Wild Blackberry Pie (Kid Stuff)

One of the great mysteries of my aging process is that the vast majority of my body is trapped in a glacial-like transition into disrepair.  But not my taste buds.  Nor the mechanism, whatever that may be, that generates hunger.  Those two functions truly are getting stronger with each passing day.  Boy, do I like food.  Almost any food.  Although I’d still step away from that steamed spinach flavored with vinegar that my Mom (Esther Evelyn) used to put on the table every now and again when I was kid.  I think it was her not so subtle teaching method in regards to hardships and life trials. 

I’ve been thinking about that lately.  The food that is.  So, I decided to count down my top ten favorites:

17)    Barbecued baby back ribs

16)    Steamed asparagus

15)    Swedish rye bread (Made by my maternal grandmother, Esther Desideria Carlson Anderson.  The flavor, the texture, and the aroma are as real today as they were some sixty years ago.  Sadly, the recipe, the artistry, was buried along with my grandmother.)

14)    Pho soup

13)    Hostess chocolate cup cakes

12)    Salmon barbecued on a cedar plank

11)    Corned beef and cabbage

10)    Filet of sole with a lemon/caper sauce                 

9)      Dungeness crab with melted butter

8)      A Big Mac

7)      Fresh papaya with lime juice (although the addition of a veranda and tropical breeze will move this one up a couple notches)

6)      Spaghetti with marinara sauce and Italian sausage

5)      Steamed mussels in a chorizo and onion broth

4)      Fresh bread with raspberry jam       

3)      Lobster with melted butter

2)      Rib eye steak topped with melted Gorgonzola cheese

1)      Wild blackberry pie

Now, there is considerable internal debate as to where each of these foods should fall on that list.  And there are a good many items that might appear on another day, in a different mood.  But nothing challenges number one.  Numero uno it is.  Let’s look closer.    

The Patch

The hunt for a patch is a year round hobby.  And a prerequisite as each patch has a limited life span before the surrounding vegetation overruns the tract.  An area can seldom be spotted from a passing vehicle as the vines blend with the natural greenery.  So, a foot search is required.  But springtime brings little white flowers that stand out like stars on a moonless night.  Overconfidence is always lurking during this interval.  Too hot and the buds wither and die.  Too cold and the buds never develop.  But perfect weather is no guarantee either. On these occasions I suspect that bees, or lack thereof, are to blame.  But the reality of it all may simply reside with the fickle.  Hence, the best odds require a reconnoiter of multiple patches in hopes that at least one will prove fruitful.

The Pick

There is only a brief period when the picking can be done.  Just about the Fourth of July here in the Pacific Northwest – although weather and elevation have a say.  And nature has somehow determined that these little treasures will not be secured without cost.  Each and every berry deposited in the bottom of the bucket will require a toll.  The first fee is simply psychological.  Rule #1 - never look into the pail because discouragement is sure to be staring back.  The berries look really small when viewed under the hot summer sun and the floor of the container remains visible for oh so long.  But there are physical taxes as well.  The vines grow low on uneven ground and there is a certain irony within the ongoing battle between an aging, aching back and the  rejuvenated taste buds.  That should be charge enough.  But no.  The wee tiny berries nestle insidiously close to wee tiny thorns on the vines.  And the whole area is often home to stinging nettles and thistles as well.  Long sleeves and trousers are a must. 

Once home the cleaning process begins.  And a tedious chore it is.  Each little berry seems to have an even smaller piece of grass or seed attached to it.  But before long, all are washed.  And if lucky, not only will there be enough for a pie, but some will be frozen in anticipation of brightening a winter holiday to come.

The Prep

No doubt, this is the critical step.  And I’ve been blessed to have lived with two of the best cooks who have ever walked this planet.  Esther Evelyn used to call the whole process a “labor of love”.  And the standards she set have been carried forward in no small part by my wife, Jamie Lynne.  Jamie shares my “love of the labor”. 

My role here is simply one of nuisance – “Is it done yet?”  And eventually, when the answer comes back “yes”, there is still a wait.  A lesson in patience.  As a cold pie far out performs a warm one.  And true self-mortification may be experienced if one waits overnight.  Some sort of miraculous fermentation segue takes place. 

 

The Pie

Nuff said.