Almond Pear Tart — The Week the Kitchen Held Everything Together

Sven the Second is two years old now and the most enthusiastic dog Duluth has ever produced. He cannot replace the first Sven. He does not need to. He is doing his own job — the puppy job, the joyful job, the job of taking the kitchen seriously and the squirrels in the yard much more seriously than that. He is the right dog for this period of the kitchen's life. Jakob got engaged. To a woman named Claire. They are both teachers. Jakob is twenty-eight. The wedding is in spring. I will bake the cake. The princess cake. The sacred cake. The cake of every Johansson wedding since I made it for my own wedding to Paul in 1988. I am sixty-something and I am still baking the cake. I will bake the cake at every Johansson wedding for as long as the hands work. Lena moved to Bozeman, Montana. She is a wildlife biologist now. She sends photos of bears. The photos are on the fridge. I worry. I do not say. The worry is the standard grandmotherly worry — bears, weather, men, distance. Lena is fine. Lena has always been fine. Lena is the most self-sufficient grandchild I have, and the most distant, and the one I worry about specifically because of both of those things. Elsa called. She has met someone. A man named Tom Birch. A canoe guide from Ely. She sounds different on the phone — softer, brighter, a different person on the inside that the phone is registering. I think this might be the one. I have not been right about all of my children's relationships. I am being cautious. But also: I think this might be the one. I cooked Rhubarb crumble this week. Rhubarb from the garden, butter-and-oat crumble topping, baked until the rhubarb is jammy. Served warm with vanilla ice cream. Damiano Thursday: soup. The crowd was the usual size — about a hundred and twenty plates served between five and seven. Gerald and I worked side by side without talking. The not-talking was the friendship. The work has its own rhythm: ladle, hand, smile, ladle, hand, smile. The rhythm carries us through. I sat in the kitchen at 11 PM with a glass of wine and Paul's photograph. I did not cry. I just sat. The not-crying is its own form of being with him. We did not need to talk all the time when he was alive. We do not need to talk all the time now. The companionable silence has carried over. It is enough. It has to be. And on a morning like this, with the lake doing what the lake does and the dog at my feet and the bread on the counter and the kitchen warm enough to live in, it is. Paul used to say that the difference between a place and a home was that a home was a place where you knew, from any room, what was happening in any other room. I knew, from the kitchen, when he was reading in the living room. I knew, from the bedroom, when he was getting coffee in the kitchen. The Kenwood house is still that kind of home. From the kitchen I know that Sven is asleep on his bed in the dining room (the small specific snore). From the kitchen I know what time the radio in the living room is set to come on. The home is the body of knowledge of itself. I still live inside that body of knowledge, even though Paul is not the one creating most of the data anymore. It is enough.

The rhubarb crumble had done its work for the week — warm and jammy and exactly right — but when Jakob’s engagement and Elsa’s news and Lena’s bear photos were all sitting on the kitchen table at once, I wanted something a little more celebratory, something that felt like a quiet toast. Pears have always felt like the fruit of tentative good things to me: not loud, not showy, just quietly ripe and ready. This Almond Pear Tart is what I make when the news is mostly good and the kitchen deserves to know it.

Almond Pear Tart

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 40 min | Total Time: 1 hr | Servings: 8

Ingredients

• 1 unbaked 9-inch tart shell (store-bought or homemade shortcrust pastry)
• 3 ripe but firm pears, peeled, cored, and sliced 1/4 inch thick
• 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
• 1/2 cup granulated sugar
• 2 large eggs, room temperature
• 1 cup almond flour
• 1 tsp pure vanilla extract
• 1/4 tsp almond extract
• 2 tbsp all-purpose flour
• 1/4 tsp fine salt
• 3 tbsp sliced almonds
• 1 tbsp powdered sugar, for dusting
• 1 tbsp apricot jam, warmed (optional glaze)

Instructions

1. Preheat the oven. Heat your oven to 375°F (190°C). Place the tart shell in a 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom and press it evenly against the sides. Refrigerate while you prepare the filling.
2. Make the frangipane. Beat the softened butter and granulated sugar together with a hand mixer or stand mixer on medium speed until pale and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Mix in the vanilla extract and almond extract.
3. Fold in the dry ingredients. Add the almond flour, all-purpose flour, and salt to the butter mixture. Stir gently with a spatula until just combined — the frangipane should be thick and creamy.
4. Fill the tart shell. Remove the tart shell from the refrigerator. Spread the frangipane evenly over the bottom of the shell using a spatula.
5. Arrange the pears. Fan the pear slices over the frangipane in overlapping concentric circles or a simple fanned row, pressing them gently into the almond cream. Scatter the sliced almonds over the top.
6. Bake. Bake on the center rack for 38–42 minutes, until the frangipane is puffed, golden brown, and set in the center. A toothpick inserted into the almond cream should come out clean. If the almonds brown too quickly, tent loosely with foil after 25 minutes.
7. Glaze and cool. While the tart is still warm, brush the pears with warmed apricot jam if using, for a glossy finish. Allow the tart to cool in the pan for 15 minutes before removing the outer ring. Dust lightly with powdered sugar before serving.
8. Serve. Serve warm or at room temperature, with a spoonful of creme fraiche or a scoop of vanilla ice cream alongside if you like.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 335 | Protein: 6g | Fat: 21g | Carbs: 32g | Fiber: 3g | Sodium: 115mg