When Paul was eight his family lived in the Central Valley where they had a plum tree in the backyard. All summer he would bite into the tart skin of the soft dark fruit to suck the sweet flesh right off the pit.
Now, Paul's been my best pal for going on 12 years, and we both like to talk, so I've heard about the plums once or twice. I know his fondness for a really ripe plum in the summer off of a backyard tree. So last week when my mom handed me a little brown sack of dark squishy fruit, I had a feeling I was bringing home something special. I pulled two out of the bag and handed one to Paul. "mhnm," he uttered in this tiny little voice that makes me cry just trying to describe it. Questioned about his girly little utterance, Paul described his own Ratatouille-like experience that transported him back to a Lemoore summer in 1983. They were indeed good plums.
But so, so ripe we had do to something with them right then and there. And thus, we made that simplest of fruity desserts. We made a crumble.
topping:
1/2 c. flour
1/2 c. brown sugar
1/2 stick marge
After cutting together these three ingredients with my grandma's sturdy old green-handled pastry blender, I sprinkled the mixture over the cut up plums that were piled into the little blue pie dishes that Cindy brought me the other day. (Aren't they adorable? And the fruit will cook down, so really pile it in.) The little crumbles baked for half an hour until the plums had cooked down to a volcanic, tart essence of summer that was perfect with the cold, sweet comfort of homemade vanilla ice cream.
mmnhmm.
