In The Meantime, There Is Clafoutis

It's early for plums in South Carolina. It's early for plums anywhere, so to find them by the quart at the farmer's market, I was a little dubious. Truckloads of watermelon sat parked underneath the awnings, tons and tons of them. I watched as an assembly line formed, from truck to person to person to booth, piling the melons high.

We cut into a watermelon for Memorial Day, as my little niece-in-law and family came to visit. It was firm and sweet and seedless, pinkish red, the perfect bite in the southern heat. We pulled it out of the cooler and passed around the tupperware, swaying in the shade of the pontoon as it pulled against its tethers. Slowly, we settled into the motion of the lake like I am settling into the motion of the South. Slowly, slowly, slowly. Fresh fruit and little nieces ease the growing pains like this.

I've never lived anywhere that the pollen comes on so violent. At the advent of spring, sickly yellow dust coats everything. It sticks to every stairwell handrail, swirls down every road, congregates on high touch areas where folks have left a fingerprint, plasters every roof and leaf and lamp post. Car washes do very well this time of year.

As I lay in bed with 103° fever from bronchitis brought on from allergies, I thought about the places I've lived, the pollen I've endured, and never, ever seen anything like this. Two weeks later, the whole state is an explosion of green. When it's humid, everything swells to life here; even the birds sing in longer, more sustaining trills.

My plums were all turning ripe at once just like the rest of South Carolina, so I knew I had to use them up quick. I'd never made a clafoutis before but I thought it might be something like a dutch baby, eggy and springy and soft in the mouth. A light dessert, perfect for early summer harvest, and a natural compliment to stone fruits.

There's a benefit to moving here, I thought, plums before summer.

I split and scraped a vanilla bean as I listened to South Carolina public radio, whisking the fragrant seeds into a milk-heavy batter. I thought of nothing as I arranged macerated plum slices in my buttered cast iron skillet. There. Just enough.

In goes the light batter, and the plums are buoyed to the top of the confection like our boat along the lake. How is it possible for something so simple to taste so good?

Though the world has experienced one of the most notable crises in human history, there are certain things we can still rely on. When you plant a viable seed in nutritious soil, water it enough, and give it light, it will grow. You may end up with early plums, or late carrots. Early harvests brighten the transitional months and late ones do the same. Nature has a way of soothing us through her harsher moments, to remind us that we can adapt and overcome. She does this tenderly, one mouthful at a time...and I can't help but look at her sideways when she does something to leave a mark or fill us up with nourishment.

The sweetest carrot I have ever eaten was left in a frostbitten field to overwinter. I plucked it from the ground, wiped it on my working pants, and snapped into it. It was hearty and thick, vibrant orange--almost red--and so, so sweet.

Maybe that is what we are doing here: overwintering for a sweet emergence. In the meantime, there is perfect watermelon. In the meantime, there is clafoutis.