My friend R. and I were chatting about food while cleaning up in the kitchen after dinner. Then, I told him: “Tu sais, ça fait des années que je veux voir la récolte des canneberges,” (You know, it’s been years since I wanted to see the harvest of cranberries).

“Ah bon ?” he exclaimed, surprised.

I looked at him. He became quiet. He’s thinking, I thought. I could see it. He’s cooking something!

“I think I can help,” he said, with a glorious smile lighting his face.

It’s one of the many nice things I like about R. The fact that he’s têtu comme une mule (stubborn like a mule), persistent — did I say before that he’s a medical doctor? — and that he’s always enthusiastic about anything that’s in relation with food. We’re friends because of that too.

A few days after we talked, he emailed me.

“C’est fait!” (Done!) he wrote.”You’re all set. Going to visit a cranberry bog.”

“How did you do it?” I wrote back.

“I know people,” he had casually added.

What he actually meant was that he had written to a friend working at Ocean Spray, and one thing leading to another, he had man