Last Sunday, as I pared through these plums, sweet, pink yet barely-colored juices dribbled down my hands, under my nails, and all over my cutting board. But to my eyes, they were bloody red and left stains. I swore. I slashed harder, ripping through the smooth but relentlessly taut skin and piercing the just-ripe flesh, with vigor, down to the core. I cursed it. I took out every ounce of anger I had on that natural, living object.

I’ve been feeling off. The preceding Sunday, I had delicious plans for six black beauties that I had ripening away on the counter. My vision for them combined a recipe over which I have been lusting for a couple of years with two pastries I had eaten at two local bakeries. A trifecta of pastry perfection, you could say. I got caught up. I forgot. And then it would be too late. I forgot? There would be no plums that day.



I proceeded to test a cookie recipe that will be the base of a dessert to come — if it ever gets done. I’ve been working on it once a week for many. It’s never good enough. I sat down. I forgot. They burned; the smell of blazing butter and overly-nutty wheat alerting me that I hadn’t set a timer. I hurled the smoldering saucers in the trash, losing all of that perfectly good, simple ingredient to my own carelessness. I forgot? This was poison for a perfectionist.

I looked back at the sad, neglected plums. I’d be resourceful. I’d roast those plums and dollop ’em with brandied whipped cream. I’d poach ’em in brandy. (Are you sensing a theme here?) I’d make a breakfast cake from Dorie Greenspan, scented with orange and cardamom. I’d make a crisp, a crumble, something. But, no. I ate one whole. A real glutton for punishment, apparently, I had another, then another. I didn’t taste those three plums. I didn’t enjoy their floral sweetness or their rounded tang; I ate them to rid of them. And after those three, when my belly was about to bust and I couldn’t eat any more, I hid the remaining plums in a paper bag, even though they needed no further ripening. I’d no longer have to stare at those wretched creatures on the counter as they ripened, wrinkled, burst.

My mind has been elsewhere. Food — my literal and figurative lifeline — has come second. I’ve suffered. I’m lucky enough to work with it everyday, but I’ve been detached from the active side. My hands have not been dirty enough. Flour hasn’t made its way past my fingertips to my arms or my face or my nose, as it so often does when I’m baking. Really baking. Carelessly parceling together lunches for myself at 9:30 pm the evening before work, my vinaigrettes have been off kilter. Olive oil drenched and sea salt-flecked tomatoes while standing up, or worse, while walking or running, have counted as meals. Dropping fruit on the train floor has become a weekly activity; thick yogurt and a spoon becoming my only breakfast companions. I’ve always appreciated simple food, but things have been too simple. Not nearly seasonal enough (save for those tomatoes), and it’s killing me everyday I write the date at the top of my to-do list. It’s August.

Well, I finally stopped this past Sunday. I took a deep breath. I told myself not to forget. And I made what I had intended to make all along. Financiers! With Plums! It’s no secret (or at least now, anyway) that I adore financiers. Nuts and browned butter: these are a few of my favorite things. And a little cake that, within the first couple of hours after baking, is crisp on the outside with a moist, and dense crumb? Yeah. I’ve made the very traditional version many times: little buttons with ground almonds like the ones I had at Bouchon Bakery. Sometimes I’d drop some blueberries on top or some toasted nuts. But that’s about it. A few years ago, I discovered the financiers at Clear Flour Bread (Brookline, MA). They’re relatively simple, too, but they’re large, more plush. They’re made in petite brioche molds. This year, more than any other year, they are liberally flecked with vanilla beans. They’re topped with rotating berries, but I have a penchant for the very traditional currant adornment; the tart, fruity bite complements the rich base. That was inspiration #1.

Inspiration #2 was this hefty slice of Plum Bundt Cake I got on a whim on my way out of Tatte Fine Cookies and Cakes (Brookline & Cambridge). It was humble-looking but sitting so pretty on a covered glass cake stand. And it turned out to be the most sophisticated Bundt I have ever had. The plums were soaked in brandy, and they perfumed the dense, intensely buttery base cake. And there were hazelnuts, which pair naturally with plums. They were caramelized and added pops of crunchy sweetness to each balanced bite.

These two treats immediately reminded me of Rose Levy Beranbaum’s Plum Round Ingots. So I changed the base nut to hazelnuts (and the recipe, because I make financiers quite differently) and got these beautiful plum roses. All of that anger, unleashed on the poor little plums, resulted in a beautiful final product. I think I enjoyed looking at them just as much as I enjoyed eating them. And that’s a lot, because they were so rich — almost fall or winter-like in their deep nut flavor — but punctuated and brightened by the paper-thin, delicate slivers of plums whose petals slash through the cakes. With a cup of tea, they’re a cure-all, even for a damaged perfectionist. I forgave myself.

serve with brandy whipped cream!