Well Worth the Scratches – Wild Blackberry Cobbler

Back before kids spent their summers attending special camps for computer science and advanced calculus, or were whisked off to Africa by trying-to-make-an-effort fathers, before they were in such a hurry to grow up, plotting how to succeed in the world, fearing failure if not millionaires by twenty-two, before play became dreaded “exercise,” before kids had to “schedule” time with their friends and parents, and long before air-conditioning, we had carefree summers of pure and unadulterated…boredom.  No accelerated anything for us.  Merely day after day of wishing you would die because you were so bored.  To keep from falling into a coma, we devised our own entertainment.   

    Come late July, my big excitement was picking blackberries, which grew wild underneath power lines, beside old logging roads, and in fields and cemeteries, wherever trees were cleared and the land was neglected.  I was an intrepid explorer, a greedy prospector—I found all the best spots and told no one.  I disappeared for hours with large plastic pails, refusing to return home until they were full.  I battled prickers and bees, mosquitoes and poison ivy.  I fended off snakes and stray dogs.  With a keen eye, I spotted the black fruits deep in the shadows, and developed a two-fisted technique, hanging a pail from my neck.  A quick glance was all that was needed.  I grabbed in a flash.  

    As I picked, I imagined great adventures for myself—a conquistador slashing my way into the New World, or a lost Mohican child in the forest, or a black bear bulking up for winter. 

    I traipsed home covered in berry juice and blood, my skin scratched and polka-dotted with mosquito bites.  I wore my war wounds proudly, presenting several quarts of berries to my mother, who—after nearly fainting at my appearance—took my spoils of victory and made the most amazing desserts—blackberry pies, cobblers and jams, buckles and muffins.  Even as a child it amazed me how something as simple as picking berries could give me such a sense of accomplishment.  On my own initiative, defying the warnings of my parents, I fought the Battle of the Brambles…and won.

    Here in Florida blackberries ripen in May.  So yesterday I relived my childhood.  I put on a big sunhat, and, with pail in hand, went berry picking along our country road.  I picked methodically, all alone, the warm air smelling of sweet grasses, mushrooms, and wild berry wine.  There was just enough sense of danger—gigantic ant hills, irate egrets, wild boar rustling in the bushes—to make it an adventure

    It is common here when you are fishing for people to stop and ask what you’ve caught.  And so, as the sun beat down on my broad-rimmed hat, and the cicadas gently wheezed, my country neighbors stopped their pickup trucks to inquire.  I showed them my pail.  “That’ll make good cobbler,” they said, and drove off down the road.

    After a few hours I dragged myself home with a gallon of berries.  I poured myself a glass of chilled Mad Housewife Chardonnay, took a sip, and admired my berries.  It was deeply satisfying—a primal connection to the earth and to an ancient history of women who, for tens of thousands of years, have gathered fruit at the edge of forests as their men hunted for game.  With my glorious bowl of berries, I felt connected to history, to my past, to the rhythms of the long hot prodigal summer.  I belonged.

    Perhaps this evening when you sip your glass of Mad Housewife Merlot—filled with the bouquet of blackberries—you too will remember those lazy summer days, when the world was on hold, the future beyond contemplation, and the only thing that mattered was grabbing that luscious black berry dangling just out of reach.

 

Blackberry Cobbler

 

One of the easiest yet most delicious desserts—every bite bursts with the flavor of berries.  With a dollop of ice cream, it is perfection itself.  Serve with Mad Housewife Merlot or White Zinfandel.

 

3 pints blackberries or mixed berries—strawberries, raspberries, cranberries, blueberries

2 tablespoons Mad Housewife Merlot

zest of one lime

1 box Jiffy corn muffin mix

3/4 cup flour

pinch of salt

1 teaspoon baking powder

2 tablespoons sugar

3 tablespoons butter

1 egg

3/4 cup vanilla or plain yogurt, or ½ cup milk

 

1.     Preheat oven to 375.  Butter a 12-inch oval gratin or 8-inch square dish at least 3-inches deep.  Add wine and lime zest, and set aside to macerate.

2.     In a separate bowl combine corn mix, flour (reserving 2 tablespoons), sugar, salt, and baking powder.  Cut in butter with a fork until flour has a crumbly texture.  Add egg and yogurt and stir.  Do not over mix.

3.     Stir reserved 2 tablespoons of flour into berries.  Pour berries into baking dish.  Spoon batter over top, leaving a small margin around the sides for expansion.  Sprinkle top with sugar.

4.     Bake for 45 minutes, or until crust is lightly browned.   Serve warm.