the country, like Barnes and Noble or Indigo bookstores in Canada, on Amazon of course, and in a lot of other gift and pretty boutique stores (hello Anthropologie, I am so pleased you are welcoming my book!)

And for a preview, visit this link.

In any case, for all of you who already have a copy, or will receive one soon, many many thanks for your support. You make a difference.

I know well that my book took its time to come out. After all, I announced it already in January 2009! But it was worth the wait as I am really happy with the way it came out.

It is ready. Cuit à point.

One of my challenges was to accept the fact that not every single one of my recipes would go inside the book (I know, Sara, this book would be so long…); It was also to refrain from wanting to redo every picture; and accept the fact that I would not have all the pictures that I wanted inside either.

We made choices.

I think they are good ones.

On Wednesday February 8th, I will have a book signing at a lovely boutique called Pod, in Brookline village, from 5 to 7 PM. There will be treats. If you live close to where I am, I hope to see you there.

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?

The snow melted within two days, leaving room to fall again. A gorgeously sunny one on top.

We were glad that we’d only had a tease of winter. We were not ready. I was not ready to leave some of my favorite vegetables and salads behind. In fact, despite the fact that we are between seasons and soon enough homegrown vegetables will become scarce, these days, I am really inspired to cook.

See? I’ve been really busy making things in the kitchen. Trying new things. Revisiting old ones. And loving every piece of it. Here are a few snapshots from what happened.

Today I even found Romanesco.

I could not help but let a few words of excitement escape from between my lips when I spotted them, gloriously bundled up inside a woven basket in a corner of the local farm stand. They looked so inviting that I wanted to pick one after the other until the basket was empty and I had them all.

I wanted to store them the way squirrels sneak in to put nuts aside. So that they’d stay and keep me company during the upcoming wintry months.

“Will you sell more Romanesco over the next weeks?” I asked the young girl at the cash register.

She looked surprised, with a I-don’t-know-why-do-you-ask expression on her face.

I didn’t wait for her answer. She didn’t know anyhow. And on my end, I knew I’d come back to the store to check regularly.

When I returned home, it was almost eleven thirty and I was feeling hungry. The radio was playing a Jane Birkin’s song while P. was working in the office.

“Are you hungry?” I asked him from the kitchen.

I wanted him to be, because I had a great lunch idea in my head.

I imagined a dish of pasta loaded with greens–something delicious and comfy to nourish our big appetite.

Linguine, I thought. Lulu will clap in her hands at the sight of pasta. I knew she would.

So it happened. I cooked linguine and then I blanched peas and baby lima beans and zucchini with my Romanesco florets. I sauteed scampi and prepared a light white sauce with a dash of Vermouth and lots of fresh herbs.

It was a lunch quick to fix. Loaded with flavor and contrasting textures. Inviting!

We loved it.

The next day, after a walk to the botanical garden in search of pretty leaves, I decided to experiment more and baked a Romanesco gratin–and a chocolate and pear clafoutis too (you’ll want to taste this one). Which made us equally happy. Hungry for more.

I was assured that I’d want to cook these dishes again this week. And hopefully the next.

As long as I can find Romanesco.

Fingers crossed, oui?

Ah fall, I really like your colors and flavors.

A lot.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We liked to make jams and tarts and preserves.

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

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

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

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

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

Luck worked in our favor.

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

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

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

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

After only a short hour, our baskets were filled.

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

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

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

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

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

I baked strawberry clafoutis.

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

And then there were these strawberry tartlets.

Glorious.

Bursting with summery flavors.

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

Nothing else.

We loved them as is.

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

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

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

I looked at her, surprised.

“La ferme, maman ?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh summer!

“I cannot believe it’s s been already four years since the first Food styling and photography event,” I told Lara who was sitting next to me. We agreed. It seems like yesterday. Although we know a lot has happened between now and then. She and I were lucky to attend all three conferences organized at Boston University so far.

Last year, I was petrified to speak at the conference.

This year, Lara is presenting a session entitled “The secret behind effective photos for food blogs “. Diane and Todd are going to speak about Video and multimedia for blogging and clients. It was lovely to meet them and Penny even if it was brief.

The highlights?

Meeting old and new faces.

Being inspired by talented people like Jeff Kauck and Clare Ferguson.

Chatting with professionals that have the same passion for food styling and photography.

Enjoying shaking hands and hugging silent readers from all around the world that were oh so nice to say hello.

Merci! You really made it special for me.

Events like this one add an important human touch to a large virtual world.

Un…deux…trois…Whenever I start eating cherries, I cannot stop.

You?

I am really fond of the fruit.

I love to keep a few cherry pits in my mouth while I go on with my daily activities, and I even forget about them until I decide I need to eat or drink more.

For my entire French family, cherries are really special too.

My grandparents and parents have always owned cherry trees at the back of their houses. Each spring, we enjoyed conversations to guess how good the season would turn, awaiting when the fruit would become ripe.

“Ton père est dans l’arbre entrain de cueillir des cerises,” (Your father is picking cherries in the tree) my mum said a few days ago when I called to ask how they were.

“Je ne sais plus quoi en faire tellement il y en a cette année,” (There are so many this year that I don’t know what to do with them anymore) my father later added.

This year, everyone back home says it happened very early.

With us, cherries would go in jams and tarts; clafoutis and cakes; ice creams and preserves.

My grandmother always liked to poach cherries in syrup. She’d add the fruit to tall glass containers that she’d sterilize attentively. They were what she’d decide to take out of the pantry and serve for dessert with crème fouettée (whipped cream), should unexpected guests stay for dinner. Then, she always gave my mother a few of the preserved fruit, and I remember that we loved to have them when cherry season was over. When we were lucky, they’d last until the next season started.

Thankfully.

Even if to me, the best way to enjoy cherries is to gulp them down one after the other while continuing with my day, I also enjoy to use them in sweet or savory dishes.

Do you remember? In the past years, I’ve used them in clafoutis, with or without chocolate; in amandines and crumbles; salads with shaved fennel and radish; and summery soups.

This recipe is another summery soup, refreshing and light, that highlights the beauty of the fruit.

With accents of vanilla, ginger and lime, I know it’s certainly not the kind my grand-mother would have made since ginger would have been a foreign ingredient to her.

I kept thinking about how recipes evolve. With time, and generations.

I keep thinking how special it is to initiate Lulu to the taste of the soup (there’s some work ahead…) And about how much I wished I could have prepared it for my grandmother if she were still alive.

Maybe she would have liked the taste of Rainier cherries too.

The rhododendrons in front of the house are cheerful and beautiful. The sun is out and the sky is immensely blue. We waited for it and we now have it. In all of its glory.

Summer.

I feel so much better!

Thank you for your kind words. The past month was quite a challenging ride! But I am back smiling in the kitchen. Thankfully.

Busy tossing flours, whipping eggs and stewing fruit. A bit of this and that. Making nutritious summery salads and vegetable tarts. Clafoutis and fruit muffins. Feeling very French in my cooking. Somehow even more.

So tell me, are you hungry too? Because I have recipes for you. Waiting.

You learn about far breton when you travel to Brittany, on the west coast of France. This traditional French dessert is similar to clafoutis in texture, expect denser, with prunes (Pruneaux d’Agen) replacing cherries.

When we traveled to Belle-Ile en mer this past summer, you will have guessed what we ate there too.

I wrote a recipe for the Boston Globe food section today. I hope you’ll enjoy the dessert as much as we did. I also baked a gluten free version for me to enjoy!

Quand même !

The recipe can be found here.