I have seen my grandmother prepare apricot crostata a hundred times (if not a thousand) and I think it was precisely this repetition of gestures that transformed them into a precious ritual.
My grandmother’s apricot crostata was special for two reasons. The first is that the shortcrust pastry was lightly flavoured with lemon, and the aroma that spread while the oven was on signalled much joy to come!
The second reason is that she made the apricot jam herself. In the early days, when I was a child, she made it with fruit from her tree in the countryside. Then that house was unfortunately sold and with it the plants that my grandfather had planted many years earlier.
My grandmother claimed that no apricot she bought had the same flavour, but over time she made her peace with it. She found a trusted stall at the market which, though more expensive than the others by her own admission, satisfied her quality requirements. She only bought apricots there, and whenever I saw that big bag full of fruit I knew the jam and crostata weren’t far behind!
Flour, butter, sugar, egg, and that grated lemon zest: these ingredients initiated that splendid ritual of flour-dusted hugs and little greedy “thefts”. I couldn’t resist the goodness of raw shortcrust pastry, so much so that when my grandmother put it in the fridge to let it rest, she forbade me to go into the kitchen!
Then came the rolling pin, indicating “the moment in which you must stay silent, because the shortcrust pastry needs to focus when it is rolled out”, so I stood aside to watch with the same delight.
But once it was laid it out, I knew my time had come: I would run to the pantry so I could finally open the jar of jam, plunge the spoon in, and cover the pastry!
And of course, a few spoonfuls of jam would end up in the mouth of yours truly!
