If you are anything like me, you are going to feel sorry to see the last strawberries of the season at the market. Every year, I wait for the first ones to arrive. I always feel sad to see them go too.

This strawberry verrine recipe is one of the desserts I served when friends came over to celebrate July 4th with us. We love it, they tell me. I had baked my own ladyfingers (gluten free too), which was undeniably a plus. It’s something I encourage you to do as well.

I thought you’d be happy that I share this verrine recipe with you. I wrote it for this week’s food column in the Boston Globe.

Enjoy preparing the dessert with sweet strawberries from your local market. And if you cannot find seasonal strawberries anymore, do not worry, other berries like blueberries, raspberries or red currants would go inside the dessert just as perfectly. In summer, we never have a shortage of delicious berries.

Car la nature fait bien les choses. (Because Nature knows best.)

Right?

On Sunday morning, I woke up knowing that I had a lot inside me that I wanted to share with you.

But I also knew I wouldn’t have the time.

Truth being said, it was just too sunny and pretty outside, and right at 6 AM, I had made the plan in my head that we were going to pack a quick picnic, go for a swim somewhere not too far, nap and then play in the garden.

Still, if I had taken the time, I would ideally have told you about the pea recipes I’ve been cooking in numbers this season; the tomato and zucchini tarts I’ve baked to take on picnics; the baked apricots we keep craving and never get enough of.

I would have shown you the mulberry tart I cooked last week; the corn soup we’ve been enjoying while having our heads filled with memories of the beauty of Block island; the cookies we have not stopped eating; the tians and verrines I prepared for the weekend of July 4th when friends came over for dinner.

But instead, I enjoyed Sunday. A beautiful summery day. Family and time away from the computer.

I am sure you did too.

Or I truly hope that’s what happened to you.

I kept thinking about the fruit papillotes we ate for dinner last night and over the last few weeks though. I thought that you’d like to know about how tasty they were. How easy and quick they are to prepare.

I had even told about my fruit papillotes to my neighbor A. when she kindly dropped by one day to give a few black raspberries to Lulu.

“They are the first of the year,” she had added when she held her hand filled with berries in front of me.

I had felt touched that she had come to share the first crop with us. So I’d promised that I’d write about the fruit papillotes. A similar recipe was even going to be inside my book, but then there wasn’t enough room.

My inspiration for fruit papillotes woke up again in May. After I found a strikingly colorful and beautiful recipe of fruit papillote in the May and June issue of the French magazine Elle à table .

I knew that I’d find many ways to interpret the dessert. With different fruit. Other accents. Yet keeping the same idea: have the flavored fruit steam in its own juice inside a pouch in the oven.

Preparing a papillote is very simple. Making a fruit papillote just as well.

Here’s how I did it.

Toss plenty of mixed pieces of seasonal fruit with a little sugar, vanilla seeds and lemon balm for accented aromas. Let rest, wrap the fruit with its juice inside a large piece of parchment paper, and then cook in a warm oven for 20 minutes. Have the house filled with the aromas of vanilla-scented fruit and sugar. Open the papillote and add one or two scoops of lavender ice cream, or yogurt, right in the middle of the papillote.

Relax.

Enjoy the beauty of summer scents.

Hard to resist, non?

“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!

When we woke up early on Friday with Lulu cuddled between us, the sun was already filtering through the bedroom blinds. A few robins were chirruping in the trees near our window and instantly, we knew that the day would be gorgeous. P. had the day off so we decided to go to the beach. And have a picnic.

Since our plan was rather spontaneous, I was thankful for my visit to the first farmer’s market the afternoon before.

I had come home with pretty colorful radishes, strawberries, purple spring onions and beautiful mesclun salad in my market basket. Enough to imagine a radish salad that would accompany a dish of warm black quinoa with asparagus sauce that takes only minutes to prepare.

“On va à la plage,” we told Lulu while we were having a plate of vanilla-flavored millet waffles at the breakfast table. Her face immediately lit with a large smile.

“Vacances !” she shouted out loud.

We laughed. Of course. Our small excursion sounded like a vacation indeed.

And so with the help from my Lulu, I prepared our picnic lunch.

It was a beautiful and easy day.

The bushes lining the sand dunes displayed pretty flowers that looked like colorful pieces of candy. I could smell the vibes of summer without the crowds and the August heat.

As expected, Lulu had a lot of fun. Seeing her run and skip on the beach, laughing heartily, was the best gift we could have hoped for that day.

“Tu as faim ?” (Are you hungry?) I asked her shortly after her first dip in the water.

“Oui,” she replied instantly.

The three of us sat on the edge of the blanket with our feet dug into the sand. And we started to eat. Quietly. Undisturbed by the seagulls curious about our food.

The way Lulu was letting me feed her quinoa showed that indeed, she must have been hungry.

P. and I enjoyed the balance of texture and spicy taste the radish salad brought to our meal. I had also packed a strawberry salad and apricots, and was glad to find rhubarb muffins in the freezer that I wrapped and tossed in our picnic bag too.

By three o’clock, we decided to leave because, on the way back, we wanted to make a stop at a farm nearby to pick strawberries.

“We start tomorrow,” the tall solidly-built young girl standing at the cashier said when I asked her whether we could pick the fruit.

“But you can buy strawberries we’ve already picked, if you want. And you can go and see the animals at the back of the farm.”

So I bought two large containers of strawberries. One for us to enjoy. The other to go inside a dessert I was planning to make and bring to a friends’ garden party the next day.

And then we walked outside to see chicken and geese; ducks and goats; sheep and ponys.

“On reviendra la semaine prochaine,” (We will come back next week) I told Lulu as we were walking back to the car. She was holding her papa by one hand, with a warm doughnut I bought for her at the farm stand in the other.

“These are good!” P. exclaimed after biting into one too. “So nice that I think I want a second one!”

I looked at them and smiled. Munching each on a doughnut, they really made a happy-looking pair.

“I am sure she is going to sleep in the car after all of this, ” I laughed.

It didn’t fail. Back inside the car, within minutes on the road, Lulu was fast asleep, assuring us that she liked the beach, when we asked her if she had had fun.

“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.

It was easy to fall for them. They sparkled like ruby stones with their rich red color. Perhaps I am the only one noticing them, I thought. How could no one else seem to see them? Or want them? They suddenly brought memories of treasured moments spent in my mother’s small kitchen, when she and I made preserves and the house smelled sweet like a sugar mill.

We were canning sour cherries. Des cerises aigres. Those small bright red cherries that many people don’t care about because of their more emphasized acidic taste.

Nous?

We would never get enough of them. We’d pet the sour cherry tree in the back garden with love. And great care. Hungry, when summer came, for a taste of the delicate fruit in our mouths.

Frankly, I didn’t think that I would still be lucky enough to find sour cherries at this time in the season. But I did. And I indulged when I caught sight of a few boxes in the store. One box. Two boxes. Three. In my cart.

I wasn’t sure of what I would make with them but was nevertheless convinced that I’d find something tasty to render them justice. It was a necessity. And I’d have to work fast too since I knew the fruit would spoil quickly.

Then Saturday came and there was a spontaneous dinner invitation for friends to come for dinner. The kind we love. It was a hot summer night, and we enjoyed the breeze as we sat outside to eat on the patio. We were eating grilled fish, potato and radish salad with a melon cucumber soup to start.

And for dessert, I made a cherry soup infused with lemon thyme, and served it with a fresh strawberry sorbet and a dollop of mascarpone. It’s an idea that crossed my mind while not knowing really what I would eventually serve.

The dessert offered subtle flavors that worked wonderfully, leaving us light and refreshed after eating. The best during summer.

So the next day, between a walk to the playground to explore our new neighborhood, I made it again. This time, using Rainier cherries to compare, curious to see whether I would like it just as much.

The color of the Rainier cherry soup was pretty but Les cerises aigres stood out.

Making the sour cherry soup is easy. Prepare a light syrup and add spices that you like. I flavored mine with lemon-thyme , lime juice, vanilla and cane blond sugar. Then, simmer the cherries in the syrup until they soften. The cooking time will depend on how ripe the fruit is and how you like it. Then, serve the soup chilled with mascarpone cheese and a scoop of homemade made berry sorbet. I made mine using delicious fragrant organic strawberries, confectioner’s sugar–that I made with blond cane sugar–lime juice and a few tablespoons of apple juice.

Together, it was an explosion of some of the best aromas of summer fruit in the mouth.

Fresh and bright.

“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.

“Slow down! And breathe,” P. whispered when he noticed that I was starting to feel agitated. As if I had to do something. Or make something.

It’s funny but it works and I hate to admit it, especially to P. At times, he reminds me to breathe, respirer !

I am still unsure that I know how I feel. How I should feel.

Sometimes, I imagine that the realization of the last six months is going to hit me. Suddenly and unexpectedly. And when it does, it’ll hit me hard on the head. Bang!

Somehow, it started four days ago, after I handed my manuscript to my editor. When my friend S. and I talked about it, she told me that the minute after she had turned in a book manuscript, she had driven home and cried. I didn’t, I told her. But one day later, I was crying too.

I wasn’t sad, mind you. I was simply starting to really relax. And breathe again. And that can be a process that requires time. I was — am — realizing the events of the last few months, one after the other.

These past six months have been a hike, to say the least. There’s been giving birth to our precious baby, winter in Boston with its snow storms, long days and evenings spent behind the stove cooking, and styling and photographing; writing while breastfeeding and changing diapers — and trying to sleep too, whenever I could. There has been styling and photography projects on the side, an inspiring conference where I was lucky to speak, the visits of my parents and P.’s — and the biggest of all, learning to become a mother.

I loved every moment even if it wasn’t always easy. There’s been laughter and tears; joy and discouragement. But when I look back and see the beautiful smiling face of our happy Lulu, what seemed unbearable and difficult vanishes. Pouf ! It’s magical how it works, really.

So yes, I am still amazed to realize that I met my deadline, handing in my manuscript on time last Wednesday. I am not sure how I managed. It’s perhaps a high dose of adrenaline that helped when I needed it, at the right time.

Of course, that does not mean that everything is done with my book. There is still plenty of work ahead for me, with revisions, corrections and testing — I know that! But the book is brought to life, slowly, and I am excited. And while this is happening, I am now officially on vacation. Oh yes! How nice does the word sound when I repeat it out loud a few times, vacances, vacances, vacances, just to make sure that it won’t go away without me.

Amazing!

We are taking Lulu to Europe this summer. She’s going to visit Ireland and France for the first time — we are so proud to be lucky enough to give her this opportunity. I am so eager for her to meet her Irish great-grandmother and cousins; meet more of my relatives in France; play with her grandparents; spend time in my brother’s garden; see the cows, goats and sheep. I’ll show her salads and apple trees and strawberries. She won’t care but that will make me feel warm inside anyhow. We’ll be having picnics by the river, eat lunch under the cherry trees, and walk through the fields. I’ll show her the details of the life that made me a happy young girl growing up in rural France. It might sound cheesy to say, but she is really the best thing I’ve ever done — and that’s coming from a woman who was never sure whether she wanted to have children. I love to rediscover the world through her eyes — like the day when she found out she could make noise by gently running her fingers on the strings of a guitar.

Nature makes wonders.

But with this said, let me share the recipe of this verrine with you, before the rhubarb and strawberry season comes to an end, and you might have to wait until next year again.

I wrote it last year, for the Cuisine Light magazine. It’s a lovely dessert that works perfectly to conclude a dinner with friends. It’s refreshing and sure to please the eye. I thought you might simply enjoy it too.

It’s a dessert to keep handy for a meal during les vacances — or not — if that’s where you are right now.

Note that it uses biscuits roses de Reims which you might find a little difficult to find. If that’s the case, use Champagne biscuits instead, or finely crumbled shortbread or why not, biscotti. Also, I like to work with gelatin sheets because it’s more what I am used to. If you prefer, substitute with gelatin powder. Note that in general, 1/2 teaspoon gelatin powder = 1 gelatin sheet.

Last June, I was pleased to see that Loukoum had enjoyed preparing the dessert. It’s always nice to get feedback.

Not long ago, P. asked me whether the verb clafoutir existed in French. I smiled. I found the question so sweet that just for a day, or two, I pretended that it did indeed.

It would have read like this:

“je clafoutis, tu clafoutis, il clafoutis, nous clafoutissons, vous clafoutissez , ils clafoutissent.”

Imagine that, so funny!

Wouldn’t it make sense, though? English as a language always seems to be much more flexible than stubborn old French? Words come and go so much more easily.

Anyway, I know what you’re going to say. Yet another clafoutis!

Well, I’ll have to apologize. But then, it’s really all we’re having for dessert at the moment. It serves the purpose just fine. And we are quite all right with it. In fact, it’s pretty good this way. In view of our life right now, that we’re still able to enjoy a dessert that brings the sweet touch, you know, what we want after dinner, what we need after dinner after too many hours hunched over the computer, busy finishing up the cookbook. I am getting there!

I made this clafoutis a few times over the last few weeks, varying the fruit. In this one, I liked to combine fresh strawberries and rhubarb stewed with orange zest. It’s seasonal, and always a winning association. Then, I mixed eggs with sugar, milk and coconut milk, almond flour and cornstarch. Baked for 25 minutes and ate them lukewarm dusted with confectioner’s sugar.

A lovely every day dessert, simple and straightforward.

Lulu will have to love clafoutis as much as her papa and her maman. Sinon! (or else) But right now, she’s only all about carrots and sweet potatoes. It has to start somewhere!

On another note, I’ll be speaking this coming Sunday, at the Food Styling and Photography Conference happening at Boston University. I hope that I’ll be able to meet some of you, and that I’ll be all right! Oh boy! Wish me luck!

It’s amazing how nice you’ve been. I mean, between the comments and the emails I’ve received, you’ve been extremely kind. My apologies if I have not yet responded to your mail, but I am still trying to figure out how to manage my time well between Lulu and the kitchen. My friends keep telling me that it will get better after she is two months old. Things already change so quickly, getting better and easier, every day.

And Lulu is growing. Fast. Eating away to have inviting pink chubby round cheeks I keep wanting to squeeze; smiling to make us, the excited new parents, melt. There is so much new life in her — and joy. It’s fresh and light, as good as a juicy strawberry freshly picked in the early morning.

Much sweeter, in fact.

“I cannot believe it will be in the forties tomorrow,” I told P. when I clicked on the weather icon on the screen of my laptop. We were both sitting at the breakfast table in front of a steaming cup of tea, eating granola and yogurt. I was thrilled since it meant that I was going to be able to go out for a walk with Lulu. Finally! She would get to see snow covered trees close by for the first time. Perhaps she might even see squirrels bury nuts, or catch a glimpse of happy dogs running across the white field.

She slept, of course, like most babies do when they go out in the stroller for the first time, and she probably saw none of the above, even if I sensed that she must have felt the peacefulness outside.

As I pushed the stroller steadily, I found myself lost in my thoughts, organizing what I would do next when we returned home. I thought about the book I had to write, and what I wanted to be cooking.

“What would you say is one of the things you mum made a lot when you were a kid,” I asked P. when we sat at the dining room table later that day. He was busy typing on his laptop but still looked up to answer, then paused for a few seconds, like he always does when he is thinking.

“Tapioca pudding.”

“Nice! I replied; my mouth salivated just at the idea of that lovely dessert. “You gave me an idea!”

I know my idea of a tapioca pudding is quite different from what P. used to eat. He told me so. Mine somewhat resembles more a flan in texture, similar to other favorite desserts like a crème renversée, or a petit pot de crème which I can never resist. You will see, it is easy.

I used cardamom and vanilla to flavor the pudding since, as you might have noticed before, we really like these spices. To start, if you want, prepare a caramel to coat your ramekins. Cook the tapioca pearls in the milk with the sugar and spices so that the flavors develop. Then, mix in eggs to make the dessert hold together, and bake it in a bain-marie. In my opinion, this type of dessert is best eaten once it is cooled down in the fridge.

Really nothing difficult. But the guarantee to have a lovely touch to finish dinner on a sweet, yet not so much so, touch.

Our kind of dessert. I am convinced Lulu will love it, like her papa and maman do. And that is not only wishful thinking.

She will.