Gluten-Free Plum Crisp with Pistachio, Oat and Almond Topping

Mother's Day. I cooked Lourdes a feast at her house — pork sinigang, garlic rice, lumpia, halo-halo. Angela came with the kids. I cooked Lourdes a feast. I gave Lourdes a card I had written by hand. She read it twice. She put it in her apron pocket. The apron knows.

Lourdes is 75. She is slower. She still cooks. She still tells me to find a husband even though I have one.

I made sinigang Sunday. The sour was the right register for the body this week. The tamarind was sharp.

I drafted a blog post on Tuesday and almost did not publish it. I published it Friday. The publishing was the practice.

I sat at the kitchen table Sunday night with the bowl in front of me. The bowl was warm. The bowl was the prayer.

I made tea late at night. The tea was the small comfort. The comfort was the marker.

I had a long phone call with Dr. Reeves on Wednesday. We talked about pacing and rest and the way the body keeps a log of what it has carried. Dr. Reeves said, "Grace. The body remembers. The mind forgets. The cooking is the bridge." I wrote the line down. The line is now on a sticky note above the kitchen sink.

Pete and I had a long phone conversation Tuesday. We talked about the family — his and mine. The talking was the keeping.

The neighbors invited us over for a small dinner Thursday. They are an Iñupiaq family — Aana and her grandson Joe. We ate caribou stew and rice. I brought lumpia. The kitchens of Anchorage have always been the small UN. The food is the proof.

I checked email at the kitchen table while the rice cooked. There were one hundred and twenty unread messages. I closed the laptop. The unread can wait.

Lourdes called me twice this week. The first call was about a church event. The second was about a recipe variation she had remembered from her childhood. The remembering was the gift.

Auntie Norma called Sunday afternoon. She is now seventy-nine. She wanted a recipe. I gave it to her. She wanted to know how my week was. I told her, briefly. She told me about her week. The exchange took eighteen minutes. The eighteen minutes was the keeping.

The therapy session this month was about pacing. Dr. Reeves said, "Grace. The pacing is the love for the future self." I am working on the pacing. The pacing is harder than the loving.

The Filipino Community newsletter announced a fundraiser for typhoon relief in Samar. I committed to making three hundred lumpia. The number is the number. The number has always been the number. Three hundred is what I make. The math has stopped surprising me.

I taught a Saturday morning Kain Na class on basic adobo proportions for new cooks. Eleven people in the kitchen. Half of them had never cooked Filipino food before. By eleven AM the kitchen smelled the way it should smell. By noon they were all eating. The eating was the lesson landing.

Auntie Norma called Sunday to ask if I had a recipe for a particular merienda from Iloilo. I did not. I said I would ask Lourdes. I asked Lourdes. Lourdes had it. The chain.

I read a chapter of a novel before bed each night this week. The novel was about a Filipina nurse in California. The novel was good. The novel was, in some way, my own life adjacent.

I took inventory of the freezer Sunday. The freezer had: twelve quarts of broth, eight pounds of adobo in vacuum bags, six pounds of sinigang base, fourteen lumpia trays at fifty rolls each, three pounds of marinated beef for caldereta, and a small bag of pandan leaves Tita Nening had sent me. The inventory was the proof of preparation. The preparation was the proof of love.

The sour had been my register all week — the tamarind in the sinigang was doing its work, sharp and clarifying — and by Sunday night I was still reaching for that same quality, just softer, just baked into something warm and golden. This plum crisp is the dessert I keep coming back to when the week has been full and the body wants comfort that still has an edge to it. The pistachios in the topping remind me of the layered textures I love in halo-halo, and the tart fruit underneath does what tamarind does: it cuts through, it clarifies, it tells the truth. The bowl was the prayer. This is the sweet version of the same prayer.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 40 minutes | Total Time: 55 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

Filling:
2 lbs fresh plums (about 8–10 medium), pitted and sliced 1/2-inch thick
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 tablespoon cornstarch or arrowroot powder
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
Topping:
1 cup certified gluten-free rolled oats
1/2 cup almond flour
1/2 cup raw pistachios, roughly chopped
1/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
5 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Instructions

Preheat. Heat the oven to 375°F. Lightly butter an 8x8-inch or 9x9-inch baking dish and set aside.
Prepare the filling. In a large bowl, toss the sliced plums with the sugar, lemon juice, cornstarch, and vanilla until evenly coated. Pour the mixture into the prepared baking dish and spread into an even layer.
Make the crisp topping. In a medium bowl, stir together the oats, almond flour, pistachios, brown sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Add the cold butter cubes and work them into the dry mixture with your fingertips until the mixture holds together in coarse, pea-sized clumps. Drizzle in the vanilla and toss lightly to combine.
Assemble. Scatter the topping evenly over the plum filling, covering it all the way to the edges.
Bake. Bake for 35–40 minutes, until the topping is deep golden brown and the plum filling is bubbling around the edges and in the center.
Rest and serve. Let the crisp cool on a wire rack for at least 10 minutes before serving. Serve warm on its own, or with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or a spoonful of plain yogurt.

Nutrition (per serving)

Gluten-Free Plum Crisp with Pistachio, Oat and Almond Topping — When the Tart Is the Small Comfort