
It made a lasting impression and it deeply fulfilled my soul. Madame Maillard brought it out in a cast iron pan not much larger than a dessert plate. The sides were puffed up like a soufflé and browned on the edges, and the juices of the fruit left a blood-red trail within the ridges. Peeling off some waxed paper from a small ceramic bowl she pulled out of the fridge and to my delight, she formed the perfect quenelle of Crème Fraiche and carefully placed it on top of my very first cherry clafoutis.