Damson Tart

Damsons arrive when the evenings have started to draw in and the kitchen wants the oven on again. They're small, oval, the colour of a bruise, and so tart on their own that you'd never want to eat one raw. But put them in a tart case with sugar and a hot oven and they become something else entirely: dark, glossy, almost winey, the kind of fruit that makes you understand why people used to walk miles along hedgerows to fill a basket.

The name comes from Damascus, which is a long way from a damp lane in late September, but the fruit has been British for so long it might as well be native. They turn up in farmers' markets for a few short weeks, and if you're lucky you know someone with a tree who has more than they can use. Take the offer. Damsons don't keep, and they're worth the small inconvenience of stones.

This is a tart that asks very little. Shortcrust pastry, fruit, sugar, a hot oven. The damsons do most of the work themselves, collapsing into a deep purple jam that stains the pastry and pools at the edges. A handful of ground almonds in the base soaks up the worst of the juices and stops things going soggy. Otherwise, you stay out of the way.

I wrote it down in the notebook one autumn, after a long walk and a bag of foraged damsons that took an hour to pick over. "Damson tart. Sunday. Cream. Worth it." That's all the recipe really needs.