Last week after picking up two bushels of pears from a fruit stand, I sent a tweet out into the vast cosmic void: Researching all things pear. What’s YOUR favorite way to eat the fruit (besides straight up, of course)?

Two people responded with recipes, both of which were tarts, one chocolate (thanks, Jan!) and the other almond cream (thanks, Cousin Zoe!). I made them both.

That night I told my family that they must eat some of each kind and choose their favorite. They took their orders seriously, applying their forks most industriously.

The result? They chose the almond cream, and I chose the chocolate.

Though the next day, after the almond cream had spent the night firming up in the fridge, I found myself wavering, and after splitting the last piece with Mr. Handsome this afternoon, I’ve joined the ranks of the almond cream lovers.

The almond cream tart sports an almond crust, a thin layer of cream cheese, slices of juicy pear, and a heavy dusting of cinnamon sugar that, after baking, melts into a glorious golden glaze. It’s like cheesecake, only more refined and delicate.

Almond Cream Pear Tart
From my cousin Zoe

While delicious at room temperature, this tart is best after a twelve hour rest in the fridge.

For the crust:
3 tablespoons butter
7 tablespoons (or ½ cup minus 1 tablespoon) sugar
3/4 cup flour
1/3 cup finely ground almonds
pinch of salt

Cream together the butter and sugar. Mix in the flour, ground almonds, and salt. Press the crumbs into the bottom of a 10-inch springform pan.

For the filling:
8 ounces cream cheese
3 tablespoons sugar
1 egg
1/4 t almond extract
3 pears, cored, peeled, and sliced
2 tablespoons sugar mixed with 1-2 teaspoons cinnamon

Beat together (no need to wash the beaters after using them to make the crust) the cream cheese and sugar. Add the egg and almond extract. Pour the filling over the crust. Arrange the pear slices on top of the filling. Sprinkle the cinnamon sugar over the pears.

Bake the tart at 425 degrees for 10 minutes and then reduce the oven temperature to 350 degrees and continue baking for anther 15-20 minutes. Cool the tart to room temperature before serving, or, better yet, chill it overnight in the refrigerator. As Zoe says, “It’s a long, hard wait but you’ll get through it.”

This same time, years previous: a quick rundown, spilt marbles, part II, and say cheese!

Pictures don’t tell the truth. They’re flat, one-dimensional, only allowing you to use your eyes to make an assessment. So considering that the other four senses—hearing, touch, taste, and smell—are neglected, it would stand to reason that pictures don’t give a very good picture after all.

In fact, you could say that photographs are devious little liars.

Take, for example, this picture of The Baby Nickel.

Aw, shucks, you say. The little four-year-old is folding laundry. Ain’t that so sweet! It just melts my heart.

Then, He must be so well-trained. Speaks well of the mama, too. I mean, she must be so attentive to include him in her work. And she’s teaching him responsibility and helping him build confidence, to boot. She’s got her act together, that’s for sure. She must be so organized and calm. Probably has sparkly windows and a toilet so clean you could drink out of it. Man, I wish I could run my household as smoothly as she does. Maybe if I woke up at five, and if I smiled more often—

Eh-em. Excuse me for interrupting, but mind if I step in and set the record straight?

What You Don’t See*:

*the three other children slaving over their mounds of laundry
*the cacophony of fussing that happened beforehand
*the bickering over space and laundry-pile size
*the name calling and spitting (we’re part llama)
*the meting out of consequences and the beep-beep-beep as I set the timer for deadlines (i.e. If you don’t finish in x amount of time, then big, awful, scary, terrible y—mwahaa-haa-haa—will happen to you, so GET BUSY.)
*the heavy smell of garlic and onions sizzling on the stove
*the whirring fans
*Yo-Yo’s incessant whistling (and occasional foot stomping to accompany the tootling)
*the across-the-field neighbor’s kennel of dogs going berserk-o
*the sticky, crunchy kitchen floor
*the extremely rare moment of silence (it does happen!) that’s split by…
*the ringing phone, and then the thundering feet as everyone races pell-mell to answer, crashing into each other, bonking heads, and shrieking with frustration and rage
*me angrily meting out more consequences
*the whiny question of “Why do I ha-ave to doooo all this stuff” and the lesson in logic/philosophy/ethics/manners that follows
*the oppressive feel of the hot afternoon sun pouring in through the kitchen windows
*the headache-y tiredness, lethargy, and irritability that inflicts each of us at 4 o’clock every afternoon

All you see is a sweet little boy folding laundry.

Consider yourself fortunate.

The end.

*The above list might not correspond to the exact moment that the photo was taken, but it’s all one-hundred percent true nonetheless.

This same time, years previous: honey-whole wheat cake, blueberry coffee cake

Yo-Yo and I have been playing Bananagrams.

While he waits for me to come join him at the table, he creates shapes.

I made a quick pizza with my new tomato sauce. Just crust, sauce, fresh basil, and mozzarella cheese.

It crossed my mind that I could whip up a batch of homemade mozzarella, but I scratched that idea as soon as it reared its head. If I’d-a had more time…

My kids are notorious for never using games/tools/furniture for the intended use. (See above picture of bananagrams.) This often drives me quite batty, but other times I get a huge kick out of it. Take, for example, what they’re doing with their swing set. They’ve turned it into a swinging seesaw. They balance, swing, and rock, all of which is punctuated with squeals and screams. It’s keeps them occupied, so I’m happy.

They used all the coats and jackets they could find to pad their little behinds. Ladder rungs aren’t all that comfortable to sit upon.

Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo went all hushy-hushy on me a couple days ago. They said they were working on my birthday present. It involved clandestine phone calls to my mother. It involved my sewing kit. It involved closed doors and wild shrieking to STAY OUT when any of the rest of us dared venture too close.

They asked if they could cut up blankets for stuffing. (NO.) They asked if they could take apart pillows for stuffing. (NO.)

There was deep despair. And there was resilience.

There were more closed doors. And then, finally (but about four weeks pre-birthday), they trooped downstairs bearing a large object wrapped in Yo-Yo’s spiderman blanket. Inside was…

a homemade pillowcase!

The patchwork cloth had already been sewed at Grandmommy’s house, I do believe. When they called her to see if they could use it, she reportedly said, “You can eat it for all I care.” So they hand stitched two of the sides together to make me a birthday pillowcase.

I was touched. I even got a little teary-eyed. The pillow now resides on my bed. I love it.

Heck, I love them, the silly goons.

We’ve been eating oven s’mores for desserts most nights. It’s a nasty habit. You don’t want to start.

Yes you do. Make them.

No, don’t. You’ll get addicted and then live to regret it. You’ll never visit this blog again. You’ll hate me.

Actually, you’ll love me. Make them.

Sit a couple marshmallows atop a graham cracker and stick it under the broiler till nice and toasty.

Smear the other cracker with Nutella. Lick the knife. (But don’t let the kids see or they’ll all beg for licks.)

Unite and bite! (No pictures of the biting. Too messy for that. And besides, I was really focused on my ooey-gooey piece of heaven.)

No nutella? Use chocolate chips or any other type of chocolate that strikes your fancy.

Another suggestion: add slices of banana.

And now we’ve come full circle, from bananagrams to banana s’mores. Goodnight!

This same time, years previous: dreaming, on our way, smartly