My somewhat newish Garmin watch thinks it’s really hilarious to send me messages like the one up there. Juxtaposed against the running activity the day before I just sort of looked down at the watch yesterday morning and told it to F-off. And then we got on bikes and biked down to Wolfratshausen – about 40 kilometers – for the afternoon. As revenge. Against a stupid watch. I removed the watch this morning (after my run!) and told it enough was enough, no more daily wearing. Time for analog again. I do not need a smart watch. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. (Just throw in an “i” in the middle of that phrase and remove the “n” and smash the two words together. I won’t spell this out for you further.)
THE BIG DECISION. You didn’t know I would make one? Yeah. I realized I needed to make it. I will not run the marathon. It was a big blow, though came on gradually, as I learned through the practice runs that no way in hell was I going to get through 42 kilometers in a time I could be proud of, if at all. Next year. No, really. Next year. I’m already working on it. No joke.
I think my body went sort of haywire after that decision and said, “OK!!! NO MARATHON!?!?! TIME FOR PIE!” Yeah, but the figs are guilty too. I was shopping, i don’t know, shortly after THE BIG DECISION at Eataly – that beautiful and mostly over-priced Italian supermarket cum restaurants, buying, most likely, some overpriced truffle oil, and I came across some figs. Figs are in season now, in case you hadn’t noticed when passing every fruit cart scattered around the city selling the little purple fruits for an ungodly 50 cents a piece. Or something like that. And at Eataly, I came across a sign, most likely misspelled, I thought, which said…Figs…3.99 a KILO. I went up to the guy selling them and pointed at the sign and said…”Wie viel kosten die Feigen? (How much do the figs cost)” With a great deal of skepticism in my voice most likely. “3.99 pro Kilo,” he said. Feeling like a thief I said, “Ok, dann nehme ich die. (Ok, then I will take these.” And handed him a semi giant container of them. I love figs. Especially when they are on the edge of overripe, dripping with juice that tastes like honey. And these little darlings were exactly that shade and squeeze of ripeness. Like a soft little breast.
I brought them home and busied myself looking up the perfect recipes. And found some sort of figs with frangiapane (= that scrumptious ground almonds, sugar, butter mixture) recipes. And cheated and bought the dough. And assembled the whole shebang, dreaming of figgy goodness coming out of my oven in like 30 minutes. But nothing is quite that fast unless you cheat with the dough, which I did.
Yeah, reminds me of something else too.
Anyway, I used this recipe as a basis for what I eventually threw together. The only problem…was that I made way too much frangiapane. No, really, way too much. So I put half of it in the fridge and baked up my awesome tart with store-bought dough/crust and we ate it, with some disappointment because it was much more beautiful than it tasted.
Gorgeous, no? Even unbaked.
Let’s move on.
Heaps of frangiapane in the fridge. What to do? More figs? No, boring. I am fickle when it comes to fruit, I guess. PEACHES. Yes. And this time with a homemade butter crust. My husband kept on asking me what was happening to all the butter. (Ooops, what, those 4 packages? I…uh…used them. Yes…you helped me eat them…yes, we ate the butter TOGETHER.)
Peach was a vast improvement, even if not quite so sexy an experience. Or in appearance.
I like the tartness, what can I say? More or less the same recipe, although with a butter crust which was so much more UH-MAZ-ING, a few adjustments to spice the peaches (some cinnamon, some sugar, maybe a little cognac or brandy). And oh that was a lovely pie. The neighbors got a bunch of it too. To spread the butter sinning around.
The next pie…I don’t even have a photo of the NEXT PIE. It was with plums. And I swear, it was an improvement on the peach. It was from a (tart) recipe worth giving to you. Apparently it is THE MOST PUBLISHED recipe by the New York Times and it was really that good. If you like plums. Which I do. Although which certain other people in this household are not as fond of. So that most awesome pie didn’t go away quite as fast. But fast enough that I didn’t manage to get a photo of it. Double checking. Nope, no photo.
And finally, I finish this post with a cake. A cake that was actually supposed to be muffins. But which is also amazingly awesome as a cake. And which is already half gone or more now that I JUST ATE A PIECE.
The butternut squash has nothing to do with the ginger cake with lemon icing up there. But isn’t it nice how it matches the color? No, you can’t have a piece of this cake because I am saving the rest for Walt and Chris. If they come over fast enough. I put a lemon icing on it (just powder sugar – 1 cup – and lemon juice from one lemon, sift sugar, mix with juice, done), and instead of pouring the batter into muffin tins, as called for by Marion Cunningham’s recipe, I filled a cake tin and baked it at about 375 F/170 C for around 25 minutes. And then I took it out, still warm, but a few minutes later, I poured the icing on top of it. It sets reasonably quickly, no worries. Although your plate border should be larger than mine because the icing spilled over a little bit. This thing might be better than the plum, but it could also be a draw. MAKE BOTH. (Buy butter first.)
Warning. Do not wash yourself with this soap in the morning. You will be freaking hungry the whole day while you smell yourself sitting around the office. And that might be why there have been so many pies and cakes. The chocolate passion SOAP is too blame, not the figs.