The first time I tried a traditional tarte Tatin, it wasn’t beneath a Parisian canopy on a beautifully named street in the City of Light. It was smack dab in the middle of downtown Austin, Texas, in the early fall of 2001, before my diagnosis and before I was married. But the man who presented this bit of culinary genius to me was none other than Tim Morgan, the man I would eventually marry, and as he unveiled the tart, he quietly said, “I’m not much of a baker, but this is my favorite.”
It was the most incredible tart I had ever placed in my mouth. The succulently tender caramelized apples nestled in the ever so slightly sweet dough, and topped with a dollop of crème fraîche, were a revelation.