"A peach,slightly unbalanced,so that it listed to one side , its hue the colour of an early sunrise..."
-Allegra Goodman (the Cookbook Collector)
Peach and Blackberry Pie
When I was little, pies were a food group. My mother prided herself on her homemade pastry. Later on, she would stoop to buying frozen pie shells. But for years, I can remember the tin can in the fridge that held bacon drippings, roast beef drippings, all sorts of fat that congealed into a goopy paste. The slimier the better....
Every time you opened the fridge you would see that can of overflowing fat. My mother would scoop out the contents for pastry. Never measured, of course. And the pie crust that ensued would be remarkable. I, on the other hand, do NOT have a can of sloppy grease in the fridge, waiting to be made into pie crusts.I opt for non-lard,non-bacon pastry recipes.....
Preheat oven to 450 degrees.
YOU Will Need:
2 unbaked pie shells, or two flattened discs of your fav pastry recipe, 1 egg beaten, 6 cups sliced peaches, 1 cup or so of blackberries, 2 tablespoons lemon juice, 3/4 cup flour, 1 cup white sugar, 1/2 tsp gr cinammon, 1/2 tsp gr nutmeg. pinch salt.
Best kept secret in our house: brush the bottom pie shell with some of the beaten egg. It will stop it from going soggy in the baking process.
Combine all the rest in a bowl. Mix by hand.
Plop into pie shell. If you have two much filling make a turnover with leftover dough. The lovely flavour of the peaches will come out with the nutmeg and cinnamon, by the way, so don't forget the spices.
Dot with dobs of butter or marg on top of fruit. Cover with 2nd pie shell. Wash this with more egg. Sprinkle with a little bit of sugar, raw or fine will do. Slash the top to make vents, or poke holes with your clean fingers.
Bake in oven for about 10 minutes at 450. Then bring it down to 350 degrees.Bake about 45-50 minutes longer .
When I was very little, we had an old wood stove from my grandparents. Totally outdated. More of a fire trap.But my mother didn't want to throw it out. It sat in the corner of the kitchen surrounded by yellow wallpaper.To test pies, my mother would stick her hand in the hot oven and poke a hole in the crust to see if the juice was bubbling.If she went OUCH then they were ready.I would see flames shooting up through the open grate, as she threw on another piece of wood. Crack. Sizzle. Pop. The flames danced higher, as pies burped in the heat.
A few years later that old stove collapsed. We had to buy a regular, electric stove/oven like everyone else. For a long my mother dried underwear and socks inside the oven , rather than bake in it. She liked the steam and sizzle. Everything became quite crispy. And singed. Eventually she DID return to baking, and the underwear and socks took a back seat. For a while.
I found this pie cooked so well. It serves up better warm, rather than cold or hot. The fruit is more fragrant.
Don't be shy about adding a dollop of cream on top, or ice cream or custard.
Keep pie in the fridge . Cut slices and heat up in microwave to serve. But try not to dry underwear or socks in the oven. They might just catch on fire........
"She washed the peach and bit and broke the skin.An intense tang, the underside of velvet..." -Allegra Goodman ( the Cookbook Collection)
Photographs 2018
"O, blackberry tart, with berries as big as your thumb, purple and black, and thick with juice, and a crust to endear them. It will make you close your eyes and wish you might live forever in the wideness of that rich moment."Richard Llewellyn
My Mother's Blackberry Cream Pie was only made in summer. When blackberries were fat and saucy, and days were hot and long. It's been a long time since I've made one.I decided it was time to resurrect that tradition....
My mother and I started picking in August, and continued till September. She would drive us out to an old church yard, far out in Victoria.I think the church was called St. Peter's, but I may be wrong. Our car was an old Dodge, from another era. I always hoped no one would see me riding in it. It that had seen better days. If I looked close enough I could see the road peeking up from the floorboards. My mother drove to the churchyard, long since gone now, and the forest that surrounded it now paved over and built up with nameless stores. But back then, it was a haven for blackberries. My mother would don her picking overalls ( much to my chagrin, of course), grab a ladder and trudge from the parking lot to the blackberry patch. I reallllly hoped no one would see us....But we would pick till our hands were purple and stained with blood, caused by the thorns.It was a rite of passage.When I was grown up, and the black berries paved over, we no longer went in search. The pies no longer made.Times had changed.
But during the time of the blackberries,She'd make that pie over and over. So many times, in fact, that she stopped making her own pasty. She'd BUY pastry shells, prick them with a fork and bake them. Freezing the empty ones for a later time.
She placed a heavy tin, over aluminum foil, and baked the shells about 400 F. for about 12 minutes, then take off the pans and foil, and bake about 10 minutes more. Just so the shells didn't have that raw look.
The pies were made for " Just because". For no particular occasion. "Just because it was August. Just because it was September. Just because it was.....
My mother made homemade custard,some years, for the filling. But then, she found she was making these pies so many times that she got tired of whisking eggs cream, and so forth, over a hot stove on a hot August day.
So she reverted to pudding. Which was fine by me. I really disliked custard , I would pick it out of the pie and eat just the cream and berries. She used Birds Custard off and on. But I thought it was gross. It didn't giggle like the pudding. But if you like custard, try Birds Custard powder. It's kind of okeedokee.
She used a a 153 gram pudding box, whisked with 3 cups milk ( or rice milk, or another type , if you wish, etc) and let chill , covered with cling wrap, in fridge.
On those hot , cricket filled days, my mother would go barefoot in the house and outside. She would place an old farm washtub on the grass, beside the porch.Then fill the tub with water, from the garden hose, and stick her feet in it. Sometimes she'd pull up a couple of chairs by the side of the tub. Waiting for the pie to to set, she'd say.
Eventually, the filling was ready to be spread in the pie shell. And put back in the fridge to chill again.
Then she would go back to the tub of cold water, stand in it a while, waiting once more. If we had ice cubes in the freezer, she dropped them into the water.
My job was to whip the cream. Whip it stiff and toss in a scant 1/2 tsp of sugar to sweeten. Then the beaters were mine...
My mother waited in her tub of cold water, sometimes a book in hand. Sometimes a piece of crochet she was working on. She sloshed ice cubes with her toes. She said it made her feel like she was at the beach.
Finally, she left the water, bare feet sticking to dirt and grass.
And the pie , that wonderful pie, got slathered with whipped cream.
Then came the black berries.
Big and ripe and plopped on the top of the cream. Then the whole thing chilled for an agonizing while...... We cut huge pieces of the pie, letting it fall apart on the plates, berries covered in cream. And there would be no other dinner. Just the two of us sitting by the tub of cold water on the grass, our feet dangling, playing with ice cubes, and that Blackberry cream pie.....
"I would give you my soul in a blackberry pie; and a knife to cut it with."Dorothy Dunnett
Photographs 2018
TWILIGHT by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
There was an evening when the sky was clear,
Ineffably translucent in its blue;
The tide was falling and the sea withdrew
In hushed and happy music from the sheer
Shadowy granite of the cliffs, and fear
Of what LIFE might be....
and what DEATH can do,
Fell from us like steel armour, and we knew
The wisdom of the Law that holds us here.
It was as though we saw the Secret Will,
It was as though we floated and were free...
In the south-west a planet shone serenely,
And the high moon.....
most reticent and queenly,
Seeing the earth had darkened......
and grown still....
Misted with light the meadows of the sea....
From "Collected poems of Sara Teasdale" Introduction by Marya Zaturenska, (1966)
Wonderful book of poems. Got it second hand, someone had written in the inside cover:
" To June, from Mother and Daddy, Christmas 1966". So now I am left envisioning where June is today and did she enjoy her present.....
Photographs 2018
