Temptation for most people is symbolized by the apple and the serpent, but for a wide-eyed six-year-old boy living in central France six decades ago, temptation was the apricot. I was old enough to admire but too young to participate in what seemed to me an enormously daring adventure with a handful of luscious ripe apricots as its objective.
Our school was a small one, and we had only five teachers. But the grounds were spacious, and in one section of them the headmaster cultivated x splendid garden and orchard. He was inordinately proud of this garden, and looking back, I admit that he had reason to be, for it was a beautiful, fruitful spot. The headmaster's special pride was the espaliered fruit trees that grew on the south side of the garden wall. He tended them assiduously, pruning them regularly, pinching off unsymmetrical new shoots at the right moment, tying the flexible young branches to shape the growing trees to his liking. There were plum trees, apple trees, peach trees; and apricot trees, and the finest of them all was the apricot.
The blossoms were shining white, the foliage a luxuriant dark green that made a perfect foil for the orangy-yellow fruit, blushing rosily on the side that faced the sun. The apricot was the prettiest tree in the garden. And its fruit, the first to ripen, was the most luscious fruit in the garden. So luscious, that the boys were willing to risk the hold venture of slyly picking and eating the first ripe fruit before the headmaster could get it it himself. The apricots surely spelled temptation to all of us.
The culprits were always discovered, of course, and I remember vividly the punishment they earned. The heinous offense was described before the whole school, play periods were sacrificed for two long weeks, and, worst of all, each scoundrel was obliged to conjugate the verb voler, in all its inflections, once for each apricot he had enjoyed. Pages and pages were covered with the moods and lenses of the verb to steal … the rascals would remember that arduous and tiresome task, at least until the next year brought the apricot trees to flower and fruit again. For the rest of us, non-participants, apricots became unforgettably the most desirable and templing of all fruits.
The apricot must have seemed a very desirable fruit even in the Middle Ages, for travelers though! it worth carrying great distances in a time when carrying perishables from one country to another was far from an easy matter. And they went to considerable trouble, as well, to nurture the fruit in new locations, From China, the place of its origin, the apricot went to the Caucasus and Armenia and then, in the fifteenth century, to North Africa and to southern Europe. Southern Europe was as hospitable to the apricot as it was to the grape. And the volcanic soil, warm suns, and gentle rains of the Auvergne region of France have produced several varieties of apricots which are exceptionally fine in flavor. If you should happen to travel in this part of Europe in the early months of summer, remember to try the fresh, ripe apricots that grow there in such abundance. Clermont-Ferrand, largest city in the Auvergne, is the seat of a major industry. There they make fruit pastes, from the apricot and other fruits, whose fame is world-wide.
It is America's great good fortune that the mission fathers, carrying their faith to southern California from Spain, also carried with them the apricot tree. In California, one can enjoy to the full the wonderful flavor of tree-ripened apricots. But in states not possessing the warm and temperate climate that favors the apricot tree, the canned and dried apricots hear a closer resemblance to the fruit at its best than does the fresh fruit, plucked green and ripened in transit. Happily, a great portion of the apricot crop of California is canned and dried so that we can enjoy an excellent product which is at the same lime relatively inexpensive.
There were apricot trees growing against the Stone wall that bordered our garden at home, and I well remember my mother's drying the surplus fruit for winter. Maman would split the apricots and remove the pits; then she would spread them on wicker trays to dry in the sun, as she had been taught to do on her mother's farm. Later, they were finished in the gentle warmth of the kitchen stove. We also dried the fruit from our plum trees and, more often than not, combined the dried apricots and prunes to make tarts and other good desserts. I still consider prunes and apricots one of the very best fruit combinations. Maman also made an abricot confit eau-de-vie, a kind of brandied apricot preserve. The apricots were blanched, covered with sugar syrup for three or four days, and drained. Then the syrup was mixed with neutral alcohol and poured over the fruit in jars. These were sealed and stored for a couple of months until the confit was mellow and flavorful.
But perhaps one of the most important uses of apricots in la euisile française is the making of apricot sauce, used in scores of ways. It is spread over fruit tarts and other fruit desserts for its attractive gilding and its bright, fresh flavor and is a favorite sauce for many puddings, fritters, and sweet omelettes—wherever its fruity tartness is appropriate.
I learned the importance of apricot sauce when I was an apprentice chef. And learned, too, the hazards of making apricot sauce and apricot paste, which is the sauce reduced until most of the moisture is evaporated. The hot, syrupy paste must be stirred constantly as it bubbles; it cannot be left for a minute because the mixture is so heavy that it scorches readily, and even the slightest scorching ruins the flavor of the whole batch. The newest boy in the kitchen, you may be assured, was given the task of pushing the wooden spatula around the big copper pan. Every apprenti got his baptism of apricot paste that jumped out of the pan in thick, hot bubbles. Par bleu, ce sirop êtait brûlant! How I remember!
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