![]() In the bowl of a mixer or blender, combine the sugar and flour. Grease a 10-inch tart pan with butter and set aside. 700 grams (1 1/2 pounds) ripe quetsche plums (substitute any other variety of plum).Optional flavoring: 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract, or 1 teaspoon plum or walnut liqueur, or 1 teaspoon dark rum.3 tablespoons crème fraîche (substitute sour cream).2 tablespoons sugar (I use unrefined cane sugar regular white sugar is fine, honey would be lovely, too).135 grams (1 1/4 cups) shelled walnut halves.The use of unrefined cane sugar added a faintly earthy note to the ensemble, making it a most appropriate treat for a late summer or fall day. I deliberately used little sugar in the walnut cream, so a slight edge of bitterness could be heard through the sweetness of the sandy crust and caramelized plums. The following is a simple variation on my mother’s classic tarte aux quetsches: instead of pouring an egg and cream custard over the plums, I lined the tart shell with crème de noix, the same mixture of walnuts, eggs, sugar, and crème fraîche that is used in walnut tarts in the Périgord. And when that happens, perhaps you can bake a tart to congratulate yourself. I have since then found it difficult to procure the kind of fragrant, tree-ripened plums that would live up to the memory: the Gérardmer market has crates of them of course, but produce shops in Paris tend to offer plums that have been picked a touch early so they’ll travel without bruising, and anyone with half a taste bud knows that plums were not meant to end their ripening on a kitchen counter.īut, if you’re bold enough to ask the merchant for a taste, and bold enough to say, “Um, maybe not,” when the plum is not to your liking (if you develop a friendly relationship with your produce guy, boldness is not required a simple smile will do), this will guarantee that only ripe, sweet, juicy plums pass your threshold. We spent a few euphoric hours filling buckets of mirabelles (tiny, goldenrod plums with dark orange freckles) and quetsches (egg-shaped, purple-blue plums, which resemble damsons but are much sweeter) and gorging on them as we went (the sign said we could), after a quick brushing off of the powdery white veil called bloom ( pruine in French) - a sure sign of a plum’s freshness, since it vanishes shortly after the fruit has been picked. I have to say, though, that a sunny September day a few years ago very nearly ruined plums for me: this was the day that Maxence and I stumbled upon a pick-your-own farm in Alsace. I love even the name, plum, how it rolls off the tip of your tongue, and the French version of it, prune, which makes your lips purse as if you’d eaten an underripe specimen. ![]() I love that they come in sundry shapes and colors to match your outfit, I love that they have a pit that you can spit out into the sink, and I love that they grow on trees under which you can stand, look up, and feel like all is right in the world. I love that they are small and that you can rinse a few of them at a time, whirling them in your hand like Baoding balls.
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