Abrikozenvlaai

The first rule of vlaai is that Limburg keeps it. The rest of the Netherlands may buy it, admire it, and carry it home in a cardboard box on the train, but the dish belongs to the south, where birthdays are measured in wedges and coffee is not properly coffee unless something sweet is waiting beside it.

The name already tells you a little, but only if you listen carefully. Vlaai belongs to an old family of words for a flat cake, kin to fladen, broad and low. That is the secret people miss when they make it too thick: this is not a high pie with ambitions. It is bread dough rolled thin, barely a centimetre, so the fruit leads and the crust behaves itself.

Abricots bring sunshine into the matter, especially in late summer when they are fragrant enough to perfume the bowl before you cut them. But let me tell you a secret: Limburg cooks have long understood preserved fruit too. A well-drained jar of apricot halves is not failure, it is winter memory doing its job. Hou het altijd simpel, always keep it simple. A soft yeast dough, a shallow tin, fruit cooked just enough to hold, and a coffee table with room for one more chair.