Kirschenauflauf

Every June, the Grünmarkt in Salzburg fills with cherries. Dark ones, almost black, their skins taut and shining. Light ones with a blush of red that deepens when you hold them up to the sun. The farmers pile them in wooden crates and the whole row smells like summer has finally made up its mind. I buy more than I need every time. That's how a Kirschenauflauf happens.

An Auflauf is one of the great categories of Austrian Mehlspeisen, and it deserves more attention than it gets. The word means something like 'a running up,' which is exactly what happens in the oven: a rich, buttery egg batter climbs the sides of the dish and puffs into a golden dome with fruit suspended through it like jewels in a cloud. It's not a French soufflé, though the technique is related. An Auflauf is sturdier, warmer, more forgiving. It won't collapse into nothing if you look at it sideways. It will sink gradually, gracefully, which is why you serve it the moment it comes out.

Gretel always said that the best Austrian desserts depend on three things: good butter, good eggs, and knowing what to do with the whites. Kirschenauflauf is the proof. The batter takes ten minutes. The oven does the rest. What you get is something that looks like you spent all afternoon on it, golden and trembling and spectacular, when really you spent most of that time pitting cherries and listening to the radio. In my grandmother Eva's kitchen, that counted as a perfect afternoon.