Peach Slump

Two years ago there was a frost one night on Easter weekend that killed all the buds on all the peach trees in upstate South Carolina. Come summer there were NO local peaches. NONE, I tell you. All we got that year were hard, green expensive orbs from North Dakota that smelled of nothing and tasted of bitter tears. The only way we were able to withstand the Great Peach Hardship of ‘07 was through sheer pioneer grit and a milkshake everyday at 4 o’clock. (Seriously. That was the summer Chuck was “opening the restaurant,” which meant he put on his hard hat and went to the construction site for an hour and the rest of our days were filled with leisure and frosty dairy treats. The very filling milkshakes were a nutritional abomination, but I think I cooked dinner a total of 11 times that summer, so hey, I had that going for me.)

This tale of great woe is all to explain my deep psychological need to horde ‘n gorge once local peaches start to appear on vinyl-covered picnic tables in gas station parking lots all over the Carolinas and Georgia. What am I saying? I was the same way when I lived in New York and would drive to Niagara County to buy eight-quart baskets, bring them home and hope Chuck didn’t notice the fruit flies in the mudroom. Peaches were my reward for having made it through yet another winter without eating my hair due to seasonal depression. Now I eat my fill of peaches as mandated by the state constitution of South Carolina. That’s me – willing to do whatever it takes to be a good citizen of my new state. Except for the buggery, of course.

This is yet another one of those rustic, not at all fussy, as good for breakfast as it is for dessert, not particularly attractive fruit creations that has its provenance in the sturdy-stock countryside of some European principality that I so adore. (If you’re wondering, I do like chocolate. I even own a pastry bag. Don’t you worry, I’ll get to those desserts soon enough. That’s what winter’s for.) It’s nothing more than a creamy custardy topping over big chunks of unpeeled peaches, baked until your kitchen smells like an orchard. The main ingredients are butter, sugar and mascarpone, otherwise known as $7 cream cheese. Basically peaches baked in a thin cheesecake batter.

I found this recipe in Amanda Hesser’s food memoir, “Cooking for Mr. Latte.” She makes it with apricots, a substitute can you believe I’ve never tried? I’m sure it’s fine. But apricots aren’t peaches, not by a long shot. Her mother-in-law uses peaches. What she doesn’t mention is that peaches are much juicier than apricots, so if you dig into the slump before it fully cools and sets, you’ll have a very runny slump. Even then it might still be runny.

The sugar in the batter forms a thin, brittle layer on top and provides a shard-like sensation under your spoon and teeth. The peaches underneath taste like sunshine.
 

Peach Slump (adapted from Amanda Hesser, via her mother-in-law, via Frances Mayes’ “Under the Tuscan Sun”)
Serves 6, allegedly

4 tablespoons unsalted butter at room temperature, plus more for buttering baking dish
About 1 pound ripe peaches, pitted and cut into wedges but unpeeled (I usually use 6)
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 egg
2/3 cup mascarpone
2 tablespoons flour

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a large shallow baking dish (a 10-inch pie plate works well). Arrange the peach wedges in the dish, making (roughly) a single layer of peaches.

In a mixer fitted with a paddle, cream the 4 tablespoons butter and the sugar. When it’s fluffy and white, beat in the egg and then the mascarpone. Lower the speed and add the flour, or mix in the flour by hand.

Pour the mixture over the fruit and bake until the center is just set, about 20 minutes. Let cool completely.

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