There's an old picture of me wearing a frilly dress dotted with pink roses, lacy socks up to my ankles and a straw hat fit snugly on my head. I wasn't posing for the school yearbook nor was it my 4th birthday. I was picking strawberries with my parents and their friends, in fact, you can see me squatting between the rows of berry bushes, the dry leaves crunching beneath my sandals, as I sucked on my red-stained fingers, clearly oblivious to the pay-first-then-eat policy on the farm.
I still eat fruit with wild abandon. In China, one of the best summer fruits are peaches, literally named water honey peaches in Chinese and they grow to the size of engorged baseballs. They need to be stored carefully, because one careless nudge will bruise them forever. The only proper way to eat honey peaches is with both hands and a big napkin. I ate two a day, refusing to share (selfish, I know), I revelled in its juiciness, even though its nectar-sweet syrup once splashed my new white shirt and the stain never went away.
I haven't seen those beauties since moving back to Canada and I miss them. Clingstone peaches however, are in season and thankfully, are not as delicate. Their yellow flesh is stronger and may withstand serious activities such as baking, which is always a good thing.
A few weeks ago, my friend Hayley invited me for a rooftop barbeque and it would just be plain rude if I declined. So I enlisted my other good friend for inspiration on baked peaches and that's when everything fell into place. I made peach clafouti, a French dessert with fruit baked in an egg-custard.
I've always wanted to make boozy fruit but the peaches I picked up at the store were still quite firm. I rolled up my sleeves and improvised. My sous chef sliced up the fruit, I simmered half of them with sugar and Grand Marnier, allowing the fruit to soften, then I made the custard, heating up milk and cream, adding it to eggs, flour, sugar, and lemon zest. I dumped all the fruit into a baking dish followed by the milky liquid--très simple.
It puffed up unevenly in the oven, giving it a rustic charm. The peach slices wrinkled in the oven, the custard turned a golden color, soaking up the peach juices. As it cools, the custard deflates a little; you can add some powdered sugar at the end to dress it up, or save some of that boozey syrup to drizzle on your plate.
Milos and I wrapped up the clafouti and brought it to Hayley's place. We sat on the patio watching the sun set behind a pink horizon, the scent of caramelized meat intoxicating us (or was it the orange sangria?), and then large portions of beef kebabs, roasted potato salad and cucumber and cherry tomato salad appeared on our dinner plates. We tucked in happily.
The time for The Best Part of Dinner took forever. All I wanted to do was to rip off the plastic covering the clafouti and dig in with my hands. But being the civilized lady that I am, I made new friends, sipped my sangria politely, giggled at appropriate moments and lapped up everything on my plate.
Finally, when the time finally came, I cut squares of peach clafouti and passed them around the table. Immediately, compliments flew here and there (I can’t help it, who doesn’t like hearing compliments?). I jumped back in my seat and took a bite for myself. It tasted like the lovechild between pancakes and puddings, fluffy clouds infused with peaches and cream.
It was a delicious end to the night. It took great restraint from helping myself to another slice, but I thought it was better to save some so I could have it for breakfast the next morning.
Recipe here!
