Filmishmish

I’d  only eaten two or three fresh apricots before I moved to California. Hard, mealy, a poor man’s peach. That was before I met Miss Blenheim and her local kin. She’s had a tough year, Miss B. The long stretch of spring cold and rain shotholed her offspring and turned her leaves to lace. But she’s about a mover–we’re rolling in tender freckled fruit, not pristine but rich, spicy, scenting the kitchen with honey and rose.  Every few days,  another pot of barely simmered compote to chill and eat with homemade goat’s milk yogurt.  Tangy sunset-colored sorbet. A semifreddo with almond mousse. Next? A crostata,  maybe a rice pudding with cardamom and pistachios. Something with puff pastry. A gelee with blackberries from the creek.  Apricot Danish, that’s for sure. Because early summer, sweet season, the time of apricots—here, golden, gone.

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