Is it redundant to be posting about a Martha recipe again so soon? Should I just give in and make this sucker all Martha, all the time? I’ll see how long I can hold out.

Anyway, my parents were going to a lunch with some extended family, and though I had decided that I’d rather spend my day off watching tv in my pjs, I agreed to make a dessert for them to bring. What with all the summer going on, I knew it had to be fruity, and I wasn’t up to making a real pastry crust, so I was in no position to resist the siren call of this plum crisp from the Baking Handbook. I tried to resist, to tell myself that I should spread the recipe love, but the oats overwhelmed me.

Plums and I have a history. At the first house in which I lived, the house in Pasadena, we had a plum tree in our backyard. We moved when I was three, so I don’t really remember it too well. I have a stronger memory of a visit back to California a couple years later, when the house’s occupants kindly allowed us to look around. I picked one of the plums and put it in my shirt pocket. It was a white, lacy pocket, not designed for fruit storage, and the delicate plum, bursting with ripeness, also burst in my pocket, staining my entire shirt.

The strongest plum memories, however, are those from the many road trips we took during our year in Germany. When all of Europe is within driving distance, only a fool would stay home. Unfortunately, both Drew and I were afflicted with carsickness. I’ve since developed a defense mechanism of falling asleep in vehicles instead, but then it was a real problem. I would often misread the cues my stomach was sending me and tell my mom I was hungry. She would give me peaches and plums until we got to our destination or something less desirable happened.

While peaches and I remain estranged, I’ve since made up with plums. I’m still not confident to be going around eating them higgledy-piggledy, but I do them on occasion. I’m especially sure of them when cooked, like in this crisp. Here, the plums release a thick, almost fluorescent juice while maintaining their form and bite. The recipe made over twice as much oat topping as I needed. In fact, I was able to make up a whole new crisp out of leftover topping and plums. The crumbly topping got toasted and crunchy, and we agreed that it was the best part. Next time I’d layer it even more thickly.

My only complaint would be that I found the syrupy juice a bit overwhelming. While tart and powerfully cardamom-scented, it was a little too sweet for my liking. At first I thought it was my fault. I had misread the recipe and added all the sugar and salt into the topping mixture before realizing that some was supposed to be reserved for the plums. This should have made the topping extra sweet though, rather than the plums. Everything changed, though, when I spooned a scoop of vanilla ice cream over it. The juice acted as a delicious sauce, and the uncomplicated sweetness of the ice cream balances the piquancy of the crisp. While I’d reduce the sugar if I were serving it alone, its current incarnation is exceptional for à la mode.

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Before going on vacation, my parents and I took advantage of some lovely weather and fortuitous scheduling at work to go into the city. The event of the evening was Monty Python’s Spamalot. It was, of course, diverting and delightful, if a little Mel-Brooks-presents-Monty-Python. Our plans were also to visit the MoMA for sixty dollars, but we got a late start and decided to look at the art on Fifth Avenue for free instead.

We did, however, follow through on our reservation to the bar room at the Modern. Everybody’s going to the Modern these days. I chose it on the strength of the Adam’s recommendation, but Yvo went recently as well. I noticed her post while still in the process of writing this one, and chose not to read it lest I accidentally plagiarize it. Any resemblence to Yvo’s opinions, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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I am back! My website is not! Let’s see what’s happening now!