A story of a fruit tart

This was my first attempt to be a kitchen goddess:

To make a peach tart.

For those who know me well know that I don't do sweet stuff. Nothing of that baking, piping, sifting, weighing flour, or rolling the dough. Give me a piece of duck breast, and I will turn it into the most mouth-watering crispy duck breast with spiced celeriac puree and lychee glacé with a side dish of roasted vegetable roots. Not only I can't bake, I have no inclination to learn how to bake. My little sister, however, is the pastry queen in the family. She is the one telling me how to make choux pastry and what bain-marie is. Don't ask me. I don't remember. All I know is how to lick the bowl clean of the chocolate icing. Oh, and how to demand my sister to make me black forrest cake.

So, one morning, my little sister insisted that I helped her bake a fruit tart. I promised her that I would help her decorate the tart. How hard could that be? She was adamant that I should help her whisk the egg yolks, and the sugar, and the ... (I can't remember what else we put to make a vanilla cream custard). Ah, of course, the vanilla bean. I remember she added something, and something, and something, and told me to whisk the mixture quickly. She then put aside the cream custard and I went busy licking the wooden spoon. The next thing I know, she poured the custard mixture into the crisp pastry she made earlier that I was pretty sure it happened magically (read: that pastry fairy exists just like toilet-roll fairy).

When sis gave me the go, I started arranging the slices of peach on the tart. I know it didn't look too pretty but hey, it tasted über good!