This is the heart of summer, captured in a dish. The stars are the locally sourced plums (though my grandmother always called them “prunes” right off the tree), gathered just this morning from the old, generous tree at the end of the lane. They’re a mix of deep indigo and blushing gold, each one holding a tiny sun within. Simmered gently, they’ve broken down into a glorious, jewel-toned filling that is the perfect balance of sweet and tart—a lively, vibrant base that whispers of orchards and long, sunny afternoons. But the true crowning glory rests atop this fruity sea: a golden, crumbly crust. It’s not a uniform blanket, but a rustic, cobbled-together landscape of buttery dough, scattered generously by hand. As it bakes, it forms craggy peaks and tender valleys, some parts sinking into the purple depths to become soft and pudding-like, others turning crisp and caramelized at the edges. A sprinkle of coarse sugar over the top before baking ensures a delightful, sparkling crunch with every spoonful. This is more than just dessert; it’s an invitation. An invitation to gather around the table as the evening cools, to serve it still warm in shallow bowls, perhaps with a dollop of cold, melting cream. It’s a taste that captures the essence of the season—generous, unpretentious, and deeply satisfying. Join me, won’t you?
