Apricot Flaugnarde

The French have two names for the same baked custard. Clafoutis holds cherries. Flaugnarde holds everything else: plums, pears, apples, grapes, and in the best weeks of summer, apricots.

I learned this dessert in the Limousin region where it was born. The farmers there would not dream of using fruit that traveled more than a few miles or waited more than a day. That is the standard. Your apricots should be so ripe they threaten to bruise if you look at them wrong. Heavy in the hand. Perfumed. Alive.

The batter itself is almost nothing: eggs, flour, milk, cream, a little sugar. It exists to carry the fruit, not compete with it. You pour it over the apricots and bake until the whole thing puffs like a soufflé, turns golden, and fills your kitchen with a smell that will bring people to the table without being called.

This is getting out of the way. The technique serves the ingredient. If your apricots are truly ripe, you have already done the hard work.