I never eat breakfast. Never ever. I’m allergic to eggs. I don’t love sweets…especially not first thing. What’s the point?
So, in my Saturday trip to Poilâne, I picked up what they’re most famous for: chausson aux pommes. Apple turnovers. Which really translates to slippers of apples. And I love that kind of charming anachronism that the French language lends to its foods. Apple slippers. How old fashioned and absolutely lovely.
There are no chunks of apples. There is no cinnamon. It’s not really an apple turnover in the American sense of the word. The middle is brimming and oozing with something like an apple sauce-turned-paste, honeyed in sweetness and color and flavor. And as you bite into the hand-crimped edge of the flaky, crusty, substantial dough, every so slightly burnt on the underside because someone actually made it, the appleness oozes out around the corners of your lips and you can’t help but kiss back.
I had it cold, and in a rush. A quickie before a seven-hour meeting at the office. Imagine what might have happened if I had it fresh from a warm oven, on a Saturday morning. Somethings are too magical to even bear thinking about.