Stone fruit in late summer

What a good thing I’m lazy. I picked these nectarines weeks ago. And they were rock hard on the tree. But one was ripe and it was being hammered by wasps and hornets. And the tree was groaning under the weight of fruit.

So I picked them. Stuck them on a platter to admire them. And then thought: now what?

How do I ripen them without them going off? The house has been way too warm even with the curtains drawn most days. And I don’t trust the cool of the cellar as Critters live there.  (I won’t be elaborating.)

So I just shoved them in the crisper in the fridge and forgot about them for a month.

I just had one for breakfast a whole month later and it is divine. Sharp but sweet and with that added thrill of a dark orange flesh. And as juicy as you could hope for in a summer fruit.

If I can fill my bowl with nectarines along with the daily raspberries and a drizzle of Andrew’s honey. And the yoghurt. Why, it’s frighteningly healthy. 

But before I get carried away, here are some figs that are not a success. Well not as stellar as some of the other soft fruit this year.

I planted this Brown Turkey fig in the top of the potager – right against the stone wall – a few years back.  Last year was the first time it fruited. And from that I only had a few.

And this year I barely gave it a glance as I was watering the lilies and generally munching my way through the raspberries in the bed in front.

But I spotted a few ripe fruit in among the foliage. I ought to have been alerted by the buzz of wasps. It’s a race here to beat the insects – they have gone through my apples way before they are ripe and ready to pick.

And I managed to grab a bowlful of fruit.  They looked gorgeous – dark purple figs the way I love them. But the taste was insipid. How on earth a fig tree could be flavourless after the blasted summer of relentless heat I do not know.

So I quartered them and drizzled Andrew’s honey over them. Added some chopped walnuts, and bunged them in the oven just after I had cooked two jostaberry tarts. The figs were warmed rather than cooked. And the honey worked a treat.

Dare I say there is now no room left at all in the breakfast bowl.  And don’t get me started on the mirabelles. My neighbour Daniele snuck these down to my kitchen when my back was turned.

Another groaning bowl of fruit? Oh great.