My daydreams at the moment follow a predictable theme. I am on holiday somewhere balmy, with a carafe of cold white wine in front of me. Someone handsome has just brought me a large bowl of salted crisps, unbidden but very welcome, and the greatest responsibility I have is finishing the book that I’m reading.
The reality has been a little more prosaic. I am at my Manchester dining table, nursing a cold cup of tea, as the rain falls so heavily it’s like sitting in a drum. I’m sure I’m not alone: changing rules, quarantines, vaccination certificates, or simply the sheer weight of anxiety mean that the majority of us have spent this summer in the UK. I would give my eye teeth for a proper holiday.
If I could choose, I’d be in France. Nothing fancy, a small town somewhere warm, with cobbled streets, a good boulangerie, and a little bar-tabac that serves some kind of small, strong drink I’ve never heard of.
Predictably, I find myself focusing on the food. I miss salads with fatty lardons and a perfect vinaigrette. I miss little pots of rémoulade and sweet carottes râpées. I miss cauldrons of mussels, cheeses that are almost entirely liquid. I miss cool crème caramels, and shattering a crème brûlée.
Most of all, I miss clafoutis. There’s something extremely French about it: unassuming in appearance but showcasing the best of the season’s fruit. It’s effortless and elegant all at once — it is the best of French country cooking. And OK, it’s not quite the same making it at home but if the past 18 months have taught us anything, it’s to take our joys where we can find them.
And British cherries are wonderful this year: fat and bright and bursting with flavour. If you can resist eating them by the handful, straight from the punnet, then they are put to excellent use in a clafoutis.
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