How to Make Tarte Tatin

The secret to a good Tarte Tatin is to pretend it is a lot harder to make than it really is. It has been a tradition every October 14th to make a French apple pie. Annually for the last seven years we have done this. It started by accident. It was our first year on a new property. A new adventure. A place in France. A last big adventure. I had forgotten to go to the shops and needed to pull a rabbit out of my hat.

Step 1. Buy the pastry. Pre rolled, pre-cut, round.

That first year I had some shop brought pastry in the fridge. We had an orchard on the property. I sent him out to pick me six apples. He picked twenty-three; single minded, stubborn, wonderful. I have always been able to wing it in the kitchen. I only chose to make a French apple pie as I did not have two sheets of pastry. Top and Bottom. Think outside the box.

Step 2. Baking sheet on a tray, pastry on the sheet.

Now every year we go out together to pick the apples. I want six and he still wants to pick twenty-three. He finds the joke funny. By going with him I stop the kitchen filling with apples. Living in France has been hard. Strange people with strange ways. The hospitals have been great and his health has taking some pretty big knocks.

Step 3. Pinch the edges, be clumsy. Then people will think you made the pastry.

Today is a good day. He is walking. More of a shuffle really. He does not need his walker. He is just using his stick. Pushing him down to the orchard in his chair would have been a nightmare with last night’s rain. It is the diabetes. Four partial foot amputations. All on the left foot. Thank god it was done in France. England would have taken the leg.

Step 4. Half your apples. Cut the core out of your apples.

I cannot remember when he stopped talking. Six months I think. Three years ago he collapsed with pneumonia. He ended up in a medical induced coma. Machines doing all the work for him. It took a massive toll on his lungs. It affected his speech. He recovered though. His eyes are bright and he still has that wonderful smile. He understands everything. I know what he wants and when he wants it.

Step 5. Cut your apples wafer thin into slices.

He takes a big bite of an apple. His eyes flash open with the sensation. He offers it to me. I refuse and just remind him to take it easy. In a month all the apples will be gone. It is wonderful to be able to still pick them right up until November. He picks six off the tree. The windfall apples we leave for the chickens. They love them. It is a wonderful natural medicine for them.

Step 6. Arrange your apple slices in delicate fans around the pastry.

I look in the basket at the six red apples. He jokingly goes to pick some more and we laugh. We sit on a huge cut log. I had it dragged down from the back of the property. I do not know the name of the tree. I do not know what type of apples they are. My French is not good enough to ask. I take out my cigarettes and offer him one. He is not allowed. He mouths thank you and takes one.

Step 7. Shake brown sugar over the apples, some small cubes of butter, cinnamon.

We watch the colours. The vivid greens of summer are darker. Browns and reds are creeping in. The first frost arrived this week so the last flowers are wilting back and dying. The burst of cosmos I had planted have choked their last and are disappearing into the ground. He takes a drag of his cigarette and you can see that rush of the addict appreciating its effect.

Step 8. Bake in the oven at a medium heat for 20mins.

It really is a beautiful place. I know I am lucky to live here. He loves it here. He wanted to go somewhere no one knew him. Where he could grow old and be ill and know that would not be the memory people have of him forever. He turns and smiles at me. Satisfied. I place my hand on his back and wish him happy birthday again.

Step 9. While it is baking melt some apricot jam with whiskey in a pan.

I want to go back and cook the tart. I stay a bit longer watching the chickens between the trees. I am going to change somethings in the recipe this year. I picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels new spirit. Apple Tennessee. I am going to replace the whiskey with this Americanised calvados. It is sweeter and will make a nice night cap.

Step 10. Take the tart out of the oven and brush with the jam melted with whiskey.

We walk back. He is on good form today, happy. I would love to hear his voice again. Just once. I have some recordings of him speaking; telling jokes and stories. I cannot play them. It just makes me miss the sound of his voice even more. He is seventy today. There will be no phone calls. No cards in the post. People have very short memories.

Step 11. Mix some whiskey, crème fraiche and icing sugar, to serve on the side.

We go into the front room. I put on the radio. We can get BBC radio 4. It now plays on a loop. It is almost a comforting background noise reminding us of the place we used to live. I miss it. I also don’t miss it. The world has got very unpleasant in recent years. My isolation might be lonely but there is an honesty and a truth to it.

Step 12. Serve.

I cook the pie. It turns out really well. The Jack Daniels is a big improvement. I only plate one portion. One portion for me. You see he died just over two years ago. He is still here. I think this might be my last year here. You see him being dead is why I cannot hear his voice anymore. I can still see his face. The brightness in his eyes and his smile. There is a phrase in the deep south of America. When you stop talking about the people you have lost, it is like they have died twice. We are both now out of sight and out of mind. It is only me keeping him still here. It is only me still keeping him alive. Although like everything, even that must end eventually.

I take another bite of the pie.

Trevor Bradbury - October 1950 - June 2018 - xxx