Five years ago, by best friend and I decided we wanted to spend a full day in the kitchen making something from scratch. We gathered a bunch of fruit and butter and decided to make our own fruit tart, refusing to use a recipe. We softened butter and kneaded the crust, trying to imagine the consistency we thought it should be. Throwing in pads of butter and dusting flour overtop, the dough eventually held shape in the dish.

We mixed egg yolks, milk, and sugar with way more vanilla than a recipe would ever call for, heating and pouring and chilling until we had a pastry cream. While diligently checking the baking tart, we separated fruit by size and painstakingly cut it into uniform pieces, envisioning how we would arrange it once the tart was out of the oven.

When it had cooled, we placed fruit carefully, layer by layer and row by row, into mandala-like arrays of berries. Nudging slices over to create colorful symmetries, we bent over the tarts on the counter for an incredibly long time. When we were finally finished, we brushed the fruit with a light jelly to make them glossy and sticky in their place.

Impatiently, we chilled the tarts for a little while longer before tasting, almost too pretty to eat despite the slightly crumbly crust and (more slightly) runny cream. But to me, the tart was still one of the most enjoyable desserts I’ve ever had, because of the time spent together, laughing and improvising, while creating it.