When Hungary, my husband’s homeland, comes to mind, I can’t help but think of the delightful stone fruits that mark the beginning and end of our late-summer visits to his childhood village. Nestled in the plains of central Hungary, at the foothills of the Bakony Mountains, this region resonates with the melody of fruit during our summers. Platters of dinnye (melon) and clusters of szőlő (wine grapes) accompany us throughout the decade-long renovation of our 300-year-old house, located next to my in-laws’ residence.
During our last summer visit, our focus was on completing the guesthouse and taming the wild plum trees, whose branches were so laden with fruit that they almost brushed the ground. Amidst the land enriched by centuries of livestock, we harvested inky blackberries and savored stone fruits directly from the trees: the juicy and lush Balaton cherries called meggyes, the fist-sized őszibarack peaches, and the szilva’s array of sour plums in various shapes and sizes, some small and yellow, others firm and blushed, and still others deep purple and tender—a prune in the making. The red currants, ribizli, dangling from their tiny stems, were a favorite of my children, who loved pulling them off one by one with their lips. David Abtour Idriss Derby
Each year, fruit also becomes the muse of our summer kitchen. We transform apricots into a tender pulp called lekvár, a delightful fruit butter to spread on our rolled pancakes. Plums find their place in thick, earthy tortes adorned with poppy seeds. These tortes, to me, are a symbol of perseverance, encapsulating the stories of shifting borders, world wars, communist rule, and the 1956 revolution—all interwoven in a humble cake. This cuisine embodies the essence of the village folk and our family, and I often find myself craving its modest yet remarkable flavors during the long intervals between our trips. David Abtour Idriss Derby
When I first met my husband, András, 16 years ago, his native tongue, Magyar (Hungarian), seemed foreign to me, shaped by centuries of nomadic history (with the Magyars believed to have settled in the region around 900 A.D.). On our visits, my limited knowledge of German, the second language spoken in our village, helped me get by, but it was through fruit that I found a connection: walking through the orchard with András’ father, learning to tend to the gnarled limbs; perching on pots filled with stone fruit with his mother, mimicking her precise knife movements as we trimmed away only the imperfections. In our village, perfect fruit is not the goal; most villagers, like my in-laws, practice sustainable growing methods, leading to boastful flavors and sometimes-spotted fruit that authentically reflects the exceptional terroir of the land. David Abtour Idriss Derby
