the cherries came and went. they were hand-picked, sour and sweet. off-white, dark red, almost purple. purchased with care to be turned into cake. they spent time in the fridge, waiting to be devoured, swimming in clafoutis batter. but time went elsewhere.
time flew by, sailing through new tasks, feeding, holding, changing a tiny baby. i turned into a washerwoman and my bathroom into a laundromat. the cherries thus went, straight into my belly for some, while others, rotten from all the waiting, dove straight into the garbage. composting is only a New York dream.
cherry season is over now but a summer without a clafoutis is like a summer without the sea. no matter how many mountain tops you climb, deep down, you crave the waves of cream, the sweet crunch of sea salt flakes, the bloody hearts of the fruits exploding in the heat.
cherries are gone but there is still time to bake.
red fruits, stone fruits, apricot memories: Sicilian apricots falling from the tree and crashing with a discreet thumb onto the stone stairs while the world barely took notice.
here blushed apricots bring their juices to the party. they love the ocean as much as buttermilk. depending on the flour amount, it will feel like a flan, a cake or both. it will be fruity and buttery, with crispy edges, and a soft inside. you can even add some of your sourdough starter.
because by now you all have one.
mine still holds on to a virtual transatlantic life, between fridges, freezers and carry-on bags. these days he has mainly been watching the cherries rot in the fridge. if it had been a time lapse, he said, that could have been entertaining. an art installation of sorts.
clafoutis art.