“Tarte des Demoiselles Tatin”. Growing up in the south, I am a lover of cobblers. Fruit is collected, usually blackberries from back roads or fresh peaches off the tree, sliced and tossed with sugar and placed into a baking dish and covered with biscuit dough. Summers were long and a cobbler hit the spot at Sunday dinners.
The peach tree was laden down with the softest, peachiest peaches you can imagine. Although a small tree, she took the burden of the bountiful crop. It was a Sunday, a good day for making pies. Miss Peach, took her wooden bowl and filled it up with the sweet, downy fruit. It was a better idea than reading. After all, she’s only six. And reading is far too serious for a summer day with school already just around the corner. Master Peach agreed.
The Port Master, Aniello Sposito, held his gaze with Antonio for the longest time until our boat had been steered into the proper spot. (If you know anything about boats, this is tricky at best, but risky as well with the neighboring real estate.)
Here in a Sicilian courtyard, under a palm we speak of times past with Anna in the garden and her beloved forgotten fruits the sorb apple, quince and mulberry we bloody our hands with juice and pick less forgotten figs high up in the tree we are surrounded by 1000 …