Plucking a ripe fruit from a tree is ridiculous. It's crazy, and it makes no sense.
How can something so pretty, that tastes so sweet, grow outside on a tree where anybody -- an escaped convict, a gangly teenager, a nun -- could just grab it and eat it without permission? Even a bird can do this. A stupid bird can just fly up to a fruit tree, stick its nose in the tree's business, and eat its wares. Then it can fly back to its little bird-family in its little bird-nest and pretend that nothing ever happened. If its wife sees apricot nectar dribbling down its feathery chin, the bird can totally lie and pretend it has no idea what she's talking about.
We have a single apricot tree in our front yard, and about a month ago, in a fury of fruity fertility, the tree burst forth with the ripest, juiciest, most perfumey apricots imaginable. We basically touched the branches and the fruit fell into our palms, like it was giving itself over to us completely for our own pleasure, and asking nothing whatsoever in return.
Forty-eight hours later, the fruit started to drop to the ground. Every time we'd step outside, we'd see a ring of apricots lying silently next to the trunk, looking sort of sad and yearning. So we'd gather them up and bring them inside and eat them with eager hands and greedy, pulp-sucking mouths.
Two days after that, the gig was up. The tree's leaves flushed green again, and there was no sign that any fruit had ever existed or ever would again. It was farcical, the speed with which this tree produced, pleasured, and withdrew its sticky riches.
Happily, last weekend, in a stroke of phenomenal fortune, our luck turned again. My friend Katy emailed me late Saturday night...
Can I interest you in apricot picking?
Yes, Katy.
Yes, you can.
...
Recipe for Apricot Oatmeal with lemon lavender glazed almonds
When apricots are super-ripe, they basically fall apart, and even breathing on them is too much for their delicate flesh. Best to cook something else -- oatmeal, say, and honey-caramelized nuts tickled with lemon and lavender. Then crown each bowl with fresh, ripe, unadulterated apricots, placing them face-up, ready, and prone.
Serves 4
2 cups old-fashioned oats
Salt
1 tablespoon butter
2 tablespoons honey
1 cup dry-roasted, unsalted almonds
2 teaspoons (lightly packed) lemon zest, divided (from 1 large or 2 small lemons)
1/4 teaspoon culinary lavender, divided
8 small, ripe apricots, cut into quarters or eighths
Cold milk or cream, for dribbling
Bring 4 cups of water to a boil in a medium saucepan. Add the oats and a pinch of salt. Give a stir, reduce heat to medium-low, partly cover, and let bubble gently for about 10 minutes, stirring twice. Turn off the burner, cover fully, and let stand off-heat for 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, make the glazed almonds. Place a large, wide skillet over medium-high heat. Add the butter and honey, and when the butter melts, swirl the skillet a few times to combine evenly. Add the almonds, a good pinch of salt, half the lemon zest, and half the lavender. Stir constantly for one minute with a heatproof spatula until bubbly and glossy. Remove from the heat.
To serve, divide the oatmeal among 4 bowls. (I don't sweeten my oatmeal when I'm topping it with sweet fruit and nuts, but by all means, if you want to sweeten yours with brown sugar, maple syrup, or honey, go for it.) Scrape the caramelly almonds up with a spoon and divide among the bowls. (Don't neglect the sticky part -- rewarm the skillet to loosen the caramel, if necessary.) Top with the apricots, and sprinkle with the remaining lemon zest and lavender. Dribble with milk or cream.
{If you have leftover lavender, go ahead and make these lavender and mint ice cream sandwiches.}
