Summer, in a pastry

A couple of months ago, I had this tasty galette at a friend’s house. Though I erroneously thought it was a crostata (what’s the difference, anyway) I knew then and there that I would be making some in the very near future.

And that’s just what I did Sunday afternoon. I mixed raspberries and blueberries and awkwardly tucked the mixture into dough and hoped for the best. I didn’t have the rhubarb the recipe calls for, but my across-the-alley neighbor – Leonard – does, so I kept staring out the kitchen window, willing him to appear in the alley so I could shyly ask for some of the strange red stalks. In exchange for a pie-thingy, of course.

But Leonard stayed inside, probably due to the copious amounts of rain Sunday dealt us. His loss, really, for these were yum. ‘Can I have another one,’ the Gort asked after inhaling his rather hot personal tart. ‘No.’ ‘Can I have part of another one?’ he tried again, willing to accept even a morsel of a second helping.

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