For the Love of Dirt: My Mother's Blackberry Cream Pie

"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.....